Miss Emma knows when fall is near ~ August 16, 1990

David Heiller

If Miss Emma could talk, she might tell you that fall is just around the corner. Other famous female weather watchers like Helen Feldt, Dutch Jones, and Sue Thue can put their noses to the air and sense that fall is close by.

Miss Emma was a good hunter,
but her only opportunity for bird
hunting was from the picture window.

Dutch knows it when her bear friends out east of Bruno stop making amorous advances and head for a warm winter bed.

Helen knows it when the temperatures in the Cloverton area drop below 40 degrees and threaten tomato crops.

Sue knows it when she starts daydreaming about the smell of her wild rice parching west of Sandstone.

But Miss Emma knows it’s fall when the mice start to move into the house. Miss Emma, you see, is our cat.

Miss Emma, like all cats, is fat, lazy and ar­rogant. But she can catch mice. She doesn’t eat them. Instead, she lays them out for us to see, like trophies. In the late fall, she will sometimes have three mice in a neat row on the hearth of the stove for us to admire.

So when Cindy heard a mouse in our bedroom three weeks ago, she called on Miss Emma. I was at a school board meeting at the time, so she told me about it when I staggered in at 1 a.m.

“There’s a MOUSE in this room,” she said in the same tone as she might say tomorrow, “Saddam Hussein has just dropped nerve gas on New York City.” A dead-serious voice. She had even seen it run across the floor and duck under her nightstand.

An opportunist.

“Oh yeah?” I said. It didn’t seem like nerve-gas news to me. Then of course I wondered, like all sexist males: Why are women so darned afraid of a little old mouse? And I smiled self-righteously and fell into a comfortable sleep.

The next morning, Cindy called Miss Emma in, carried her upstairs, and locked her in our bedroom for the day, with instructions to catch The Mouse.

Miss Emma let us down this time, because we heard The Mouse again the next night. Cindy saw it run into the closet. Somewhere in our closet. (It’s hard to tell where in our closet.) Scratching. Gnawing. Scampering. Break danc­ing. There’s nothing quite as loud as a mouse in a room where you are trying to sleep, in the middle of a black night.

The next day I called Miss Emma, carried her to the bedroom and locked the door. This time she succeeded, or at least gave The Mouse a scare, because we didn’t hear any more noises after that.

That is, until this past Monday morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table. Cindy had gone upstairs to wake the kids. And she screamed. Not your typical cry of surprise or anger. Not a shriek, not a wail, not a yell, not a yowl. Not a holler, a hoot or a screech or a howl.

We’re talking scream, folks. Texas Chainsaw Massacre style. It didn’t last long, maybe half a second, but it raised my hair on end. I dashed upstairs. Cindy was standing by the doorway of our bedroom, pointing at the floor where she had just stepped, barefoot, squarely on top of a dead mouse.

The Missing Sock Basket: 
a wonderful spot for Miss Emma.

If it wasn’t dead before, it was dead now.

I didn’t laugh, honest. That may have saved our marriage.

Cindy hugged Malika, whose hair was also standing on end like mine. (Cindy’s hair was not only standing on end, it had actually turned a slight shade of gray.) I picked up the mouse by the tail and showed the kids the source of Mama’s scream and Miss Emma’s pride.

Yes, she was proud. She came upstairs and rubbed against Cindy’s leg, until Cindy had to bend down and pet her and laugh and thank her. A grudging thank you, but a thank you none-the-less.

Yup, it’s official in our house: fall is just around the corner. Just ask Miss Emma. Cindy could tell you, too.

That empty feeling ~ August 30, 2001

David Heiller

The empty feeling settled over me on Monday morning, August 27. I had been waiting for it to come, and when it hadn’t, I felt a bit puzzled and relieved. Bad feelings have a way of sneaking up on people.

Malika on her first day of 
kindergarten at Willow River.

I was lying in bed, trying to pry myself awake, when it finally hit, and I remembered that Mollie wasn’t upstairs. She wasn’t upstairs this morning, and she wouldn’t be upstairs tomorrow morning or the next.

We had taken her to Golden Valley the day before, in a car packed with boxes and bins, to her new home, a high school dormitory.

We were excited to see her room, to help her unpack, to meet her roommate, to look at the other kids filtering in. They all seemed to be equally excited and scared. I still remember those feelings from 30 years ago when I went away to college.

The parents looked the same way. Trying hard to be happy. Telling themselves, This is the right thing to do. We've thought this through. She’s ready for this. It will be good for her. And wondering if it was true.

