Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller We lost a friend on Saturday, a century old friend that we have known for the past six years. When we moved to our homestead in May, 1981, this friend welcomed us. He stood erect to the southwest of the house, leaning over the house towering above us, a full 70 feet. He made us feel at home, just as he made the family of orioles feel at home in their swaying nest our first two summers here. Orioles love elm trees. After the elm was felled, it started snowing.   Noah grabbed an  umbrella  and played  jack-in-the-box in the hollow stump.  The hollow stump held  flowers for many  years  before that too, had to be removed. But the next year, 1984, the orioles did not return. Our elm tree showed us why. A few of the outer limbs had turned brown in June, their leaves shriveling too early in the summer. The orioles weren’t taking any chances. Dutch elm disease had arrived. Still, for the next two summers, the elm...

David Heiller We picked apples on Saturday, I’m not sure what kind they are. They are soft and early. When you cut into them, they turn brown before your eyes. But boy do they make good applesauce. Just ask Cindy. 1983: Our apple tree and I were both in full bloom! Every year I bring in two five gallon buckets of these big apples into the kitchen. Every year she groans like Atlas. And every year she makes the world’s best applesauce. It starts with the picking. This year Noah and his friend, Ryan helped me. They climbed the step ladder and reached what they could. Then I climbed and reached what I could. I tossed them down to the boys, who put them in the buckets. Since it was Ryan’s first time picking apples with us, he got to hear my only apple joke. It’s an old joke, passed down from the beginning of time. ADAM: “What’s worse than biting into an apple and seeing a worm?” EVE: “Biting into an apple and seeing half a worm.” I told the boys about picking ap...

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 pl...

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 ...

David Heiller Wrapping "Baby Tato" in it's blanket  (a napkin), rocking it to sleep. Children go through streaks where they have favorite things, at least mine do. For awhile, Malika had her Baby ‘Tato", a huge spud that she carried around and even slept with until it started getting a little gamey. Now she has a pink elephant pajama bag that was given to Noah before she was born. We dug it out of the closet a month ago, brand new, but instead of stuffing it with pajamas and hanging it by her bedside, she brings it to bed with her. Noah has his tiger, a fancy molded piece of hard rubber, painted fiercely, with sharp teeth. It says “Made in Hong Kong on the stomach. He brings the tiger with him on car trips, to the beach, to the day care, and to bed. It is his security blanket. They also have a favorite television show, which we made the mistake of taping for them. VCRs are a great investment. I hope ours works for the All Star game. But they can ha...

David Heiller   Rain fell Sunday afternoon. It splashed off our garden beds at first, raising a dust storm for the bees and ants. Then it settled the dust and ran off the beds and finally soaked in. Malika, always moving to the next adventure. I stood in the doorway with my two children. They had been lobbying during the past hour for a trip to the park. I had been urging a compromise walk down the road. Their expressions as they looked at the rain fall outside the screen door reflected the overcast sky. “Now we can go to the park after the rain?” Noah asked. “Pahk atta rain?” Malika echoed. “Well, it’s pretty wet there,” I said uneasily. “Maybe we should stay home, then go tomorrow when it’s done raining.” I knew tomorrow would be better, what with their grandmother here for a visit. Malika pushed past Noah as I opened the door to breath in the late afternoon air. The rain was letting up, after just an hour. We needed more, the garden and hayfields needed more,...

David Heiller There are few words more frightening in the human tongue than the voice of a two-year-old from the bathroom late at night saying, “I need someone to clean up my mess.” So Cindy and I sat up in unison when we heard Malika call out from the bathroom at 10 o’clock Sunday night: “I need someone to clean up my mess.” Earlier on that hot day we celebrated Noah and Malika's birthdays. We were sitting in the kitchen playing “Rummikub” with Cindy’s mother when the words came. We didn’t expect them, because any upstairs creaking had been muffled by a large fan that hummed by the table. We hadn’t checked on Malika or Noah for half an hour. The last time, it was black magic marker on her wall, doll, and pillow. The time before that, it was green felt-tipped pen on her legs. As Cindy and I looked at each other, we both wondered, “What color is it this time?” After a couple minutes of debate, I stood up from the kitchen table to see what Mollie’s mess was this ti...

by David Heiller Noah came out of the house on Sunday eve ning carrying a baseball and two gloves, and I was reminded once again why spring is my favorite season. David and the kids. I got up from weeding the garden and walked over. He tossed me my glove. It was flat and soft and to my vivid imagination, almost eager for my touch. We walked to our favorite spot for playing catch, he at one end of the driveway and me at the other. We tossed the ball back and forth. I said to keep it high so I could see it against the sky. My right eye is still healing from a cornea transplant, and I can’t see very well from it yet. We talked about a lot of things, both trivial and profound. It’s funny how doing a familiar activity like playing catch can unplug the conversational sink. It isn’t always that easy getting a 17-year-old boy — or a 47-year-old man — to do that. But give a guy a ball and glove and he will sing like a canary. She's just his daughter . And on all kinds...