Keep the gas tank filled – the baby’s on it’s way ~ June 27, 1985

David Heiller

1:12 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: The light is on over the bed. Cindy is sitting bent over slightly at the edge. Her face is tight. She’s looking at her watch.

“Five minutes apart, 45 seconds long,” she says in a breathless way. “The contractions.”

“Huh?” I mumble, feeling very cozy under the blankets of this cool dark morning.

“Let’s go, Dave,” she says. “I think this is it.” Suddenly, very suddenly, I’m awake.

4:20 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve just dropped Noah off with a friend in Rutledge. So far, so good, with our Plan. Suitcase is packed, dog and cat fed. We even had time for a quick sauna before leaving. We are on our way to the hospital in Duluth.

Cindy spies the gas gauge. Less than a quarter of a tank. “Do I have to take care of everything?” she asks.

“This is the first time in two weeks I didn’t get gas,” I say in a weak voice. So much for that part of the Plan. “Why, just today, I pulled into the Deep Rock, but I didn’t have any checks with me. Besides, you’re a week early, you know.”

Somehow, blaming Mother Nature is a watery excuse, and Cindy doesn’t bother to answer it.

4:45 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’re just picked up a friend in Moose Lake. Diane was with us for Noah’s birth, and will be labor assistant again. She sits in the back seat, rubbing Cindy’s shoulders and talking softly. Diane gave birth to all six of her children at home. Plus she’s helped quite a few others into the world. Her presence calms my butterflies somewhat. Still, as we approach the Carlton exit on 1-35, my stomach feels like Cindy’s. A combination of two cups of tea, a glass of orange juice, and a near-empty tank, all having their effect.

I pull over at a truck stop, fill the tank, and go to the bathroom. Suddenly things seem much better, for me at least.

8:15 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve been here for three hours. Contractions are down to three minutes apart, lasting a minute and a half Cindy is dilated to six centimeters. The doctor comes in for the first time. He’s been out of town all weekend, and a nurse finally got hold of him. Cindy’s face lights up when she sees him. It’s a look I haven’t seen before, the look of a woman about to try a natural birth, after a Caesarean Section, looking at the doctor she has trusted to help her.

“You’re processing well,” he says. “The baby is still posterior. It’s still got some rotating to do, but it’s moving down nicely into the birth canal. It looks good.”

The doctor gives Cindy’s hand a squeeze and heads for the door. “I’m going to make my rounds now, and go to my office across the street.” He looks at me, reads my eyes. “I won’t be more than three minutes away. Don’t worry.”

9:20 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: Cindy is lying on the delivery table, trying not to push. We’ve been waiting for the doctor for 15 minutes. Cindy is dilated 10 centimeters and can hardly hold back as the contractions sweep over her. The intercom is calling for the doctor at a steady interval. A nurse calls his office. Nobody says anything. We hardly look at one another. I glance at Diane as we knead Cindy’s back. “Where is he?” my look says. “We’ve got lots of time,” her look answers.

10:23 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: We’ve been pushing for 40 minutes. I say “we.” Any husband who has sat by his wife’s side at a birth knows what I mean. Cindy’s arms and legs feel like ironwood when she pushes. Deep breath, face contorts into a grimace. Knuckles turn white at her side, feet and legs strain against the stirrups.

The doctor checks Cindy again. No progress. The baby is about two inches from crowning, and not coming any further. The doctor can see its head. He shows me. “Oh, it’s a girl, she’s got brown hair,” I say. A few short laughs.

But there is no humor in the room. The baby, he or she, is stuck. It happened two years ago too, only that time there were forceps and an ambulance, and just enough doubts to make us try again.

‘I’ll let you push for another half hour, but to be quite honest, I don’t think it’ll go,” the doctor says. Cindy is exhausted. The pain is almost too much, since she has held off from any pain killer. “It’s your decision.”

I look at Cindy. “It’s your decision, Cindy,” I say. “No, it’s our decision,” she answers.

“That’s right,” the doctor says, looking at me. I’ve seen enough pain for a year in the last hour. “Let’s get it over with,” I tell Cindy.

She nods a reply.

11:58 a.m. Tuesday, June 18: I pet Cindy’s hair, sitting by her head in the operating room. A sheet separates Cindy’s head and me from the rest of her body. It could be a mile away for Cindy too. She can’t feel a thing from the chest down. Her eyes are clear of pain for the first time all morning, as she smiles at me.