Mollie heard about the Perpich Center for Arts Education last year. It is a high school that specializes in six areas: music, dance, literary arts, visual arts, media arts, theater. She wrote away for details. We went to an informational meeting with her. She met some teachers and students. She liked what she saw. We liked it too, but mostly because she did. The drive had to come from within her. She applied, did a vocal audition, and got accepted as a music student.

Malika on stage at the Perpich
Center For the Arts High School.

So I had a long time to prepare for that empty feeling. Sixteen years, to be exact. And I still wasn’t ready! The funny thing is, if you are ready for that, then your heart is a bit too hard.

The empty feeling will pass. I’ll adjust to it. Rational thought will rush in to fill the void. Cindy and I will watch Mollie grow and floun­der and flourish. Pick your adjective; she will probably experience it.

We’ll see her take many more steps like this. We have been watching those steps —and helping her when she stumbles—since 1985. At least I hope we get to see them.

Journeys come in all shapes and sizes. First day of school. First overnight. First trip to camp. First date. This is just another one, like it is for Mom and Dad.

So let me soak up the silence. That will help me get through it. No calling the dog to her room when she wakes up. No bickering with her brother. No marathon gab sessions with her girlfriends. No chatter about the movie she saw or about the boy she likes. No tears over mean words spoken at school. No bike rides down the gravel road. No quiet visits on the bench by the garden. No singing.

Dutch Jones told me a long time ago to enjoy my kids while I could, because they grow up too fast. I still remember that advice. I tried to keep it in mind. It still doesn't stop time from marching on. And we don’t want it to do that, because when you live in the past, you stop living.

The empty feeling will gradually fade away. I can feel it happening already. Then I’ll wait until the next one arrives, as it most certainly will.

It’s a fine day for another thank you ~ August 21, 2003

David Heiller

Standing from left are Peggy Whitehead, ad sales; Diane Delzer, proofreader; Sara Poslusney, cute kid; Donna Cronin, ad sales; Lynn Storrar, typesetter and bookkeeping; Chris O’Brien, typesetter; Cindy Jensen, typesetter, circulation manager, and writer; Hazel Serritslev, typesetter, subscriptions, and writer; Kaarin Johnsen, typesetter, bookkeeper, and circulation; Darrell Johnsen, photographer; Ardis Jensen, ad sales, subscriptions, and typesetter; Coral Popowitz, ad sales; Tim Peebles, ad sales and delivery; Sandy Koecher, ad sales; Jay Poslusney, musician and father of cute kid; Carrie Merriman, proofreader and bookkeeper; and Dean Dronen, friendly neighbor, musician, son of Gerald and Gloria. Seated from left are Arla Budd, typesetter and bookkeeping; Cindy and me; and Red Hansen, the all time official Askov American mascot.

Arla had the tone of an old school marm. “You can’t go to the meeting, David,” she said. You can’t miss the party!”

She had been trying to pin Cindy and me down for about a month for a little get-together at her house. It was like pinning down a hummingbird. Our life is hectic, what with selling our house, and moving, and a million other things.

Lynn, Cindy, me, Hazel and Donna. 
What a fabulous staff!

We finally agreed to Tuesday, August 14. Sure enough, I had not one but two meetings that evening. So I made the dreaded call, and got the Stern Arla, and I sat up straight and said “Yes Ma’am,” and realized something was up, because Arla hasn’t used that tone since she dragged George Frederiksen out of her English classroom by the ear.

When Cindy and I walked into the Askov Community Center that afternoon, we walked into a time warp from the last 20 years. Virtually everyone who ever worked with us or for us at the paper was there. And there were some other loved ones too—every good newspaper needs its support staff of friendly neighbors.

I’ll identify the above picture, which Tarey Johnson took, and tell what their jobs were.

It was a humbling party. Aria wrote TWO songs for the occasion (well, one was for my 50th birthday, which happened to be the next day). Dean gave me an old banjo that Gerald had retrofitted with a Zebco fishing reel in honor of my constant re-tuning. Dean called it a ZebJo.

Gearing up for a Big Rutabaga Festival at 
the Askov American.
What a lot of work we all did!

I stood up to say a few words of thanks, and as I looked over the room, I realized I could have talked for hours about the people sitting there. I had enough sense to stop after about three minutes, since the temperature and dew point were both pushing 100 (the community center needs air conditioning).

