David Heiller
Argus News Editor

I have a couple images of my uncle Donny that will stay with me forever.

One is quite old. My brother Danny and I were sitting on top of a hay rack stacked five high, watching Donny pull us on his trusty Ford tractor across the field and toward the barn. There was one spot where the road went perilously close to the ditch. My brother and I got ready to jump off on the safe side if Donny got too close and the wagon tipped. But that didn't happen, and Donny seemed oblivious to our concerns, jostling around on the tractor far below us, although knowing Donny, he was smiling the whole time.

A little later we took a water break, and Donny passed me the jug with the news that it was filled with 7-Up. Wow, 7-Up on the farm, now that was living! I took a big swig and discovered to Donnyís delight that it was just plain water, and warm at that. I had to laugh with him though, he was that kind of guy. He always had a trick up his sleeve, or an observation that would crack me up.

That kind of summed Donny up for me. He was a hard worker who plugged away on a tough farm nestled into the hills south of Brownsville. He had a hard life, and a lot of physical ailments. His farm was as unprofitable as it was beautiful. But he never lost his sense of humor, he never let the farm defeat him.

The other image came just a few years ago. I had been hunting on his ìnewî farm in Mayville Township. He and Lillian had moved there in 1967. He told me once that his milk checks had gone up right away as a result of the better land, better feed and forage. And he didnít struggle with those scary hay rides along ditches and down hills.

Donnyís old farm is a paradise that all citizens of Minnesota own now. But his next one is also about as glorious a parcel of land you will ever see. The woods are full of huge trees that Donny refused to have logged, even though loggers asked him about it every day, or so he said.

It was a late fall afternoon about five years ago, and winter was in the air a bit. I found Donny in the yard, taking a break from his endless chores. Donny was a worker, and even then at age 73 he was probably in better shape than his 45-year-old nephew.

I canít remember what we started talking about, but the conversation turned toward how long he would live on the farm. He said that he and Lillian had talked about moving to town. I said that made sense in a lot of ways. Donny listened politely ñ he wasnít one to interrupt ñ then he told me why he would never leave the farm. I canít remember his exact words, something like he had all he needed at the farm, and he wouldnít be any happier just because he was in the big city of Caledonia.

His words made so much sense, and were spoken with such conviction, that I never even thought of raising that dumb question again.

Many people are connected to the land in a vague sort of way that they canít put their finger on. They get strength from it, but they can leave it and return to it and that is enough.

It was more than that for Donny. He was tied to it in a way that only farmers who have spent their whole life on a farm can be tied. Not in a burdensome way either, but one that is in their blood, that comes from all those struggles and victories.

What Donny spoke to me that afternoon conveyed the fact that if he ever left the farm, it would kill him, perhaps not physically, not right away, but it would change who he was to the point that he would not be Donny Heiller anymore. He knew that about himself.

So when Donny died last week, ìwith his boots on,î as his obituary says, it was a sad day indeed, and a tragic one. But Donny dying on his farm was exactly what he would have wanted

That fact will stick with me for the rest of my life, along with all the other things that made him such a fine man.

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