Our nurse catches my eye, and lifts her chin with a come-here, motion. “You ready for this?” she asks. “Stand up.”

Malika Lynette, June, 1985.

And there it is, not it—he or she, this purple tiny baby thing that gets rushed to the warming table in the corner. A tiny voice cracks, a single cry that could split a log of oak. The newest, most anxious and pleading and happy-to-be-here sound, that has made moms and dads cry since memory itself.

“You’ve got a little girl,” the doctor says.

“A little girl, we’ve got a little girl,” Cindy and I both say as our cheeks touch, our tears touch. For a handful of seconds, time has stopped. And a new life has begun.

In search of the elusive, good used lawnmower ~ May 23, 1985

David Heiller

Buying a lawnmower is no small event in our family. The questions rage: “Should we buy new or used? Off-brand or name brand? Three horse or three-and-a-half horse? Twenty inch cut, or 22 inch cut?”

And of course the main question: “How much does it cost?”

My wife and I anguished over the issue for the past month. We knew the hand-me-down mower in the garage would not make another summer. Cindy wanted to go with a new mower. She figures we have a big lawn, and will probably always have a big lawn, so a new mower would be a wise investment. She also figures that if we still had the money spent on used mowers and repairs over the past three years, we could have a very good new mower.

I can’t argue that point. We’ve had four used mowers—three bought, one given—since 1981. Each of those mowers was serviced at least once during the summer. That’s between $150 and $200 in mowers, for three summers of sporadic cutting and abusive language.

But since I was in charge of researching the new purchase, I once again stuck my neck out and bought a used mower. I kept thinking, “One of these times, I’m going to get a gem, one that was used by a little old lady with a small lawn who only cut the grass on Sunday.”

The model I bought was an off-brand, didn’t even have a name. Its carriage was painted bright green, with a clean, white, three-and-a-half horse motor. It looked in good shape, and had been given the once-over by the dealer. The cost: $42.20, with a trade in.

When I bought home, my nearly two-year-old son crawled onto the engine, as if to ride it around. “Mo-mower, mo-mower, he said. He moved behind it, reached up for the handle, and tried to push it. It wouldn’t budge.

The lawn mower in residence with
the lawn mower of the moment.

Cindy was not quite as excited. “Oh, you bought a used mower,” she said. “I thought we had agreed to buy a new mower.”

“Did we?” I asked. My mind is able to block things out quite nicely when called to. “Oh yeah, you’re right. But this one looks so nice. I gave it a test cutting. And it’s been serviced. The guy even ground the valves for me.” I don’t know what the valve grinding entails, but it impressed me, so I tried it on Cindy. She returned to the kitchen, looking unimpressed.

The next night the “new” used mower had its debut, its first major league start. Halfway around the apple tree, after five minutes of mowing, something clanked and whizzed into the weeds. I stopped the mower. The air filter had blown off. All I could find was a twisted circle of tin. I picked it up: It was engine hot, and burned my fingers.

I glanced toward the house, feeling like Ron Davis after giving up one of those game-losing home runs. Here came the manager. Cindy approached the mower and me as I knelt by its side, trying not to look at the air filter hole.

“It doesn’t sound very good,” she said. “I wouldn’t write home about that mower if I were you.” She was showing great self-control, just like Billy Gardner must have in those ninth-inning disasters. The words “I told you so” were nearly bursting out from every pore.

“Let’s give it a chance,” I said in a compassionate voice. “I’m not even a quarter done.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, and turned back to the dugout.

I resumed cutting. The mower worked fine for the next half hour. Then it started stalling in the tall grass. Soon it was having trouble with the regular stuff, so that I was taking baby steps to let the blade keep up with the grass.

Finally, with only a 10 by 20 foot patch left, it quit altogether, and I knew it wouldn’t start again. I tried five or six times. Not even close to a spark.

I wheeled it into the garage, and parked it. It’s still sitting there, looking very clean and nice, waiting for one more shot at the lawn, one more shot at the big leagues. Then it’s either here to stay, or it’s back to the minors, and me with it.

What’s a rocking chair? ~ April 4, 1985

David Heiller

 What’s a rocking chair? On the one hand, it’s an object usually made of wood and screws and glue, with some polish and varnish to make it look nice. On the other, it’s one of those special things that is worth much more than its material value, and means much more.

David and Lynette with Grandma in the rocking chair.