It would have been boring anyway, and it would be here too, because the memories that are precious to me aren’t necessarily profound to our 2,000 readers. So I’ll just say a simple thanks to these folks, and the ones that couldn’t make it, Tammy Perry Olson and Barb Morgan. The picture will always be a reminder to me that working at the Askov American has been a team effort. Newspaper work isn’t easy. There are deadlines, and stress, and dilemmas, and long hours, and mistakes that need correcting. But it has been fun, and none of it would have been possible for Cindy and me for the past 15-1/2 years without the people pictured above.

I’ll be saying a lot of thank yous in the next six weeks, as this fine adventure comes to a close. But none will be more important than the one I say now to the past and present workers of the old Double A.

The last word on turning 40 ~ August 19, 1993

David Heiller

Cindy called the morning of my fortieth birthday from Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. Her dad had died the night before, which drew her away physically but not in spirit.

Listen to the radio, she told me. I turned it on just in time to hear the Minnesota Public Radio announcers play a song in my honor: “Laughing River,” by Greg Brown.

It was a pleasant coincidence, because a friend had come over the night before to wish me happy birthday, and he had told me about this very song, how much he liked it, how it fit the milestone of getting old. Then the radio played it just for me. It was a good sign for Friday the Thirteenth.

(below is a good link to the song)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFhWBR8uBME

Collin "playing" David's accordion.

Then my kids gave me presents, including a button accordion from Cindy. I had eyed that accordion at a Minneapolis music store for 2½ years. Cindy told the store owner how much I wanted it. The guy remembered me fondling it in his store, so he sent it postage-paid. I wished Cindy could have given it to me herself.

On my way to work, I stopped at T&M Athletics. Tom Brabec wished he had a beer on hand to pour over my head. That’s an ancient Bohemian ritual for celebrating fortieth birthdays in Willow River.

Tom and 1,800 other Askov American subscribers had seen the full page ad that someone had put in the paper in my “honor.” Like we used to say at Camp Courage: With friends like that, who needs enemas?

Just kidding, Cindy.

At work I was greeted by Lynn Storrar, our right hand woman, who was dressed in black and wearing a home-made button that said, Woe is me, my boss is four-tee! She gave me a card that said: “I don’t find it necessary to make jokes about your age… Just thinking about it makes me laugh!!!”

Then I ran into a human buzz saw named Arla Budd. Arla lives for people who turn 40. First she planted signs up and down the street in front of the building.

David with Malika, shortly 
after the big birthday.

One set said:

The editor who writes here-in

Has just today grown old.

It’s not just that his hair is thin;

His tales have all been told.

Dave is 40.

The back side read:

In younger years as newsmen go

Dave was a proper snoop.

Reporters that have grown too old

No longer get their scoop…

He’s 40.

Arla must think I use Burma Shave.

On my desk was a card that she had made. The cover measured two feet by three feet, and featured an original sketch of a person in an outhouse. The person, who has my legs, is reading a book called “50 Yards to the Outhouse,” by Will David Makit. That was my gift from Arla. She knows how much I like outhouse literature. The card included an original poem which is reprinted below (without permission).

There once was an old man named David.

Outhouses peculiar he favored.

About them he wrote

With many a quote

Until his gentile readers quavered.

Wife Cindy (their last name was Heiller)

Was sweet, and he sought not to rile ‘er.

He bought a new pot

A hot pot he got

He sought with this pot to beguile ‘er.

This new pot was surely spinorty,

But David was just turning forty.

The old ways die hard

The pot in the yard

Was Dave’s kind of old pot-a-porty.

The story crept back in the paper

About just one more outhouse caper.

Reader’s wrath David braved

Outhouse mem’ries he saved

Before they all went up in vapor.

So this “old man” is 40 years old. But old is a relative term. Now that I’m 40, it doesn’t seem so bad.

Now 50, that’s getting up there. Just ask Arla. 

Editors always get the last word.

A hail of a storm ~ August 17, 2000

Daivd Heiller

Thunder rumbled non-stop high above our home on Monday evening, August 14. The tense and humid day was turning ugly.

Cindy had left for Cloquet to pick up Mollie from a church retreat. I stayed home to work on the computer for the newspaper. Noah was with me. I like to be home when bad weather visits. I was worried about Cindy in the car.

Enjoying our yard in the spring,
before the storm beat everything up.

It seemed like hours. It was probably about 10 minutes. Then when the hail had finished, the rain came down in sheets.

