Banjo lessons a reminder of the big picture ~ January 14, 1999

David Heiller

Learning new things isn’t easy, but it sure can be fun.

I bet watching students learn is one of the greatest reward for teachers. Watching your children learn is great too.

Our son is picking people’s brains these days about rifles. He’s learning a lot. He’s reading about motorcycles. He’s excited about them, and expanding his knowledge.

David in Morocco: A 1978 version of a selfie

Our daughter is practicing her one act play parts, and getting better day by day. Her singing is getting better too because she is practicing her songs for voice lessons. She’s learning a lot, improving too, and it’s fun for her. The key word is fun.

These days, playing the banjo is my favorite learning activity, although when I call it a learning activity it doesn’t sound very fun. But it is.

Malika and David playing at the Askov Fair.

My wife, Cindy, bought me two banjo instructional videos for Christmas. When Ι have a spare hour, I put a video tape in, and learn a song, or try to.

The teacher, plays it through slowly, and breaks it down into parts. She’s a good teacher, very patient. And if you don’t get it, you can rewind the tape until you get it again. It’s a perfect way to learn something like the banjo, better than a face-to-face lesson in many ways.

I feel like I’m making progress on the banjo thanks to the tape. It’s hard. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does for some people.

But I’m learning new things. It’s exciting and fun. I wouldn’t be doing it if it weren’t fun.

I've been playing the banjo for about 22 years. I’m not “all that good,” although some people would disagree.

For example, last summer I was playing the banjo at my mother’s house, and some kids who were riding by on their bicycles stopped and listened. Nothing will stop a kid in his or her tracks like live music. They thought I was pretty good. As they were leaving, one of them said, “You’re the best banjo player I ever heard.”

Stringing the banjo and the baby...

That prompted another of the kids to wax eloquent and say, “Yeah, you’re the best banjo player Ι ever heard.”

The kids were about eight years old, and I doubt very much if they ever heard anyone play the banjo before. It was pretty funny.

Sometimes my playing ability bothers me, because after 22 years, I should be really good on the old five-string, and I’m not. The insecure, competitive side of me thinks that.

On the other hand, a banjo teacher I had in college told me that if Ι practiced six hours a day for a year straight, I would be a good player. That’s what it will take, he said.

I didn’t have that kind of time in college, and that was before I was married with two kids and a job and commitments galore. I sure don’t have that kind of time now. Most of my practicing gets done late at night, when the kids are in bed and the house has settled down, and my brain is shutting down.

Cindy is patient with me. She shuts the bedroom door to get her sleep. Quite often Noah will call down for his bedroom to say that he can’t sleep with me playing. I respect that, and I quit playing then. I’ve heard it more than once in my life.

Not having enough time to pursue the finer things in life can be frustrating. But I usually keep in it perspective.

Here’s a quote I read recently that I like from a banjo player, Ian Perry; in a magazine called Banjo Newsletter.

“Playing music should be an expression of your feelings and the person you are inside. It’s too easy to be tempted by flashy licks a the opportunity to impress people with what you see as your incredible talent and ability. But the banjo isn’t a competitive sport (or at least it shouldn't be!) And you may find that if you think too much about technique or trying be a better banjo player than someone else, you will be missing the best of what playing music has to offer.”

That sums up my feeling about learning it doesn’t apply just to the banjo. I bet it applies to your job or hobby too.

Have fun, and keep learning. That’s the key to the big picture in whatever you do.

A couple of snakes ~ April 3, 2003

David Heiller

We were heading off the lake on Saturday afternoon, but Tom had one more stop to make.

There was a spot of blood next to one of the holes in the ice. Tom scraped some clean snow over it with his boot and tamped it down. The blood was gone, and so was the evidence of the fish he had caught.

This was vintage Tom Deering. The location of Osama Bin Laden is better known than Tom’s fishing holes.

Never mind that we had hiked six miles over four lakes and four portages—unmarked ones at that—or that we were on a lake the size of Denmark.

Better not leave any evidence next to a fishing hole.

We had started for the lake early that morning, laden with packs and sleds and ice fishing gear, Tom, his friend Ken Hupila, Ken’s two dogs, and me.

Tom and a couple of snakes.

