Anderson: 6-year-old's death leaves Dad without his hunting pal

A few weeks ago, Hunter Heyrman listened intently at bedtime while his dad read to him. Hunter was only 6 years old. But he was fascinated by birds, ducks in particular, and was amazed by the many species of waterfowl that take wing at sunrise, when he hunted with his dad. Wigeon. Mallards. Teal. All types of ducks. So when his dad read to him about ducks and geese, and taught the boy to identify these birds, Hunter listened intently.

A first-grader at St. Joseph Catholic School in Waconia, and a Cub Scout, Hunter was a friendly, popular boy. His dad played soccer when he was a kid, and Hunter took up the sport as well. But the young boy loved hockey more. The first time he skated he was face down as much as he was upright. But when he came off the ice, he tossed his parents a "thumbs-up," and said, "That was awesome!''

Watching their young son skate that day, Chad and Tara Heyrman of St. Bonifacius couldn't know Hunter wouldn't live to see his seventh birthday. They couldn't know he would die doing what he loved most, being with his dad, outdoors.

No parent wants to imagine these things, and now that the 911 call is behind them, also the ambulance, the visits by friends and family, and the funeral, they want to remember their son for the boy he was. A great boy.

They want others to know their son, too. Because Hunter Heyrman was more than a name in a 12-paragraph story published inside a newspaper. He was their boy. He loved his little sister, Grace. He loved his parents. And especially he loved to fish and hunt with his best friend, his dad.

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When Hunter was born in St. Louis Park on June 8, 2008, his parents hadn't settled on a name. But when they saw him, they agreed it would be Hunter.

Long before he could be trusted with fish hooks, Hunter cast for bass, accompanying his dad in the family boat. There was no explaining the depth of his interest. He simply loved it. His dad clipped treble hooks from crankbaits and tied the hookless lures onto Hunter's line. Then he helped the young boy toss the lures into the water. The boy wanted to cast the way his dad cast. It didn't matter that the lures couldn't catch fish. Sometimes this was on Lake Waconia. Other times on Lake Auburn. Any of the west-metro lakes.

Hunter also fished in winter. His dad kept a fish house on Lake Waconia, and sometimes he and Hunter spent the night there. The occasional walleye bit. But always there were panfish, sunnies mostly, and when the weather cooperated, Hunter and his dad fished outside the house, drilling holes through the ice to see what might take their baits.

These outings weren't about fishing. Not exclusively. Nor was the time Hunter spent lying in cornfields with his dad surrounded by decoys — only about ducks and geese. These were celebrations of common enthusiasms, and were treated as such whether fish were caught, or birds were shot.

Hunter's mom, Tara, doesn't hunt or fish. But her dad, Andy Schoolmeesters, Hunter's grandpa, is a waterfowler. He and Grandma Michelle Schoolmeesters live north of Litchfield, on a farmstead, where country life suits them. Hunter loved nothing more than visiting his grandparents on their home place, where he could run and jump and play, and give his sister rides in the miniature Ford pickup Grandpa bought for him, an F-150 of his own.

If Hunter was the center of attention while he was on the farm, Grandpa and Grandma wanted it that way.

"Grandparents see their grandchildren through their own eyes, of course,'' Andy Schoolmeesters said the other day. "But Hunter was inquisitive. And polite. He would say, 'Excuse me, Grandpa. But I have a question about that.' ''

In this world, news travels fast. A person can live north of Litchfield, far removed from Ebola and ISIS and school shooters near Seattle, but still know about them. As if by tentacles that materialize from nothing, the news finds you where you are, ensnaring you whether you want it to or not.

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But the only news a person truly fears is news that instantly closes the distance between far away and the heart, robbing a person of breath, and wobbling the legs.

That's the kind of news Grandpa and Grandma Schoolmeesters received Oct. 17, a Friday.

That morning, dawn broke overcast north of Litchfield, with a northwest wind at 20 miles per hour, gusting to 27.

The wind was still blowing when the phone rang, and news came that Hunter was gone.

• • •

Now it's early afternoon this past Friday and Chad Heyrman is on the deck of the comfortable home he shares with Tara and Grace.

Hunter's funeral, two days earlier, was attended by all of the students, or nearly all of the students, who each weekday morning climb the steps of St. Joseph Catholic School. The school's teachers were present as well, as were the Heyrmans' extended families and their many friends, an overflow crowd.

The Rev. Gregory Abbott officiated.

Here's how Hunter's obituary read:

"Hunter was a full-of-life 6-year-old who was passionate for everything and everyone. His heart was huge and he led by example. He always wanted to see people happy and didn't like to see anyone sad, left out or feeling out of place.

"He enjoyed Cub Scouts, soccer, hockey, fishing, hunting and cheering for the Packers. Hunter was always active and would hit the floor running. He was a wonderful son and an amazing big brother who had immeasurable love.

"He taught us all to be the best version of ourselves."

Said Chad Heyrman: "People have been very kind and supportive. We received many comforting words at the funeral, and afterward."

But words are only words. And the strain on Chad Heyrman's face suggested that words don't put you to sleep at night. They don't hug you in the morning. And they don't smile at you when you pick them up from school.

Flipping through photos of Hunter he keeps on a laptop, and on his cell phone, Chad Heyrman stopped at one showing his son shooting arrows at a target with a bow he got for his birthday.

Another showed Hunter with two motorized duck decoys he was given for Christmas.

Chad Heyrman smiled.

"He was surprised Santa gave him two decoys, when he had only asked for one. I got him a twin pack.''

Then, pushing a button on his cell phone, Hunter's dad played a video. In it, Hunter talks and talks, and runs and plays.

A kid being a kid.

"I've got a hundred of these,'' Chad Heyrman said, adding:

"I wasn't done teaching him all the things I wanted to teach him. But he wasn't done teaching me, either. About passion. About energy. About kindness. All of that.

"Many kids Hunter's age want to be like their moms or dads, I know that. But for me, it was just the opposite. More and more, I found myself wanting to be like him."

The morning Hunter died, he and his dad were duck hunting. The boy drowned in Parley Lake in Carver County in circumstances that likely couldn't align themselves again in a thousand mornings, or 10,000.

It was an accident.

"You do a lot of reflecting,'' Chad Heyrman said. "How do you continue to do the things by yourself that you loved to share with your son? I've heard guys talk about the same thing after their dads passed away, when for many years before, they had done a lot of hunting and fishing with them.

"I don't know how that will work out.

"I do know Hunter was my best friend.''

Dennis Anderson •

danderson@startribune.com