After it stopped, I walked through the yard. All the trees were standing. That was a relief. But their branches were shredded and gaunt. Everything—the ground, the deck, the hammock, the trampoline—was covered with leaves and branches that had been torn off by the hail.

A window on the north side of the house was broken. The rain gauge was broken. The garden was devastated: corn flattened, squash torn up, tomatoes punctured. The plastic on the greenhouse looked like it had been attacked by someone with a knife. The hood of the truck had dents.

Noah and I got in the truck and drove through the neighborhood. Piles of hail lay on the ground like glacial deposits, left by streams of water. The road was carpeted with leaves wherever there were trees nearby.

Corn stalks stood like toothpicks. Seeing that changed my perspective a bit. Losing a vegetable garden is pretty puny compared to losing part of your income.

Cindy and Mollie got home at about 9:30. I was worried that Cindy might have driven into the hail, but she must have been just ahead of it, because she didn’t get hit. She and Mollie were fine. That was a big relief.

The power came back on at 10:40 p.m., just as I was drifting off to sleep and Cindy was reading the newspaper by flashlight.

The roof took the worst of it, and had to be replaced.

It was a relief to have the electricity back. I never did get my newspaper work done. No power means no computer; no computer means no newspaper.

We had to watch how much water we used since the pump wasn’t working. We had to be careful how often we opened the refrigerator and freezer. We didn’t want any food to spoil. We couldn’t cook supper.

Old-timers might scoff at that, as they recall the days before electrification. But they were used to it, with wood-burning stoves and kerosene lamps. We don’t have that anymore. A loss of power for six hours is a little disconcerting.

As reports of the storm came into the office on Tuesday morning, I realized again how fortunate we were. A lot of people said that their car windows had been cracked and car bodies dented. Trees fell on houses. Siding on houses was punctured. Roofs were damaged. Crops like corn were hurt.

But Earl Johnsen summed up another part of my thoughts. We are lucky, he said when he stopped in to get a photocopy made on Tuesday. Forest fires are destroying homes out west. Floods are wrecking homes. Tornadoes have wiped out cities like Granite Falls. People in settings like that would gladly change places with us.

We can handle our hail storms. They aren’t fun. But it could have been much worse.

Three catfish and one dog fish ~ August 11, 2004

David Heiller

We were riding back from the second spillway Sunday evening, my nephew, his friend, and me. It was starting to rain, so I wasn’t paying much attention to the dogs, who were trailing behind. Maybe I was too busy admiring the three nice catfish on my stringer.

Riley

Our dog Riley is half golden retriever, which shows up whenever we are near water. Any time we go to the river, he makes frequent side trips to cool off and take a drink. If there is a dead fish to roll around in, so much the better.

As we pedaled our bikes across the first spill-way, my nephew shouted out Riley’s name in a tone of voice that brought me to a quick stop.

I looked back to see Riley head for the water, about three feet from the inlet to Running Slough.

If you’ve never been to the Reno Bottoms, the inlet from the river to the slough is a culvert about five feet in diameter that carries a huge volume of water from the river through it at all times. The water spreads out below it into a rocky waterway about 30 feet wide and 50 feet long. There’s a set of rapids at the bottom. That’s where you are likely to see fishermen, because fishing is usually good there.

Claire and Riley. 
Everyone loves Riley

It’s a fascinating spot, mesmerizing even, but one that has sent shivers up my spine for most of my life. You can’t help but wonder what would happen if you slipped and fell there and went through the culvert and beyond. I stopped my bike and ran towards Riley. He must have felt the current of the culvert, because he tried to climb out right away. His front feet slipped on the rocks. He couldn’t get out, and he started sliding sideways to the culvert. I arrived at the culvert at the same instant he did, and made a grab for his head and collar. But he slipped through my hands and disappeared from sight.

About two seconds later he was on the other side, a yellow mass tumbling over the rocks to the rapids at the bottom. The water there churned him up and down like a washing machine. He struggled to the eastern side. I ran to that side, but again a second too late.

He tried to climb out of the foaming water, but slipped back down and disappeared. He must have been pinned under all that current. I stood there in shock. “That’s the end of Riley;” I said out loud. A mixture of sad and angry thoughts rushed through my mind for about five seconds.

Then Riley popped out of the current like a lost bobber, right at my feet! I stretched out, reached down, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him up.