We have a rocking chair in our son’s bedroom. It’s wood, with a leather seat that conforms to its rocker. At night, when we put son to bed, he gets the rocking treatment. As we move back and forth, he tells me about his day in 21-month-old language. “Matthew, guy boy, dee, now, house,” he says, meaning he had fun playing with his friend Matthew, who has a father and some brothers, and lots of cars, and a cat, all in a big house.

When he’s done talking, he takes his bottle and listens while Mom or Dad sing to the rhythm of the rocking chair. After a few minutes, he is in bed, relaxed, content, ready for sleep. His parents are smiling too.

The rocking chair in Noah’s room was passed down from my grandmother three years ago. It got plenty of use with her and me and my seven brothers and sisters when we were kids. We would sit on her lap, sometimes two at a time, tattered Mother Goose that was missing its first and last 30 pages. I’m guessing Grandma didn’t even need the book.

One of my favorite family pictures is this one, taken of me, my sister Lynette, and Grandma some 28 years ago. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it shows something money can’t buy, and perhaps words can’t express— love.

More passed from Grandmother to Grandkids than singing and stories while we rocked together. Patience passed through, and the soft touch of someone that listens to you and spends time with you. A feeling of confidence, and comfort, and maybe even common sense. Immeasurable things for kids that are normally racing life in overdrive, running, playing, seldom stopping. We had enough sense to stop, when Grandma and the rocking chair beckoned.

The photo has sadness, too, a kind that should be remembered. Lynette drowned when she was 17 years old. She’d had cerebral palsy, and no one except my mother loved or cared for her more than Grandma. This picture reminds me of that love, and that even though the person is gone, the memory and affection remain.

Not too long from now, my other knee will be occupied in the rocking chair. And like the photo, the circle will be unbroken.

Clock radio confounds Dad ~ February 7, 1985

David Heiller

Have you noticed how complicated life is getting? I’m not exactly an old timer, but even in my 31 years, things have gotten pretty sticky. A good example is soda pop. Just 20 years ago, you had a choice of cola, root beer, orange, maybe Seven-Up. Sugar free? Yes, if you could stand the after-taste of an industrial drain pipe.

Noah with his 'I'm pretty clever' look.

Now, there are regular flavors covering all colors of the rainbow, with sugar-free that tastes as good as regular, plus decaffeinated, and sugar-free decaffeinated.

Radios are another good example. When I was a kid, we had one radio in the house. It sat on the buffet in the living room, with an orange face lit from within by a small light bulb. Two knobs handled the works, the left one for turning it on and controlling the volume, the right for tuning.
Saturday nights my oldest brother would bring it into the our bedroom and set in on the dresser next to the bed. He ruled over it with an iron hand tuning the dial to 1410 to listen to Lindsey Shannon play the top 25 hits. I never heard the number one song at midnight. Sleep would usually come at number 10. Then I’d have to ask one of my brothers the next morning which song was number one. Was it Duke of Earl, Town Without Pity, or Pied Purple People Eater?

That radio was a simple affair, perhaps matching the memories of a man looking back at his childhood. Our bedroom radio of today, however, is another, animal altogether. It is probably the closest thing to a computer I will ever own.

The radio has 12 knobs, buttons, and switches. It sets on my wife’s side of the bed. She too rules it with an iron hand, for the simple reason that I do not know how to operate the darn thing.

In fact, my 19-month-old son understands the radio better than I do. One afternoon last week, when Noah and I were lying on the bed, he started pushing buttons on the radio. Music began to play.

“Deet,” he said with a smile of mastery. Neat.

"Here, Daddy, do you want to
play with my firetruck?"

He started pushing more buttons. The music stopped.

“Deet,” he repeated, smiling. Neat.

He pushed more buttons, working his way down the row of knobs and switches. Music resumed. Noah smiled.

“Deet!” Neat.

That was enough for me. “Let’s go downstairs and play with your cars and trucks,” I suggested. He slid off the bed, while I turned to shut off the radio. I tried the manual on-off. No luck. How about the selector switch, with choice of buzzer, radio, and off? No luck.

The volume, no that wouldn’t work. The radio switch from a.m. to f.m.? Huh-­uh. The side button that controls the clock face from bright light to low light? No help there.

I kept pressing. Doze, sleep, time-set fast, time-set slow, alarm set. Nothing would shut it off. “Deet,” I said and followed Noah downstairs; the radio still playing.

My wife and son can have the radio. I’ll stick to toy cars and trucks.