It felt so good, after this strange winter of no snow, to actually head into the wilderness. We made it to Tom’s Bay in two hours.

Tom’s Bay is not its real name. I can’t say the real name without entering the Witness Protection program. I named it after him because he discovered it about six years ago.

We’ve been back several times since. The reason why became clear about 15 minutes after our holes were drilled, when Tom pulled out a five-pound northern. Then Ken’s tip-up flag went up, and out came a 14-pound northern.

We didn’t even have time to stash our gear by shore before Ken had another flag. He kept a poker face as he casually pulled in some line, then let some line go, and repeated this for about five minutes.

“Got a nice one?” Tom asked. We knew the answer.

“Well, his head won’t fit in the hole,” Ken answered nonchalantly. He guided the fish slowly upward, then Tom reached in with his gaff and pulled out a lunker. It measured 42 inches, and weighed exactly 20 pounds.

It was an awesome northern, big and dark, and with a stomach that hung out like a drunk’s on a barstool.

“That’s it, I’m done fishing for the day,” Ken said.

That was partially true. “You’ve got a flag again,” I yelled to him a little later. Ken didn’t move from his perch next to the fire. “Yοu take it.”

When the top of the spool quit spinning, I raised the line and gave a slight jerk to set the hook. The other end of the line pulled back like a tow truck. We played tug-of-war for several minutes, then the northern came out of the hole like a missile. I carefully grabbed it under the gill plate and laid it on the ice.

David with a sled full of wood and snakes.

It was exactly the same size and weight as Ken’s giant. We admired it for a half a minute, then I let it slide back home. That felt almost as good as catching it.

That’s the way the day went. Fish after fish. A couple 10-pounders. More five-pounders than we could keep track of. It got to the point that when a flag would go up, the owner of that tip-up would grumble good-naturedly. But deep down we all knew this was just what the doctor had ordered.

What could be finer? Sitting on a lake in the Upper Midwest. Late March. Warm sun shining. Roasting venison sausages over a fire. Talking about important things like frozen septic systems. And catching fish.

We headed home at 4:30. Α long walk lay ahead, but it didn’t seem daunting. The sun was setting, its soft light hinting of spring. I felt good that at midlife, I could still make this beautiful outing. Tom and Ken said they felt the same way.

Tom stopped at the last hole, one that had produced about 40 pounds of fish, and did the old soft shoe to cover up the blood on the ice.

We met a couple of people at the first portage. They had been fishing further out, and said they had been skunked. “How about you?” the man asked. “Catch anything?”

“Couple of snakes,” Tom replied, and we headed home.

There’s something about a cup of tea ~ February 23, 1995

David Heiller

I remember when we were kids, every day after school was out, one of my sisters would make a pot of tea and pour us each a cup.

Someone would put some cookies out; we’d sit around the kitchen table and talk about our day at school and slowly sip our cups of tea, with plenty of sugar to make them sweet, and savor them like a special treat.

No matter how chilly it was outside, or if we’d got into a fight that day, or lost our best friend to another, the tea made the bad parts go away.

Then later on at the supper table, Mom would make herself a cup and Grandma too, if she came down. Maybe it was the stronger kind, the kind that keeps you wide awake. She needed that, with all us kids.

But probably more she needed the calm that settles around you like a quilt, when you have a cup of tea nice and warm between your hands.

Malika enjoying a morning cup whilst her
 hair is fixed for the day.

Now we start the day with tea, every morning, my wife and I. Cindy’s is plain, but I put a lot of honey in mine so it’s nice and sweet, and savor it like a special treat.

And every night we make a cup of tea for the kids and bring it up to the kids in bed, sweetened with homemade honey from the hives out back.

It makes you want to read to them, or sit on the edge of the bed and talk about how chilly it is outside, or if they got into a fight that day, or lost their best friend to another.

Tonight my daughter, who is nine, made a cup for herself and me and added a plate of cookies too, six of them. She gave me one, and one to my son. She ate the rest.

That’s her reward for making tea I guess, though tea has its own rewards, like peace of mind, serenity, and patience and security.

It doesn’t have to be Christmas-time or with a great aunt you seldom see. A cup of tea brings everyday life into focus, and slows it down and lets it cool so you can enjoy it.

Yes, there’s something about a cup of tea that’s very comforting to me.