Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

by David Heiller I pulled the car off the highway and into the familiar driveway. I grabbed my violin case and headed up the driveway that led into the valley. We call it Heiller Valley in our house, because it was in the Heiller family for many years until my grandma sold it to the State of Minnesota in about 1970. I felt a little strange, carrying my fiddle. The last time a fiddle had been transported into that valley was probably before I was born. My grandpa had played one, and he died in 1953. I was more accustomed to carrying a .22 rifle up the familiar path. The 500-acres of land was full of squirrels. It’s a paradise for them, with all those hickory, walnut and oak trees. I spent many fall days hunting there. But the fiddle it was. I had been reading a book by Bobbie Ann Mason called Clear Springs. It’s a fantastic book, a memoir about her childhood in western Kentucky, and how she was affected when she moved away. David and his fiddle. There was a parallel...

David Heiller Mom tried to sound nonchalant with her request. “Come see what I’ve got in the living room.” I walked into that familiar room and couldn’t help smile. A bright little Christmas tree stood on the table near the window. David and Fern In fact, I was a little shocked, because for the first time this Christmas season, I felt Christmas. Something clicked, and there it was, just a thought, “Hey, it’s Christmas!” Mom had gone to Mitchells to wish Doris and Mitch a happy 50th anniversary, and as usually happens when people go visit Doris and Mitch, she hadn’t left empty-handed. But no banjo parts for Mom — they had given her this tree. “It used to be Grandma Heiller’s,” Mom said. That made the tree glow even brighter. Grandma died 20 years ago this November. Her house was always a welcome spot, and never more so than at Christmas. It’s good to have a part of her with us this year in the form of the tree, and good to see it in Mom’s house. Mom was going to go wit...

David Heiller My mother, my wife, and I took a trip to Sherwood and Mohall, in northwestern North Dakota, last week. Mom wanted to visit her aunt Clara, who is in a nursing home in Mohall. An old Schnick photo from North Dakota. David's grandma, Stella is holding the horse on the far right. Aunt Clara is the youngest one in the front of the photo Cindy and I wanted to see Clara too, but more than that we wanted to see where Mom was born and raised. We wanted to get a feel for the place, and we did. Mom took us to Sherwood first. We drove along Highway 28. She was looking for the house where her mother lived. She had stayed there when she was a girl, and rode the school bus to Sherwood. “There’s nothing here now,” she warned. Mom told us again how Grandpa had come out here from Minnesota and worked the harvests. How he met Grandma. She told us lots of stories about the old days on this trip. Trips back home are good for that. You don’t feel so foolish a sking al...

David Heiller The flashers on the front of a deputy’s car made my stomach sink. I was zipping to work, my mind already plotting out the day, when I met the Houston County squad car on the curve below the Robert Snodgrass home on County Road 3. A hilly road, some curves, and a  lovely day. A perfect day to speed, or get caught at it... But for many, including David, a warning does suffice. A quick glance at my speedometer confirmed my midsection’s queasiness. Let’s just say I wasn’t going 55, “Please please please,” I said to myself as I slowed down and kept going. I scanned my rear view mirror for the next mile into town, expect ing to see bright lights blinking in my rear view mirror, but that didn’t happen. The deputy had made his point with the electronic fireworks display from the front of his car. I had slowed down. I had been warned, and I really appreciated that that was all I received. It came in handy the next morning too. There I was, at the ope...