It was a classic smear job all the way ~ December 12, 1985

David Heiller

There comes a time in every child’s life when they cease being babies, and become something more. It is a metamorphosis from a helpless bundle of pink skin into a human being.

Mothers may not know what I mean, because they spend more time with their babies, and probably never think of them as helpless bundles of pink skin. But to dads, who roll around on the floor with them perhaps for only a few minutes a day, the metamorphosis hits all of a sudden, and sometimes it hits hard.

Malika with her bearded and bespectacled daddy. She's thinking about, the last time she got hold of that beard, or the next time she scores his glasses. 

That’s what happened at our house last weekend. Cindy had been telling me how our six-month-old daughter had been going through a growth spurt, guzzling more milk per hour than a young Holstein. Cindy had pointed out that Mollie was sitting up by herself now, and laughing at her big brother, and babbling in her crib when she woke up at 6:30 in the morning. She was even taking an interest in the mashed bananas that her mother pried down her throat.

I had noticed these changes. I had also seen how Mollie was very interested in my beard now, grabbing tiny fistfuls, doing chin-ups with my face. Noah had done the same thing two years earlier, so I should have been warned about the next step, the change that takes a baby out of the helpless stage and puts them on the same plane with an Amazonian warrior.

Never underestimate a budding grown-up,
even when they are six months old.

It started innocently enough. Mama was in town shopping. I was lying on the living room floor, with my head about a foot from Mollie. Noah sat nearby, playing with some cars, but watching us out of the corner of his eye. He must have sensed what was coming, just as his beard-pulling genes were passed on to Mollie. Mollie jerked her arms back as her eyes moved from a toy in her hand to me. Her gaze settled on my face, and her eyes focused on mine with the intensity of a fox. Her left arm shot out, with no baby jerking and twitching this time. It was an adult movement, a steady, resolute motion that held no hesitation and would not be stopped. Her fingers uncurled from their fist, and re-clenched around the left temple of my wire rimmed glasses. Vice-Grips could not have been tighter. Then with a quick backward pull, she flipped the glasses off my nose and ears, and held them high.

The inevitable followed, as I lay in shock. She took the left lens of the glasses and put it in her mouth, gumming and slobbering so that it would be smeared as only six-month-olds can gum and slobber and smear. Then, and only then, did she relax and smile and shake the glasses in wild glee.

I reached over and grabbed my wire-rimmed glasses. I had bought the frame in college 10 years ago, and I didn’t want to lose them now. Mollie let me have them. Her goal had been accomplished. Her first glasses execution had been a success. And Dad was on notice that his helpless bundle of pink skin was not helpless anymore.

Moms, dads beware—the secret weapon is awake ~ June 6, 1985

David Heiller

I have a secret weapon that could probably be sold to the highest bidder and used in the torture chambers of totalitarian regimes throughout the world. This weapon doesn’t cost millions of dollars, wasn’t developed by the military, and isn’t even illegal. But under controlled situations it will force the stiffest of upper lips into jelly, and melt nerves of steel into lead.

I discovered the weapons Sunday morning, at 5 a.m. My wife and I had celebrated our fifth anniversary the previous night, with dinner and a Greg Brown concert in Duluth. We had finally got the babysitter home, and settled ourselves into bed by 2 a.m. That made the weapon even more potent three hours later.

Small cute boy?
Not really, more like a diabolical 
weapon on the morning here described.

Cindy heard it first, and deserves much of the blame. Thump. The sound of bare feet sliding out of bed in the next room. Pad-pad-pad-pad. Those tiny feet approaching with both stealth and firmness. The blankets tightening around two groggy adults, as two little fists grab, pull, and hoist 29 pounds of boy onto the bed. Up lift the blankets, in slides the weapon, warm, snuggling, smiling.

For perhaps a minute, all is well, the calm before the storm. While Mom and Dad pull the covers up to their chins and mumble something to each other, the secret agent’s eyes open. All semblance of fatigue is gone from those blue eyes. They are the eyes of a wide awake, two-year-old boy at 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

This agent goes by the name of Noah. In your house, it may be Emily, or Mathew, or Joseph, or Amber. Names differ, but techniques are universal.

“Mo-mower grahch,” he starts, standing on the mattress looking out the window. “Mo-mower grahch. Mo-mower grahch.”

Yes, the lawn mower is in the garage,” I answer. My eyes are open slightly, staring at the ceiling and the towering boy.

“Why?”

