Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller Warning: This column contains graphic language about cold weather, bodily functions, and outhouses. Parental discretion is advised. Those words of caution are issued for my mother, who became so disgusted with my last outhouse column that she couldn’t finish reading it. She stopped just short of flushing it down her indoor model. Noah and Joe were always busy figuring out the world as they knew it.  I am sure that deep discussions on the dinosaur theories  were always bubbling with these two. The outside thermometer read 17-below zero as I headed for the outhouse, in a quick step, Monday morning. That may be balmy for Nickerson folks, but for me, it’s getting cold. Heading for the outhouse, it’s downright arctic. My grandmother once said they used to put rabbit skins down on the outhouse opening mornings like this. I use a piece of styrofoam made for this very purpose. It ’ s quite comfortable if you don’t mind my saying so...

David Heiller    One of the first things my nephew, Collin, asked when he awoke at our house last Saturday morning was if he could ride on my tractor. He remembered doing that last Christmas, which isn’t bad for a three year old. So he climbed up onto my lap on the Oliver 66, and we went careening down County Road 168, Collin steering and me trying not to smile too much. Then a little later, he asked if he could use the outhouse. We have an indoor bathroom, but I still like the outhouse. Maybe Collin’s way of saying thank you for the tractor ride was to pay his respects to my outhouse. Collin, mid-leap So I smiled again and we put on boots and coats and walked between snowbanks to the outhouse. It’s a two-holer, which fascinated Collin. He couldn’t make up his mind, which for some people could be a disaster, myself included. He had to open each cover to make an inspection of the contents. Then he chose the one on the left. Before he sat down, I asked him if h...

David Heiller It was getting dark the other night when I paused from some chores to look at the house. The lights were on in the kitchen and upstairs, and they peered at me like a friendly face, but a wistful one. I know it was my imagination, but the house seemed to wear a sad and crooked smile. I probably did too. “So long old friend,” I said to myself and the night and the old farm house. “You  were my dream.” Can it be 22 years ago that Cindy and I moved here? All our stuff fit in one 17-foot U-Haul truck. We had no kids, no jobs. But we had fallen in love with this house and its 35 acres of wild land in northern Pine County. So we left our teaching jobs and pulled up stakes and got a loan at 17-1/2 percent interest and bought it. I’m not sure why we liked the house so much. It had indoor running water (cold only), but that was about it. A basement with fieldstone walls and a dirt floor. Not even an indoor toilet. It was like walking into the 1930s. Somehow...

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 aga...

David Heiller We got a foot of snow last week, And while it made the fields look sleek, It drifted deep across our yard And digging out was mighty hard. David's beloved outhouse.  It was all we had for many, many years. I dug a path to the garage And to the sauna I dislodged About a half a ton of snow. Then to the woodpile I did go. But there’s one trail that still not done, That used to rank as Number One, And now I feel like a lazy louse: I didn’t shovel out the old outhouse. We got an indoor job last June. I swore I wouldn’t use it soon. “It’s for the wife and kids,” I said. While manly pride filled up my head. But these days when my tea kicks in, I stay inside with guilty grin, And from a big newspaper stack I read the sports page front to back. My words of pride are sounding hollow. And if you ask, I’ll have to swallow Hard and answer straight: The outhouse now don’t seem so great. Oh, that old north win...

David Heiller I’ve been sitting on an outhouse column, so to speak, for several months. That’s because I had seen a want ad in a local paper back then that read: FOR SALE: Outhouse. $150.00. I figured that anyone who is selling his out house must have a story to tell the Askov American. First some background: We have an outhouse at our place. I guess it’s MY outhouse, since I’m the only one who uses it. Cindy hasn’t used it much since last summer, when a garter snake dropped on her. A David-style panorama of our homestead in Sturgeon Lake. (Complete with tape to hold it together) The outhouse is the little white building to the right. We used it exclusively for ten years. At the time of this column, it was David's domain.  Eventually, even he stopped using it when it was cold. Occasionally Mollie will hitch a ride on my back and join me there. It’s a two-holer. But she does this less out of physical need than curiosity, or if she has something urgent...

by David Heiller The call of the bittern almost shook the windows in the house last Friday morning. I stepped onto the deck and looked toward the pond. I couldn’t see anything, so I went back inside and grabbed the binoculars. When the call came again, I was able to zero in on a bird standing on the south side of the pond. He blended in perfectly with the dried grass all around him, two feet tall and very stout. American bittern. I’m saying it was a “he” because I think he was calling for a mate. It was one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen. The call started in his midsection, as if he was gasping for air. Then he puffed out his feathers and stretched out his neck like he was about to throw up. His chest bulged up like a hot air balloon. Then out came this big, wet, hollow call. Glug-Ga-GLUG, Glug-Ga-GLUG, Glug-Ga-GLUG, Glug-Ga-GLUG. It sounded like Paul Bunyan using a plunger in an echo chamber. The nickname of the bird, “slough pumper,” comes from that uniq...

David Heiller I ’ve been sitting on an outhouse column, so to speak, for several months. That’s because I had seen a want ad in a local paper back then that read: FOR SALE: Outhouse $150.00. I figured that anyone who is selling his outhouse must have a story to tell the Askov American. First some background: We have an outhouse at our place. I guess it’s MY outhouse, since I’m the only one who uses it. Cindy hasn’t used it much since last summer, when a garter snake dropped on her. Occasionally Mollie will hitch a ride on my back and join me there. It’s a two-holer. But she does this less out of physical need than curiosity or if she has something urgent that she needs to talk about. Things like how her best friend doesn’t like her anymore, or whether she can watch TGIF on Friday. It was never a pretty outhouse, but the door  faced our field and the view was glorious. (It was extremely rare that anyone ever shut the outhouse door.) Mostly the outhouse is my domain...