We sat in the shallow water right there. Wow. Riley couldn’t stand at first, and I’m not sure I could either. Then I carried him to a patch of grass, where he lay for about a minute, panting and looking at me with more than the usual devotion that dogs show their master.

In another minute Riley was on his feet, a little wobbly at first, but soon back to normal and acting as if nothing had happened. Oh, that people had memories like a dog.

Meanwhile my ribs were bruised, and I had a big scrape on my midsection from flailing around after the dog. Riley came out of it better than I did!

I know Riley is just a dog. I would have processed his accidental death and moved on. But now I’ll view his life as a miracle. I’m glad he’s a survivor.

And it may sound silly, but I feel we have a bond that wasn’t there before. Does he sense it? Who knows. But as I write this at home on Monday morning, Riley is lying five feet away on the office floor. He slept in our bedroom last night too, which is something he rarely does. Maybe he does remember. I know it’s something I won’t ever forget.

Just watch your step–and your dog–at the spillway of the Reno Bottoms. And count your dog blessings while you are at it.

Two types of fishing ~ July 31, 2003

David Heiller

Collin pondered the rock bass the way a bonsai artist ponders a pine tree. He looked at it this way and turned it that way in careful consideration of his next move. It might take minutes. It might take hours.

Levi and Collin, fishing at the cabin

“Just take the fish off!” his cousin, Levi, finally exclaimed. He was an expert at that of course, because he had taken a crappie off his fishing hook just the day before. It had taken him 20 minutes, and the fish looked like a used tube of toothpaste when he released it. But he had indeed removed the hook, and now that feat was serving him well.

“I will!” Collin shot back. The two boys are like brothers, and that means the gloves come off every so often.

“You’re two years older than me and I can do it,” Levi jabbed.

“Not two years, only a year and a half,” Collin replied. “And you fish a lot more than me. You go 10 times a year, and I only go five.”

“But you’re two years older than me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

The brilliant conversation continued for most of the next five minutes. Collin finally slid his hand over the fish like he was disconnecting a time bomb. He took out the hook, and dropped the fish over the side of the boat. I was relieved to see it swim away.

It was a good reminder to me that life isn’t always easy for kids, at least if they’re a bit squeamish about fish hook removal.

I could have taken that hook out for Collin. He asked me to a couple times. But it was a fence he needed to cross, and cross it he did, with some “help” from his cousin. The next time it will be easier, then easier, until the day comes when he might actually smile and recall the good old days.

Claire, one of the Cast-a-way kids,  
enjoying the water at the cabin

The other kind of fishing I make reference to in the headline came from two younger kids that I took fishing at our annual Trip to the Cabin last week.

They were the Cast-Away Kids, because their main goal was to cast away. It did not matter one bit if they caught any fish. In fact, they seemed a little upset when a sunfish had the audacity to latch onto their bait. Their main goal was to bring that rod behind their head, whip it forward, release the bale with their thumb, and watch the bait fly forward. Cast away!

Then it was a quick reel in, and a repeat performance.

I made sure that they had single hooks on their line, and that most of the hook was covered with a plastic worm. You don’t want to put a double jointed Rapala with three sets of treble hooks in the hands of someone three feet tall.

Still it was a defensive fishing trip for me. I kept my head tucked in close to my shoulders as Gabe, age five, slung his bait toward shore with the determination of a middle linebacker. His dad had rigged it with a lead-headed jig that left his arm like a shotgun slug.

Gabe was remarkably accurate. He would aim for a lily pad, ignoring my advice that fish are not six inches from the shore, and he would hit that lily pad.

Sometimes the line would tighten like a crossbow as he tugged to get it free, and I would holler “Heads-up!” and the shotgun would blast back our way. Luckily no one got shot.

Claire, age eight, had a more poetic approach, casting her worm in all directions, moving her lure like a ballerina around her battering-ram cousin. She asked once if she could have a heavier lure like Gabe’s, but I gave a firm no to that. She seemed to understand my answer, probably because she had ducked as often as me.

Claire had the habit of announcing that she had a fish every time she felt a tug. Then when she saw the inevitable hunk of weeds on her hook, she would say she didn’t.

Her mantra bored into my brain: “I’ve-got-one, no-I-don’t. I’ve-got-one, no-I-don’t. I’ve-got-one-no-I-don’t.”

I finally broke her of that habit, first through a polite request, and then through good old mockery. Her final fishing act on our last outing was to point out to me that she had caught a weed and didn’t say it was a fish.