I started to answer, then catch myself, and instead turn my back to him. He kneels by my head, grabs my beard, and pulls my face to his.

“Daddy.”

I don’t answer.

“Daddy.” Two quick kisses. Something is up. “Daddy. Dasses, OK?”

Now I am awake. Two kisses in his mind are worth my glasses, which rest on the night stand next to the bed.

“No, you can’t have my glasses,” I say while catching his arm as it passes over my head.

“Why?”

I don’t answer him. Instead I call out to Cindy. I want to make sure she is a part of this. “Why did you let him in bed?” I ask.

“I thought he’d fall right asleep,” she answers in an embarrassed voice. A two-year-old falling back to sleep on a Sunday morning once in bed with Mom and Dad? She seemed to realize now how foolish the notion sounded.

Dancing with Mama and her midsection.

But my diversion worked. Noah turned his attention to Momma He started grilling her with small talk. The birds are singing. April was here last night. She’s a nice babysitter. I would like a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. The lawn mower is in the garage. Is Margot coming today? Binti is sleeping. Miss Emma is sleeping. Let’s go downstairs. I want juice.

Cindy rolled over onto her back. That seemed to be Noah’s intention. He eyed the 22 extra pounds of a soon-to-be brother or sister on Momma’s midsection. His eyes sparkled like a mountain climber gazing for the first time at the Matterhorn. Then he started climbing, draping the bulge like a barrel.

“Noah. Daddy, help!” Cindy groaned.

“You let him in bed,” I said, not moving.

“I know, I know,” she answered, holding back expletives with sheer Mother willpower.

By this time, we were both awake. The clock said 5:30. The Sunday sun was almost over the horizon. Birds were calling everywhere, catbirds, robins, mourning doves.

“What the heck, we might as well get up, huh?” I suggested.

Noah was already sliding off the bed, leading the way downstairs. The secret weapon had won.

The unforgettable Bath Night ~ January 10, 1985

by David Heiller

What comes to mind when you think of Saturday night as a child? For many people, it’s bath night. Or maybe that should be capitalized. Bath Night, an American institution.

David (left) and his older brothers, 
presumably AFTER Bath Night
the previous eve.

As a child Bath Night for our family had a certain ritual. I had seven brothers and sisters. The girls got the upstairs bathroom usually, while my two brothers and I splashed downstairs. Glenn, nine years older, would usually bathe first, because he had places to go and people (usually of the opposite gender) to meet.

Danny and I followed. Three years my senior, Danny was expert at taking baths. He convinced me that no soap was necessary. There were little germs in the water, and these germs drove tiny bulldozers that scraped dirt away. Mom ended that theory, possibly after finding no ring in the tub one too many times.

After the bath, it was into pajamas and onto the living room floor in front of the TV. At 8:30 Palladin—Have Gun, Will Travel. Next: Gunsmoke, everybody’s favorite. How many squeaky kids watched Matt Dillon square off against the man in the black hat every Saturday night at nine? Matt always fired a second late, but his aim hit its mark. An important lesson for us clean kids.

A hamam in Chaouen, Morocco.
(Daughter Malika took this lovely photo on her stay in Morocco.)

Perhaps my most memorable Bath Night came in 1978, when I lived in Morocco, teaching with the Peace Corps. Moroccans know how to do up Bath Night right. They all converge on the “hamam” or public bathhouse. There, they strip down to shorts, grab a couple of buckets and scrub themselves clean while catching upon the latest news with their neighbors.

I usually went to the hamam early in the morning. Fewer people, less hassle. But one blustery night in January, I grabbed a towel and went to the local bath house. I paid my 50 cents in the front room, put my clothes in a basket under a bench, and walked into the hot room.

All eyes turned on me, a six-foot-one, white American bulk in a sea of brown bodies. The room was packed, men and boys, dads and sons, washing their hair, scrubbing their legs, sitting, talking, enjoying their Bath Night, and enjoying watching me.

I looked for a place to sit down, then spotted a vacant chamber off to one side. I asked a man who I recognized if the room was taken. He glanced in surprise, then said “La, sir illa bghiti.” Go ahead, if you want to.

As I sat in the room, a small man entered, shook my hand, introduced himself.

“La bes. N-atai-ek kulshi?” Hello, You want the works?

It then flashed that I had entered the domain of the hamam’s masseuse. Before I could say anything, he poured water on me, and started washing my hair. He scrubbed my back, my front, my legs. He used a pumice stone and a pad that made Brillo seem like baby lotion. As a topper, he threw on a few wrestling holds on me and stretched me out. My muscles cracked and popped. I never felt so good.

