Lots of rewards from wrestling ~ January 21, 2004

David Heiller

It was fun to write the articles in this week’s paper about the 1970 wrestling team. I think about that team and season a lot.

I was a junior that year, and wrestled quite a bit of varsity at 154. Bob Lange wrestled at 145, and Ron Meiners wrestled at 165 during much of the season. When the district tournament came, Ron cut weight to wrestle 154, and I was out of a job.

That was not a problem, because Ron was in another league, and that’s the nature of sports. You’ve got to learn to lose.

That might not sound like a good attitude, but it ultimately leads to learning how to win.

Bob Lange’s mother, Vi, reminded me of that. I found a folder full of old newspaper clippings about the 1970 team in a dresser drawer a couple weeks ago. One reporter interviewed Mrs. Lange after the state tournament, and she said, “These boys have won and lost and you must win and lose to be a winner.” I couldn’t agree more.

The Langes personified wrestling, a sport which has a strange mix of bullheaded independence and team spirit.

The independence is obvious: You get out in the middle of the mat and there is just you and him. No one to pass the ball to, no one to throw a block for you.

But those teammates are really a big part of it.

David was assistant wrestling 
coach in Stewartville in 1980. 
He loved that. (I never really 
understood the sport.)

That point was illustrated in another newspaper article from the Winona Daily News by Howard Lestrud in describing a scene from the Region One tournament in Winona. “Wrestling is oftentimes called an individual sport and not a team sport, but Lange demonstrated the opposite,” Lestrud wrote. “Teammate Ron Meiners wrestled powerful Greg Koelsch of Rochester JM in the match following Lange. During a break in the action, Lange sprinted from his seat in the bleachers. ‘I have to go talk to Ron,’ puffed Lange. He slipped by his coaches Leo Simon and Ed Ferkingstad and gave Meiners some advice. Meiners won 7-4.”

That was the thing that impressed me the most in those articles and in the present day recollections from the wrestlers. They vaguely remembered the individual matches, but they almost all recalled what a good thing they had going as a team.

And not just with their varsity teammates. They said everyone contributed, the people on JV, the guys in practice that never got the limelight—in other words, guys like me—and I could tell they meant it.

It was amazing to wrestle Mark Lange in practice, because I’ve never seen a person before or since with that kind of natural ability. He was like a cat, always perfectly balanced.

But it was more rewarding when I asked him last week what helped him get so good, and he said, “You did, Dave.”

Not just me, obviously, but me and Cary Wohlers and Mike Ellenz and Bruce Bulman and dozens of other wrestlers that slogged through the torture chamber of practice. Some of us became state champions. Others were decent, some barely so. But in the big picture, that doesn’t matter.

That’s what I like to keep in mind when I watch wrestling. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a joy to watch Collin Pitts gift wrap his opponents. But that 10-9 overtime loss by an average wrestler is just as compelling, because I know that guy has worked and tried just as hard. He’s learned how to win and lose.

And if he’s lucky, he has learned about being a part of a team, and he’ll remember that most of all.

Rosie wins the battle ~ March 10, 2005

David Heiller

Rosie was onto something, that was obvious. I could hear her growling and yipping in the “West Wing” of the barn on Saturday afternoon. I tuned it out for about an hour, but finally my curiosity got to me. I put down my hammer and went to investigate.

After a bit of searching, I located her burrowing into a stack of hay bales, sniffing, and whining. It wasn’t easy to see her, wedged between the hay and the wall. There isn’t much to see to begin with, Rosie being a miniature dachshund and all. I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her up. She turned her growl in my direction. That’s when I heard a snarl in return, somewhere in the pile of bales.

I can handle snarls from animals I know. But snarling visitors, whoever they may be, are not welcome in the Heiller barn. So I set Rosie back down.

Rosie and the possum

This time she tore into the hay like a tornado. The other critter had had enough of Rosie too, and they met in their hidden arena, their howls and growls mixed together in a frightening din. I was instantly worried. I didn’t want to lose Rosie, and I had no idea what she had unearthed.

Then a streak of gray tore out of the hay and across the floor. I jumped back. A possum! “Go get it Rosie!” I yelled. My killer instincts were kicking in too..

David with Rosie after The Great Possum Battle.

Rosie tried, but she was a couple seconds late in pursuit, and that possum was quick. It disappeared in the clutter of the barn. Rosie circled all around, behind the garbage cans, under the boat, around two different woodpiles. There are a lot of hiding places in a barn. I grabbed a hoe to lend any assistance possible. But the possum was gone.