She was proud of that, and so was I. It was progress, just like her big brother’s Rock Bass Victory. Fishing with kids is fun. Just be ready for some good arguments and fast-flying lures. Catching fish is a bonus.

The great debate ~ August 7, 2001

David Heiller

The Great Debate is never far from the surface at our house.

It’s a consequence of having two children two years apart.

Throw in the fact that they are of different gender and opposite personalities, and some powerful dramas can ensue.

Oh, those kids!

Negotiation is one aspect of The Great Debate. A typical Negotiation played out last Sunday afternoon in the kitchen.

“Noah, I’d like you to clean the porches,” I told my son, age 18. Just then my daughter walked into the house. I had to think fast. You can’t give one kid a job while the other looks on.

“Mollie, can you empty the dishwasher?” I asked my daughter, Malika, age 16. It wasn’t really a question, and she knew it.

Mollie started an immediate, barely audible protest. Noah’s radar went up.

“Mollie do you want to switch with me?” he asked her.

“OK,” Mollie replied, and the deal was done. Mollie whipped through the two porches, straightening shoes, sweeping the floor, giving the rugs the quickest of shakes. She worked like lightening, no doubt hoping to beat her brother.

Noah put away glasses, plates, silverware, and bowls with the efficiency of a Ford assembly line worker.

Not surprisingly, their two jobs ended at the same time. That is Newton’s Third Law of Teenage Physics: Two jobs given to teenage siblings will be completed by each person in the same amount of time, regardless of the degree of difficulty of each job.

Putting kids to work starts early.

Negotiations like this play out almost daily in our house. They are amazing to watch. I asked Mollie later why she negotiated. “I hate emptying the dishwasher,” she replied. How can you hate a job like that, I wondered to myself. Then I thought, It’s been a long time since you were a teenager, Dave.

Chore Injustice is another part of The Great Debate. Each kid is always on the outlook for Chore Injustice.

It goes something like this:

“Noah, take out the trash and empty the compost bucket.”

“What?!?”

“You heard me.”

“What about Mollie?”

And all of a sudden they are grown up and help with 
really, really big chores, like cleaning out
 30+ years of debris from a hayloft.

“What about Mollie?”

“What does she have to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I’ve got to do the trash and compost, what does Mollie have to do?”

“Worry about yourself, don’t worry about your sister.”

At this point Noah has to change his tactics, because I have been known to start adding jobs to kids who protest too much.

“I had to split wood for the sauna yesterday,” Noah says. He’s got a bigger strategy in mind.

“You always split wood for the sauna,” I answer. “That’s your job.”

“My point exactly,” Noah says with the finality of Bobby Fischer. “And what job does Mollie have?”

He is slowly and delicately backing me into a corner.

“She does the recyclables.”

“Recyclables!” Noah says with a snort. “That’s not a real job.”

“Fine, then you can do it.” Checkmate for me.

Then there is the Magnificent Excuse, another component of the Great Debate.

Mollie pulled one out last Sunday morning. She was practicing her vocal lessons up in her room, in preparation for singing in church this Sunday.

“It’s good to hear her practicing.” Cindy said. I agreed.

Mollie came downstairs. “Mollie, can you unload the dishwasher?” I asked. Mollie pulled out a trump card. Had she heard Cindy’s comment a few minutes earlier, even though she was blasting out a high C at 110 decibels?

“I can’t. I’m practicing my music,” she said like an aristocrat to the stable hand.

“Well, practice it while you unload the dishwasher,” I countered.

Malika has always been willing to take on the floors. 
Emptying the dishwasher, not so much.

“Dad, you know I can’t just stand and work and sing at the same time. That’s not how it works.”

“Well, what are you doing upstairs?” “I’m working on my scrapbook.”

“How come you can work a scrapbook and sing but you can’t put away dishes and sing?”

“Dad,” she said with a disbelieving chuckle and a shake of her head. She walked triumphantly back upstairs. She had me, and she knew it, and she knew I knew it. She has lived with me for 16 years. She knew I would not mind her singing upstairs instead of five feet away from me. (Remember that decibel level?) She knew I would like the fact that she was working on her scrapbook, which is the most ornate publication this side of a 12th century Bible. Most importantly, she knew her mother would be on her side. And as an added bonus, she was practicing for church.

Game, set, match.

Well, not quite. She did end up emptying the dishwasher a couple hours later.

The Great Debate. Playing in a household near you. It’s better than a four-star movie.