Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

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 stran...

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 searchin g, 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...

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. ...

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 i s 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...