The silence of the late January morning wasn’t strange to him. James left his house on top of the hill he and his older sister Ginny had sledded down every winter while they were growing up. The same hill they walked down on their way to the school bus and then climbed to get back home. The view from the hill was spectacular, no matter what time of year, and looking down upon the Wolf River basin, they could see three different communities. The variety of trees with their different shapes and twists was constantly changing and gave a different perspective with
each season. The silence was not uncomfortable, but James preferred the sounds of a distant truck’s engine or a least the calls from a murder of crows. This morning was his late father’s birthday, which added to the silence. James had lost his father 10 years prior when he fell through early ice while fishing for walleyes on the slew waters of the Wolf River. To break the silence, James sang Happy Birthday to his father, then chuckled to himself, thinking about a tree falling in the forest and no one there.
His solitude only bothered him once in a while. All his people had passed except Ginny’s kids. His niece and nephew were both married and lived a couple hundred miles away. He found the brag letters filled with family vacations, job promotions and the unsigned Christmas cards obtuse
but not as insensitive as a text or voice-mail proclaiming love and the desire to get together. Nothing but air intentions, making the senders feel better about their inactive relationship. No holiday invitations, no visits or even phone calls. James tried to chalk it up to generational attributes, but he knew better; it was a more straightforward rationalization. Though he was their only living relative, James had spent too much energy reflecting on whether he had done or said anything that would have caused such behavior. “It is what it is,” his deceased sister and their mother would say about things not in their control. James wondered what had happened to his niece and nephew growing up to make them so distant. Their mother, Ginny, had been very close to James. Most weekends were spent on the farm. Sunday meals and family gatherings were familiar traditions. It was usual to have everyone there: big meals, family games that never
became competitive, always with both his niece and nephew in mind because of their lack of a male figure. Their father had transplanted his life out west without any interest in being part of his children’s lives. Just gone one day. For everyone except the children, it was a blessing.
“Greatest Generation, my ass!” was what his father Jim would say about his generation’s perception of themselves. Did we forget the soup lines and poverty of the depression? Did we forget the bigotry and small-minded attitude toward people different than ourselves? Did we forget the imprisoned innocent Japanese American citizens? “We helped win a war. Nothing glorious or romantic about war, killing and hate.” Jim had served in the 82nd Army Airborne and parachuted behind France’s German lines during World War II. No stories. No remembrance. Jim wanted nothing to do with remembering that time in his life. He believed that his generation may have stopped Hitler, but they had also brought him to power. Jim hated the word “hero” being used so quickly. “I have seen heroes, and most men are not; they are human and scared, as they should be.”
James loved hearing old friends of his father say, “You’re a lot like your old man.” It made him proud that his father instilled in him the ability to be highly pragmatic and not lean on social hysteria. To never be the judge and jury in any situation. His father, Jim, was never a religious man, but to James, he was the most virtuous man he ever knew. James would like to tell the story of when his family was out to eat at a restaurant 30 miles from home, and when the family returned, Jim realized that he had not left the waiter a tip. He immediately drove the 30 miles back and gave the young man a large tip and an apology. Those types of stories about his fatherwere endless.
The farm hadn’t had cows since the late ‘70s. James’ mother had passed, and the farm had been handed down through her family. Jim milked because he adored his wife and her people. When she was gone, so was that inner drive that all dairy farmers had to survive. The work ethic on
steroids was gone. Cows were sold, and fields were rented out to neighbors. No consideration was given if the children would like to farm someday. “There are better ways to make a buck,” was Jim’s mantra.
James climbed into his truck to head into the local cafe for breakfast and his daily dose of human interaction. While making his way down the long driveway, he was again reminded of his father when he saw the small wooden stile built over the barbed wire fence. This was a wooded triangle ladder so his father could cross the 40 acres to visit their neighbor, the widow Johnson, without his truck being in her driveway and giving notice to all the snoopy neighbors. His father never talked about it, but James and his sister Ginny thought it was nice that their father had a female friend to spend time with, even though the two lonely neighbors tried too hard to keep it a secret. Dinner once a week and even breakfast now and then. James and Ginny tried to kid their father about the meetings, but Jim found no humor or had no need to share any of it with his children or grandchildren.
In reflection, James loved the years after Ginny and the kids had moved back into the farmhouse. Everything was cleaner and more organized, and the sounds of his niece and nephew in the house brought fullness. The constant singing of the hardwood floors with all the shuffling feet. Watching the kids evolve physically and emotionally made James appreciate his childhood and better understand the enormity of time. It softened the hard edge of his father, giving him joy.