I returned to my job, then went into the house to get ready for church. I came back out, carrying my camera in the hopes of getting a picture of a deer or turkey on the way to town. But first I had to gather up Rosie and put her in her kennel.

Rosie was again on the scent of the possum. This time she was growling at a pile of foam panels. I started moving the panels, and heard the growl of the possum. Rosie roared into action again, and a rolling ball of black and gray fur emerged at my feet.

It was a horrible and yet fascinating sight. Rosie curls up on the couch with us most nights, but what I was witnessing was a compact killing machine that moved faster than my eye could follow.

I was very glad that I was not a possum.

It was over quite quickly, maybe 10 seconds, although it seemed longer than that. The possum lay motionless, its mouth stretched into a horrible grin of death. Always the newspaper-man, I took a picture of Rosie putting the finishing touches on the battle, and include it as state’s evidence with this column.

I picked up Rosie. She gave me a look that said, “What are you doing?” Yet she didn’t object too loudly. She seemed to be in a state of shock over what had just happened. I guess I was too.

Rosie watching over David during a nap. I am sure she was ready to protect him from any 'possums that might be ready to invade.

I put Rosie in her kennel, then headed out to church. But first I went to pick up the dead possum and put it in the trash. It was gone! It had lived up to its reputation and had played possum. I read later that possums become temporarily paralyzed and fall into a state of coma when they are confronted with danger. Rosie’s instincts probably knew that better than mine.

It wasn’t such a bad ending though. I had to admire that possum. It had fooled me, if not Rosie. That pea-brained possum has probably high-tailed it to Walter Kueblers by now. If it is dumb enough to hang around the Heiller barn; it will face the wrath of Rosie. And you should never bet against a gal named Rosie.

Go hear the beautiful swan song ~ November 12, 2003

David Heiller

I stopped the car at Heiller Valley on Sunday morning, stepped out, and entered the world of swans.

Malika took these pictures on November 7, 2013.

First the sound hit me. Α swan song. It’s hard to describe, but the first thing that comes to my mind is the scene from the Wizard of Oz when the flying monkeys come swooping in for Dorothy and Toto.

I would wager a fair sum that the sound track from that scene came from a bunch of swans. It sounds like a lot of people laughing and talking, but they aren’t quite human sounds. The sound carries a long way. I can hear it from our new home 1-1/2 miles to the west.

I walked across Highway 26 and down the bank to the railroad tracks. The swans that were close to shore did not like that. I didn’t care. I walked across Highway 26 and down the bank to the railroad tracks. The swans that were close to shore did not like that. I didn’t care. No one else was around, and I wanted a closer look.

They gave it to me as they churned off the water. It took a while for the tundra swans to take off. They pounded the water with their wings, frothing it white with a sound similar to fans at a football game applauding while wearing gloves and mittens. When the swans finally got airborne, darned if they didn’t look like those flying monkeys.

And not just one little group, mind you. But flocks of 50 here, 100 there. Some landing; some circling, some heading toward Wisconsin, and all of them talking at the same time. My nephew John joined me a few minutes later. He saw the sky full of retreating swans. “You did all that?” he asked. “Way to go, Uncle David”

“Thanks,” I replied.

We walked north up the tracks and for a few minutes we were speechless, which is a rare condition for John. The sheer magnitude of the swans was almost beyond words. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, literally as far as the eye could see, scattered on the broad river like handfuls of popcorn.

Then John started peppering me with questions. He knew I didn’t have the answers, because for one thing, he is smarter than I am. Still, he had to ask. Where did they come from? Where are they heading? How many are there? Are they in other places too? How long will they stay here?

I didn’t have the answers, so I wrote a front page article in this week’s paper about the swans. You can get information on the swans at this website: http://midwest.fws.gov/uppermis­sissippiriver, or by calling 1-800-218-8917.

If you have a chance to see the swans, I highly recommend it. Drive south of Brownsville on Highway 26, and look at the river from Shellhorn on down. You’ll be amazed.

And don’t forget to get out and listen to those flying monkeys.

‘Just One Bonkoski Party’ ~ February 4, 1999

David Heiller

There are times when I wish I could be someone one else, just for five minutes. Such a moment came last Friday, when I was buying a banjo.

I sat in the Homestead Pickin’ Parlor in Richfield with a beautiful banjo in my lap: Several people sat nearby listening to me.