As I left the room, the Moroccans made way for me like Moses in the Red Sea. Their faces showed a new respect for the Americani. A few of my students shook my hand. They’d never seen anything like that in their hamam, and I would guess, haven’t since.

That was my most memorable Bath Night. I’ll never forget it, and I don’t regret it. But I think I’ll stick to Gunsmoke.

Outhouses bring out the best in overnight guests ~ October 17,1985

David Heiller

There’s always a bit of adventure when friends and relatives come to visit at our house, often thanks to not having an indoor bathroom.

I’ve gotten used to the privvy, but city-dwellers especially seem to put the walk to the outhouse in the same category as a trip through the jungles of the Amazon.

The bane of many guests at our house
 in those days: The Outhouse.

Take this past weekend, for example. On Saturday morning, my mother-in-law arrived for a two-day visit. She sat down at the kitchen table and announced, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Most 53-year-old women don’t proclaim such things at the kitchen table. But at our house such announcements are often made by guests, because our bathroom is a two-seater about 20 yards from the house. By stating her intentions, my mother-in-law was working up the courage to actually pay her visit.

An hour later, still sitting at the kitchen table and two cups of coffee further along, she announced again, “Well, I guess I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“I thought you said that an hour ago,” I said.

“Yes, I did,” she answered, not moving.

Sometime that afternoon—I never did see her leave—she made the trip, and survived. That’s a sidelight to the main story here. You see, for the weak of heart—or bladder—we have a chamber pot, one which my wife gives up for a night as an age-old gesture of hospitality when company dares sleep over. Cindy dutifully offered the chamber pot to her mother, who almost grabbed it out of her hands, as the thought of stumbling outside in 30-degree night darkness sank in.

These two are what got my mom to even consider 
a visit to our VERY humble abode.

I arose early Sunday morning at about 5 a.m. to get a bottle for our son, and walked past mom’s sleeping form, on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I heard the cat outside. She’s been catching a mouse nearly every morning in our living room, so I let her in.

An hour later, I got up again, to light a fire in the wood stove. As I entered the living room, there sat Lorely, at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. Seeing her up on a Sunday morning at that hour is like seeing the sun rise at two in the afternoon. Darned near unheard of.

“What are you doing up?” I asked.

“That cat of yours caught a mouse.” She gestured to a dead mouse, in front of the stove, which the cat had proudly laid out for all to admire.

“That’s good,” I said. “When did she catch it?”

“Just now.”

“And it woke you up?” I asked.

“Woke me up?” she asked. “I was sitting on the chamber pot when it happened.”

Now I could understand why she was so wide awake.

My mother was not a cat person, but she and
 Miss Emma became the best of friends.

“I was just sitting there; and the cat crouched over there, and then this mouse ran in front of me, and...”

Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t finish. The outhouse was bad enough, and even inside, there was no safe haven for bodily functions.

That night, I asked Lorely if she felt up to the mouse challenge again. Cindy butted in: “Mom, maybe you’d like to sleep in our bed upstairs? We’ll sleep on the hide-a-bed. You wouldn’t mind, would you, David?”

I had slept on our hide-a-bed once before, and was still recovering from the back pain. “Well, we’ve had mice upstairs,” I said cautiously.

“When?” Cindy demanded.

“Why just the other day. In fact, it was so big, it might have been a rat, I’m not sure.”

Cindy’s mom looked at me, actually looked through me. Her eyes flashed back on a mouse in front of her as she squatted helplessly in dim morning light. “Do cats eat mice on beds?” she asked.

“Go ahead, sleep in our bed, I don’t mind,” I said.

Lorely slept a sound, mouse-less sleep on Sunday. I woke up feeling like a piece of rebar was holding my back in place.

People tell me I should put a toilet in our house. Maybe they’re right. But even a sore back is worth the adventure that comes with our outhouse. 

The Terrible Twos? Aw come on Dad, you’re all wet ~ August 1985

David Heiller

“As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” the Bible teaches us. That lesson applies to everyone, even two-year-old boys who accompany their fathers to laundromats.

Noah and Daddy in a
much better pool of water.

We have a washing machine at home, sitting in the garage, where the car should sit. While it waits for the handyman to get plumbing into the bathroom, the handyman washes clothes in the laundromat. Sometimes, he takes his son with him.