James could see it in his father’s eyes when they would tell him what they had learned in school and what they wanted to be when they grew up, when they discovered something new and asked their grandfather to explain it. Nothing compared to those springs when all of them would tap the maple trees and, as a family, collect and boil what Jim called “Liquid Love.” This time was magic for the family. Never tedious, never considered time-consuming, just a rhythm and flow that left all in a good place.
James, his father and his niece and nephew were blindsided by the rapid demise of Ginny. Type 2 Diabetes had ravaged her the last few years. They had been oblivious as Ginny was not much about complaining or taking time to care for herself; she just took care of everyone else. All James could think about with her passing were the times when they were sledding on the hill, Ginny being so mad at him for something, but the long, tedious climb back up the hill was when they connected, communicated, and when they would arrive back the top for another run down the hill, all was good. He so wanted one more climb. What were all of them going to do without her? Ginny had stepped into so many roles. Taking over for their Mother and her estranged husband. What were they going to do?
James could feel the disorder in their world even during the orderly perception of the receiving line at the visitation for his sister. The receiving line made him want to scream and run out of the building. At times, the words coming out of people’s mouths blended into a soft hum. The suit he was wearing barely fit, and the last time he had it on was at his mothers’ funeral. He imagined it as a suit of armor that helped him stay the course in the line of friends, neighbors and lonely people that showed up to show support and, for a few acquaintances, to get a ham sandwich. The free lunch people didn’t bother James or his father. The church ladies were quick to point them out, but his father would say these people were at least honest about their needs.
It was obvious that neither Jim nor James dressed up much, and with Ginny not directing them, there was no one to tell them that things didn’t fit or didn’t match. Jim’s dress clothes were high-water black pants that hadn’t been pressed in years, white socks, and brown wingtip shoes. A Hawaiian tie was given to him by his grandkids years earlier as a Christmas gift. He had no suit coat, and his dress shirt sleeves were rolled up as if he was ready for some task. James could see how mismatched his father was, but he had no energy to correct it.
Ginny’s adolescent children sat in front during the visitation without indicating their grief or emotion, simply nodding and occasionally smiling at the people giving them their condolences. Their indifference bothered James; as always, his father put it in perspective for him: “Those two are in between two places and not sure where they are physically and mentally.” “Patience, they are being what they should be at their age.” James still would have prefered them to cry and show more of the pain he knew was inside them.
James could feel the change in his father after the funeral. His physical presence seemed to be catching up with his age. He wasn’t sitting up straight at the kitchen table, he leaned against things when he stood too long, but most of all, his new reply to many questions was “No matter to me.” James, for the first time, saw the other side of the man he had admired his whole life. Jim had been emotionally drained of life itself. Losing his daughter was a weight that pulled him down, and he couldn’t rise above life’s hits anymore. Jim spent most of his time alone. No more visits to the widow Johnson’s, no interest in family Sundays. He fished alone, cut wood and went to bed early to avoid conversations.
The backwater of the Wolf River is like stepping into a different world. In the summer, you might think you were in the Everglades. A fantastic number of birds make it their seasonal home, raising a cacophony of calls. The warm water moves slowly, giving a perfect environment for mosses, tag alders and willow trees. The winter bleakly opens the vista of the silent slough, revealing the skeletons of twisted and fallen trees hung with frozen moss. In late spring, the ice recedes and thins, sandhill cranes and blackbirds return, and the walleyes begin to move in to spawn.
Jim loved the solitude he found ice fishing in the early morning on the late ice of the slough. No one driving on the ice. The weekend yahoos were at work, leaving the slough as it should be, the river moving slow beneath the ice, quiet, and, for Jim, it was a place where he could shut off the valve of so many thoughts and emotions. Jim loved to minimize what he brought with him to make the mile or so hike into the slough to his favorite spot easier. Not the best place for catching fish, but the best place to watch the morning sun sneak through the trees, giving Jim a comforting feeling. His reflections there would be on his childhood, his wonderful wife and marriage, and his two children. Gone were things he’d seen and participated in during the war, his wife’s passing, and now his little girl; none of that was allowed when he was fishing.
The morning went by fast with just enough action to occasionally raise Jim’s Blood pressure and excitement. That familiar feeling of catching a fish had remained with him since childhood. Packing up and heading towards the boat landing, he heard a truck driving away. He wasn’t sure who else had been on the ice that morning. Taking in the warmth of the midmorning sun and seeing the maples making up the tree line on the road, Jim thought maybe he would get all the buckets out and begin tapping trees when he got home. He was feeling better after his time on the ice, and maybe James and the grandchildren could make some liquid love to start the spring out and a new beginning.
