View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

It’s early morning and I am sitting on our deck watching the lake. Early fall is my favorite time of the year. The lake is quiet. Not even a fishing boat around and I am listening to the squeals of the sea gulls and terns. It reminds me of my childhood paradise of Bjørholmen at the very tip of southern Norway where my grandparents had built a cabin and where I spent my summers.

Then, I hear the call of a loon. The sound defies description. Loon researchers call this sound the wail. I think of it as magical and beautiful. It has a peaceful quality and I feel the peace that passes all understanding envelop me. Scientists have postulated that the wail is a call to other loons.  Another common loon sound is called the tremolo, which sounds like a quavering laugh. I read that this sound, often heard in late spring and early summer, is an attention getting sound, often accompanied by vertical posturing, spread wings as the loon rushes across the water. The tremolo and the posturing are meant to divert dangers away from a loon nest. Loons have been seen nesting on the third island of Lake Koronis, which is a bird sanctuary of sorts.   

The loon not only has the most beautiful of songs, but looks amazing with its jet-black head, checkerboard back and wings, ivory necklace and red eyes. But in the fall, their color changes to muted greys and they often congregate in groups in our little bay. I can still tell they are loons, though, through their shape, how they dive and also their calls. Before the ice forms, they are gone, like all the other seabirds.

As it sit here contemplating the loons and feeling peaceful, I am remembering, with a sudden burst of overwhelming compassion and grief, my dear neighbor Connie. She and I would often sit together and watch the loons. Sometimes we would talk, but we were mostly quiet, letting the miracle of nature fill us with awe. My dear Connie, who had such a very hard life. She would bear the unbearable in silence. I knew what had happened next door, but we never spoke of it.

Eighteen years ago, Labor Day weekend, my son, Erland, with family and friends were enjoying the last days of summer at our cabin. It was the custom of Connie’s family, like so many other neighbors, to take the boats and dock out of the lake that weekend every year. They had a four-wheeler, operated by their son, Chris, to help with taking out the dock. Next to the lake, Ted, Connie’s husband, had constructed a small retaining wall with meticulously placed rocks on the lake side. Chris had just started the four-wheeler when he needed to get something. He had left it running by the retaining wall. Riley, their 5 year old grandson was also there. He and Ted were inside the cabin holding hands as they went upstairs to fetch a toy. Connie was in the kitchen making breakfast. Suddenly, Riley let go of Ted’s hand, ran outside and climbed on the four-wheeler. Somehow he managed to unlock the brakes. The four-wheeler tipped over on the rocks and killed Riley instantly. It happened so suddenly. There was nothing anybody would do to take those few seconds back.

Two years later, Chris committed suicide. Not long after that, Ted died of a heart attack. But Connie lived on somehow. She had two daughters and nine other grandchildren. She still sometimes came to her cabin, but I only saw her family there once. She would sometimes come with a friend, but most often alone. When Connie was at her cabin alone, we would seek each other out. Then, we would sit quietly together, sometimes holding hands and gaze at the loons whose wails rang out over beautiful Lake Koronis.