The son, Noah, is at a stage known by many as the “Terrible Twos,” a stage that ranks second only to adolescence in testing human patience. Sometimes such 26-month behavior isn’t intentionally Terrible, though the consequences are.

The laundromat episode was one of those innocent catastrophes. With the best intentions, I let Noah “help” me take the wet, clean clothes out of a front loading machine. We watched the red light flash off, watched the spinning come to a halt.

“Now open the door,” I said, lifting Noah up so he could reach the door latch. He placed his small hand on the handle, couldn’t move it, so I put my hand on his and pushed down. Magically, the door opened, with a click that echoed in Noah’s mind.

We moved over to the dryers. I forgot about the very important lesson that Noah had just learned. And in true human fashion, he tested his newest skill 10 minutes later.

I had my back to a row of washing machines, and to Noah. I heard a click, then a frightened yelp. I whirled to see Noah standing under a torrent of soapy water, gushing from the door of a full washing machine which he had just opened.

Noah "helping" with the laundry.
I am quite certain that the laundry he is helping with  
was clean and folded, but not yet put away.

Noah was frozen in place, his mouth open, right hand still raised. For a split second, I gasped in disbelief. Then I slammed the door shut, and scooped Noah up from the pool of water, setting him on a table. His right leg and arm were soaked, but his ego was in worse shape. Dad had just taught him a new skill, he had used to perfection, and nearly drowned as a result.

I gave him a hug, trying to stop the tears, then turned to the larger task of cleaning up his curiosity. A pool of water 10 feet long and three inches deep lay in front of the washing machines. Some wet clothes had fallen from the washer, so I and had to give the owner of those clothes a dollar to wash them again. The lady took the money with a wordless scowl, as she tried to figure how to get to her marooned machine.

When not doing laundry, a book is always good.
Uncle Randy was a good target for reading requests.

I grabbed a scraggly mop and broken bucket, and tried to soak up the gallons of water. Two other ladies watched from down the line, out of the corner of their eyes. They wouldn’t look at me directly, just kept on with their laundry as if afraid I might ask them to help. I felt like an assault victim on some busy street, where the crowd walks silently by.

Half an hour later, the water was finally mopped off the floor. By this time, quite a crowd had arrived, including some boys who seemed determined to walk through the wet area every three minutes. Noah had quit crying, and was as ready to leave as I was. His new found lesson had become more complex: Open doors, but at your own risk.

Meanwhile, our washing machine is still waiting in, the garage. I’m going to get at that bathroom plumbing project real soon.

Anny Ahlbom—she taught us how to live, how to die ~ June 20, 1985

David Heiller

I didn’t have the good fortune of knowing Anny Ahlbom very well. I met her one early spring afternoon in 1982, while working as a magazine and insurance salesman. She asked me right into her home six miles west of Rutledge. We drank coffee and ate apple cake. The 90-year-old lady led me through the house, showing off the paintings and carvings done by her late husband, John. She played the piano and sang and danced with me, a total stranger. She gave me a pair of mittens which she had knit, and a set of woolen wrist bands, then took my mittens with a promise to knit the hole in one of the thumbs.

I didn’t have a chance to sell her anything, and by the time I left two hours later, I didn’t want to.

When you enter Anny’s old house, the work of John Ahlbom overpowers you. Practically everything is hand done, starting with the rock exterior walls. Walls inside are painted floor to ceiling with murals of forests, horses, lakes. Figurines of men and animals, carved out of wood, stand in every corner. The stone fireplace, the 10-foot plastered archway that looks like marble with its colored mortar, the curved, wooden cupboards on the corner, are all the work of an artist, John Ahlbom.

Indeed, John deserves a story in himself. His works are scattered everywhere in Pine County. From the painting of Dr. William Ehmke at the Willow River High School library, to the life-size painting of Jesus Christ at United Methodist Church in Finlayson, from the brick fireplace at the American Legion Hall in Askov to the fireplace at Cassidy’s Restaurant in Hinckley.

But while John left physical tributes to behold, Anny left something equally valuable—a special personality that was partly from the Old Country and mostly from Anny herself.

She and John came from Sweden in 1914, and were married in Pine City that year. “I didn’t understand a thing the justice of the peace was saying,” Anny had said about the ceremony. In fact, the story has it that John coached Anny on the words “I do” over and over. When the time finally came, he told her, “Say yah, say yah!” They had to borrow $2.50 for the license. For their honeymoon, they took a rowboat trip on the Snake River in Pine City.