The feeling of quickly falling was a familiar recall of the first jump out of an airplane at Fort Benning, Georgia. The cold water wasn’t a reality at first. His first thought when entering the water was his denial of the risk of fishing late ice. He felt stupid for not heeding the voice that told him this was a possibility; now, here he was.
Shaking off the shock, Jim’s pragmatic self kicked in; he had to stay calm and think his way out of this deadly situation. He had framing nails in the pockets of his coat. His father had taught him that he should never venture out on the ice without them. Jim seemed to be floating, and he wasn’t sure why. Didn’t matter. He removed his gloves and found the nails he had in his coat. With one in each hand, he reached out and drove the nails into the ice. He tried to pull himself up and out of the ice with all his strength, but the nails just dragged feeble furrows in the ice. The mid-morning sun had softened the ice, creating a honeycomb with no purchase for the nails. Kicking his legs hard to get his body level, he pounded the ice again and again.
As Jim grew exhausted, the cold began to make its way into his body and, worse, his head. Jim knew he was alone but decided to holler for help anyway. He thought about a tree falling in the forest. He screamed “Help,” knowing the total futility. This was it. Jim thought of his brothers in arms in the war and how many of them had left in such horrific ways. Jim waited for his life to pass before his eyes, but all he could think about was what he had done with the spiles for the maple trees. He remembered cleaning them, but for his life, he couldn’t remember where he put them.
One more stab at the ice, one last kick.
James entered the cafe from the alley, through the kitchen, and then into the dining area. This had been his entrance since junior high school. His first job was washing dishes and busing tables after school and during summer vacation. It was like a private club, entering from the
alley. Only employees and old employees were given the honor. It had been over 40 years since he worked there, but the passage was still open to him. Upon entrance, he was always taken back to that time. The same smells of eggs and bacon on the grill, onions being chopped for the lunch
soups, and the best scent of warm apple pies just out of the oven. James sat at the counter. A great place to be alone, but not. He looked over to the corner table that soon would be filled with his friends, the local retirees, but he wasn’t in the mood to share his feelings or where he was headed this January morning.
“Two over easy, sausage patties, whole wheat toast, and hashbrowns,” Jim replied to the look the waitress gave him over the top of her readers. She laughed, then shouted to the cook, “James is here.” The cook shouted back, “I’m not blind!” James so enjoyed the wordless communication
and banter between the staff. 40 years: different people, same behavior. This is where he learned so many things growing up. His first cigarette, his first love, his first heartbreak. The waitress always had his back and his respect. There is nothing better than a cafe waitress with the same
daily attitude, the same satirical humor, often misunderstood as sarcasm. James watched the staff multitask, owning the room and anyone who ventured into their space.
“To what do we owe this honor, James? Hardly seen you this year for Chrissake!” the waitress quipped out of the side of her mouth as she scurried by with another customer’s breakfast. When she returned, James replied, “Only been 20 some days this year so far! You trying to woo me for
a bigger tip this morning?” James continued, to his own surprise, telling her he was in town to take care of family business at the attorney’s office. After blurting it out, he turned to a corner table to ensure his friends, the local retirees, hadn’t yet arrived. The waitress saw him check and
said, “No worries, James, even if they were here, they’re all deaf as hell.” They laughed. On his way out the alley door, the waitress said, “Hey, James, you can’t pick your family.” James smiled and walked into the alley.
The photos of five generations of Heft family attorneys, going all the way back to the 1800s, hung on the wall. The photos were taken in front of the same carved maple desk. Black and white images of stoic, emotionless men with the same last name and the same look of indifference toward the photographer, the complete opposite of stoic. The Heft family lawyers
were all brilliant, kind and empathetic. Good citizens who loved their family, the outdoors, their community and most of all, any snatch of humor. Not one Heft had ever run for political office, and it was an opportunity they viewed as self-serving and not in the best interest of family or
community. James’s father loved that people from the community could never tell what side politically they were on. They donated no money, belonged to no party but voted in every election. James’s father would say of the Hefts, “If you don’t like the Hefts, there must be something wrong with you.” The stories of philanthropy and acts of kindness were legendary.