Not that they had much choice. When a guy is playing a banjo, about all you can do is listen or walk away. It’s hard to carry on a conversation in the same three-block area, let alone the same room. Might as well listen. That’s what makes the banjo such a popular instrument.

But just this once, I thought in the way back of my mind, just this once, for five minutes, let me be a brilliant banjo player. Let me be Earl Scruggs. Or Reed Martin.

I won’t bore you with a lot of banjo lore. BUT for three-finger banjo, “Scruggs-style” playing, Earl in his prime was the best. The style is named after him. Many people know his music, especially the theme song to Bonnie and Clyde.

David loved playing old-time music best of all. 
I do not think he had any idea about how good he was...

Reed Martin is not a household name by any means. But he is without doubt the best old-time banjo player I have ever heard. It’s a different style than Earl’s, but equally beautiful in the hands of a master.

So I sat at Homestead and thought, Let me see the jaws drop and the eyes widen and the grins spread on the guys listening to me. Let me see the people in the other room come running to see who the heck is playing that well.

Moments like that come every so often, when you have center stage and you would like to be the best, or even pretty darn good.

Or they come, for me at least, when I hear what sounds like perfection. A perfect voice. A perfect violin solo. Then something inside me says, I’d like to do that. Just once, Lord. What Ι can Ι give you in trade?

Cindy and I even joke about this. When we hear something that sounds fantastic, that we’d like to be able to do, we’ll often say, “Just One Bonkoski Party.”

It’s a joke we have that stems from the good old days when I would just once want to be the life of a Steve and Barb Bonkoski party and stop everybody in mid-sentence with a dazzling banjo solo, or a spine tingling rendition of Ave Maria, or a flawless Moonlight Sonata on the piano.

It never happened, except in my imagination. But now when I hear something really fantastic, like Reed Martin or Earl Scruggs, I think, “Just One Bonkoski Party.” Let me do that.

I thought it would be fun to put a local angle on my delusions of grandeur. So with trepidation, I ask the following question.

Wouldn’t you like to be able to:

 Sing like Don Hogquist? Or Elaine Laposky?

Installing the BEAUTIFUL kitchen he crafted...
Who wouldn't want to just once accomplish
 something like Dave Landwehr?

n Build a kitchen like Dave Landwehr?

n Build a house like Daryl Klocke?

n Take pictures like Craig Blacklock?

n Direct a play like Kathy Ebnet?

n Skate like Jason Brabec?

n Run like Dustin Hejny?

n Play basketball like Andrea Bennett?

n Coach like Pat Dewey?

n Cuss like Del Delaney?

n Play the accordion like Red Hansen?

n Write like Hertha Hansen?

n Quilt like Cora Abrahamsen?

n Remember names like Bruce Bohaty? (“Hi Dave. Hi Bob. Hi Sharon. Hi Jim” etc, etc.)

n Teach like Dee Jensen?

n Draw like Linda Schaumburg?

Play the accordion like Red Hansen. 
David was very happy
 to play WITH Red Hansen!

n Grow flowers like Pat Ring?

n Operate a back hoe like Dave Jensen?

n Sew like Arlene Alleman?

n Shoot the breeze like Rocky Kroon?

n Type like Lynn Storrar?

n Be friendly like Joanne Carlson?

n Proofread like Hazel Serritslev?

n Fix an engine like Jim Kephart?

n Sell ads like Donna Cronin?

n  Play the guitar like Dave Wίlen?

n  Preach like Owen Christianson?

n  Kiss like Deb Oft? (An old college girlfriend.)

n  Bake bread like Cindy Heiller? (Maybe I should turn those last two around.)

n Be patient like Steve Popowitz?

n Fix a furnace like Gary Drilling?

n Shoot a rifle like Liz Espointour?

Alas, poor David, but he 
seemed to make do, just fine.

n Dance like Jennifer Kvam?

n Fish like Bob Dutcher?

I hope I haven’t offended somebody by leaving people off this impromptu list, or by putting, them on. This is MY list.

Feel free to put your name in the propel you feel slighted, or take if off if you feel unworthy.

I know what some of you are thinking keep doing your best, Dave, That’s all you do, Dave. Don’t try to be someone you’re not Dave.

I believe that too. Ι tell it tο my kids, and myself, all the time. Most of us mortals don’t have much choice.

But still there are those moments, like at music store last Friday, when the time is perfect, and I think, “Just One Bonkoski Party.”