They moved around for several years, living for a time at the corner where Dwight Dietz now lives. At first, they stayed in a tent insulated with hay. John and Anny would take the bowl of bread dough to bed with them, so that it would rise during the night for the next day’s food. It was at that site about 1916 that the baby twins of John’s brother died. They are buried on the birch knoll to the east of the Dietz farm.

After several moves, John and Anny settled to stay six miles west of Rutledge. There, John built his “Kingdom of the Woods,” as some people called it. They raised five children: Claude, Roy, Alice, Astrid, and Johnny. Claude died when he was 17, in 1933. A frozen pile of sawdust that he was tunneling into collapsed. John, coming home from work, discovered his dead son when he saw the feet sticking out of the pile. Alice died in 1960.

Anny was a vital part of life in the area. She gave birth to all her children at home except the youngest, Johnny, in 1933. He was a breech baby, so they called for Dr. Ehmke and met him in a November blizzard in Rutledge. Anny brought many other children into the world too. She served as midwife for the Romanowski family next door, helping with the births of Agnes, Paul, Bernice, Mary, Marsella, Edwin, and John. Ed now farms that place, and his two sons, Randy and Ronnie, called Anny “Grandma.” She called them her grandsons.

Army’s kindness extended to others. She would make soup during the depression and take it across the road at noon time to the country school, Rhine Lake District 51. She and John also boarded teachers for the school for more than 20 years.

Anny and John also danced well. They won numerous mazurka and waltz contests in the area. Anny told me once, “Men used to whisper in my ear, ‘I love to dance with you.’” I could imagine it.

They loved each other, and weren’t afraid to tell others. John used to talk of the time Anny wanted to go to an auction sale, yet wanted a big supper that evening. So she fixed a chicken and put it in the oven. She carried a bowl of bread dough with her to the auction, and held it in her arms to rise while she watched the sale. When she returned home, the chicken was done, and the bread was ready for the oven.

“You can appreciate a woman like that,” John had said of Anny.

Anny and John also played jokes on one another. One time, Anny told John that the Romanowskis needed help moving a big bed. John went over, and they didn’t know what he was talking about. He came back, and called out “Anny” in such a voice that made Anny smile and hide. She was in a bedroom, scrubbing the floor, so crawled under the bed. John spied her feet protruding, dragged her out, then dunked her head in the bucket of scrub water.

Anny’s greatest loves were gardens and flowers. She would never throw a flower bulb away. In the winter, 200 plants would sit in the house. Son-in-law Basil Serfin remembers the time the flowers needed watering, and Anny ordered him out with the sprinkling can, even though it was raining. She raised gardens big enough for 12 people.

She also worked with her hands. Rug making was her specialty. Her rug loom is now on display at the Pine County Historical Museum in Askov. She would also demonstrate weaving on another loom at the museum.

There’s much more one could say about “Anny-in-the-woods,” as she signed her letters. I think her health was the most remarkable, and a reflection of the wholesome life she led. Anny didn’t even have a doctor. She’d had surgery in 1966, then saw a doctor for a yearly checkup after that. Finally she quit even those once-a-year visits.

Anny’s daughter, Astrid, and her husband, Basil, moved in with Anny two years ago. Astrid took over the cooking, and Anny began spending more time in the lawn chair than in the garden. She became weaker and weaker over the past six months, and began losing weight.

Astrid and Basil took Anny to Mercy Hospital on Thursday, June 6. Anny didn’t want any drugs, or intravenous feeding. No intervention.

“They said ‘It looks like she wants to go, and let’s not hinder it.’ A wonderful way to go,” Basil said. “The body just quit,” her son Roy said.

At 8:30 Monday morning, June 10, Astrid and Basil watched Anny die.

“She just went to sleep. Very painless,” Basil said. “She accepted everybody as they were, strangers and friends alike,” Astrid said.

“And in the end, showed us how to die,” Basil added.

Even in death, the joy of Anny’s life came forth. Anny used to tease that if she raised one finger while she lay in the coffin, that meant she wanted a peanut butter sandwich.

“And we had peanut butter and bread ready,” Basil joked.

She also asked Myrtle Romanowski to place a rose in her hands, to cover up the gnarls of 93 years of life. That wish was granted—Mrs. Romanowski placed the flower there.

I have a feeling that rose is still growing and alive, and that Anny is, too.