Thomas Heft sat forward in his chair, tapping his pen on the table in a manner that would make most people a bit nervous. He would stop tapping when turning the page from the letter, look up, and smile at James. “Well, James, you have nothing to worry about. This is just a request to
separate or sell the farm. They know what was stated in your father’s will. You have been generous with logging profits and field rentals. I’m not sure what your niece and nephew are up to, but again you have nothing to worry about as long as the taxes are paid. James looked down at his boot. He was pleased with the cleaning he had given them the day before. He said, “These are my sister Ginny’s children. I loved my sister, and this is what I want to do. Send them a letter telling them that if they waited ‘til I died, they would get the whole farm, but if they wish to
claim their half now, they need to come for five days this spring during the run, and I will put the farm up for sale after one last collection and boil if they participate.
Thomas asked, “James, maybe you want to think about this a little bit.”
“No, sir. It’s my father’s birthday, and he loved those kids, and if they need the money or whatever the reason …it is what it is”
James entered the cafe from the alley, through the kitchen, and then into the dining area. This had been his entrance since junior high school. His first job was washing dishes and busing tables after school and during summer vacation. It was like a private club, entering from the
alley. Only employees and old employees were given the honor. It had been over 40 years since he worked there, but the passage was still open to him. Upon entrance, he was always taken back to that time. The same smells of eggs and bacon on the grill, onions being chopped for the lunch
soups, and the best scent of warm apple pies just out of the oven. James sat at the counter. A great place to be alone, but not. He looked over to the corner table that soon would be filled with his friends, the local retirees, but he wasn’t in the mood to share his feelings or where he was headed this January morning.
“Two over easy, sausage patties, whole wheat toast, and hashbrowns,” Jim replied to the look the waitress gave him over the top of her readers. She laughed, then shouted to the cook, “James is here.” The cook shouted back, “I’m not blind!” James so enjoyed the wordless communication
and banter between the staff. 40 years: different people, same behavior. This is where he learned so many things growing up. His first cigarette, his first love, his first heartbreak. The waitress always had his back and his respect. There is nothing better than a cafe waitress with the same
daily attitude, the same satirical humor, often misunderstood as sarcasm. James watched the staff multitask, owning the room and anyone who ventured into their space.
“To what do we owe this honor, James? Hardly seen you this year for Chrissake!” the waitress quipped out of the side of her mouth as she scurried by with another customer’s breakfast. When she returned, James replied, “Only been 20 some days this year so far! You trying to woo me for
a bigger tip this morning?” James continued, to his own surprise, telling her he was in town to take care of family business at the attorney’s office. After blurting it out, he turned to a corner table to ensure his friends, the local retirees, hadn’t yet arrived. The waitress saw him check and
said, “No worries, James, even if they were here, they’re all deaf as hell.” They laughed. On his way out the alley door, the waitress said, “Hey, James, you can’t pick your family.” James smiled and walked into the alley.
The photos of five generations of Heft family attorneys, going all the way back to the 1800s, hung on the wall. The photos were taken in front of the same carved maple desk. Black and white images of stoic, emotionless men with the same last name and the same look of indifference toward the photographer, the complete opposite of stoic. The Heft family lawyers
were all brilliant, kind and empathetic. Good citizens who loved their family, the outdoors, their community and most of all, any snatch of humor. Not one Heft had ever run for political office, and it was an opportunity they viewed as self-serving and not in the best interest of family or
community. James’s father loved that people from the community could never tell what side politically they were on. They donated no money, belonged to no party but voted in every election. James’s father would say of the Hefts, “If you don’t like the Hefts, there must be something wrong with you.” The stories of philanthropy and acts of kindness were legendary.
Thomas Heft sat forward in his chair, tapping his pen on the table in a manner that would make most people a bit nervous. He would stop tapping when turning the page from the letter, look up, and smile at James. “Well, James, you have nothing to worry about. This is just a request to
separate or sell the farm. They know what was stated in your father’s will. You have been generous with logging profits and field rentals. I’m not sure what your niece and nephew are up to, but again you have nothing to worry about as long as the taxes are paid. James looked down at his boot. He was pleased with the cleaning he had given them the day before. He said, “These are my sister Ginny’s children. I loved my sister, and this is what I want to do. Send them a letter telling them that if they waited ‘til I died, they would get the whole farm, but if they wish to
claim their half now, they need to come for five days this spring during the run, and I will put the farm up for sale after one last collection and boil if they participate.
Thomas asked, “James, maybe you want to think about this a little bit.”
“No, sir. It’s my father’s birthday, and he loved those kids, and if they need the money or whatever the reason …it is what it is”
The sandhill cranes arrived, full of boisterous and poetic conversations. James enjoyed the return of the birds as they filled the silence from a long winter. Huge flakes of spring snow seemed to take forever to hit the ground and disappear, as if the sky was tired of this type of precipitation
and wanted something new. The sun was beginning to sneak through the clouds, and there was no doubt that spring was here. Temperatures would reach mid-50’s today, and it was time to tap the maple trees.
James had found the spiles in a plastic Fleet Farm bucket his father had placed in the pantry before passing eleven years earlier and had moved them to a corner of the woodshed where they had remained until that spring morning. He took them out of the bucket and cleaned and inspected
them individually. James only found one where the hook for the collection bucket was bent and unusable. He hiked to the woods to check the sugar shack and the covered wood pile his father had stacked eleven years ago. The shack was run down and had become home to a band of marauding red squirrels that laid waste to every corner of the interior. James found it funny and justified due to his lack of nurturing the shack since his father passed. He was amazed at the perfection in his father’s wood pile. After eleven years, the lack of rot in the wood because of the tight, methodical stacking was a testament to how his father navigated his life.
James had watched the weather report the week prior and left messages with his niece and nephews, informing them that the trees were ready to be tapped. These were the same kids he had taught how to shortsheet a bed and who had listened to his endless knock-knock
jokes. He wanted to leave a funny message but stopped when he realized they no longer knew each other. Jim shook off a moment of sadness, knowing he had tried repeatedly to maintain a relationship with them, always leaving the door open. Sadness served no purpose. He was
committed to harvesting the liquid love, something he could control.
Perfect morning for tapping trees. James pulled the bucket of spiles and metal collection buckets on the Flexible Flyer sled that he used to speed down the hill on the farm as a child. James had received the sled for Christmas. He had asked for a racy plastic saucer, but his father had bought the Flexible Flyer, telling him it would last longer if cared for. It was cold enough that the sled made it quickly through the snow and ice left on the ground between the tall maples. Looking up at the blue, optimistic sky through the crowns of the maple trees, it was as if they were asking James where he had been and welcoming his return. James used a battery-operated drill to bore the holes instead of his grandfather’s hand drill with no guilt. He thought of what his father would say when people complained about new things or technology, “I’m not Amish, are you?”
James had no idea how old the wooden mallet to drive the spiles into the maples was or how many of his relatives had used it. Forty maples tapped and collection buckets hanging, the harvest had begun.
The following day, James made his way to the grove of maples. Each step and each breath he took was one of gratitude. He was now 63 and retired. He still could move and enjoy the simplicity of his existence. He had fallen in love twice, and neither relationship worked. He had good friends he knew he could count on, and they had proven that to each other over the
years. He missed his sister and parents and found living in the house he grew up in comforting. Daily he could feel the happiness and joy of his life with his family. Sadness served no purpose.
His thoughts of gratitude were interrupted by the sounds of an engine working its way through the snow and ice. The Polaris side-by-side was being driven by Thomas Heft. With him were his twin 8-year-old
daughters with matching turquoise snow suits and matching smiles. When they pulled up next to James. Thomas said, “We were having pancakes, and the girls asked about maple syrup, and, well, here we are.” James laughed and replied, “I’ll give you the grand tour.” One of the girls
blurted out, “We want to help, we brought lunch, and Papa brought beer!” “You’re hired!”replied James.
Just before noon, it reached 55 degrees. The girls took turns pulling the sled, and James and their father poured the sap into the large pan and tended to the fire. James heard some distant doors closing and muttered conversations. Suddenly he saw four men approaching, two holding each
side of a cooler and the other two with their arms full of folding lawn chairs. It was his friends, and when they got up to the fire, they all laughed, and one said, “We were advised to come here this afternoon for a conference on safety by the She Boss waitress from the café.” He opened the cooler. She had sent along chili, bread, five different types of muffins, and a note with just a smile face on it and a heart; one of his friends said immediately, “We didn’t write that note.”
Laughter was bountiful in the woods that day, giving the sandhills a run for their money in the neighborhood clamor, and like musical chairs, the men maneuvered from lawn chair to lawn chair to escape the direction of the slight wind pushing the smoke. Certain words were left out of the stories of youthful escapades, ditties, and limericks because of the young ladies present. The twins were intrigued with the sugar shack and rearranged the red squirrel’s motif to their 8-year-old specifications. No mention was made of James’ niece and nephew. James was disappointed more for his sister than for himself for their no-show, but in his heart, he knew that someday they would have their own good memories, and if not, he looked around at the people and savored the overwhelming comfort he was feeling. Memories were being made, caring and being cared for marked the day, and sadness served no purpose.
The End
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