The Minnesota Farm Woman

Our family had an ice fishing house many years ago. I’m giving a lot of credit here by using the word “house”. It was actually a little tar paper shack, big enough to fit a couple of folding camp stools and a small wood-burning stove which surrounded a hole in the floor, which surrounded a hole drilled into the ice. Even as a kid, I loved to fish, but I loved to drive the snowmobile more, and would go like the wind, staying close to shore and avoiding the spot where the creek met the lake. That spot never quite froze all the way over. I stayed close to shore not because I was told to, but because being on a frozen lake has always given me the heebie-jeebies. In case you didn’t know, even solidly frozen ice on a lake can creak and groan like an old Farm Woman attempting to get out of bed on a cold winter’s morning. My fears also stem from the time that a family friend went ice fishing and the car broke through the ice. Knowing that his car was going down, he tossed his son through the window to safety. Thankfully, all of them survived, but I often wondered if the son, who became one of my best childhood friends, fueled those fears with stories of the adventure. He certainly had earned the bragging rights! I don’t remember if we actually saw the car as it was pulled out of the frozen lake or if I heard the story so many times that it became part of my own memories, but each time I sat in that dark little tar paper shack, I waited to fall through the ice, or at the very least, trip and fall through the hole into the icy water. I even have a hard time watching the iceberg scene in the Titanic movie. You know the one where the frost-covered Leonardo DiCaprio slips off the ‘berg into his cold and watery grave while professing undying love. Heebie-jeebies. These days, things are a lot different in the world of ice fishing. Tar paper shacks are far less common, having been replaced by portable tents or even better, mobile fish houses on wheels, complete with kitchens, couches, and satellite TVs. No half-frozen bologna sandwiches and thermos jugs filled with lukewarm coffee for the modern fisherman or woman. One could probably live for days in a setup like that, but not me. I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink, waiting for the groaning cracking ice to give way. My vivid imagination hasn’t changed much over the years. It is either that or an anxiety disorder. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. HE has started ice fishing this year with a small portable fish house. Of course he chose to start this winter, when I have had foot surgery and am stuck at home in front of the warm fire with nothing to do except worry that he is not home exactly when I think he should be home. The rewards of this worry are delicious, though. There is nothing that tastes quite as good as fresh fish caught in icy cold water. Perhaps next year I will join him and face my fears head-on.

Pictures by Dave Donnelly, photographer and fisherman extraordinaire.

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There isn’t much to do on a Saturday night in a small town, but every so often in our small town there was a wedding dance at the old arena. Since everybody knew everybody around here, the dances were often advertised in the paper and we all went to help the happy couple celebrate. Our arena was a huge cavernous old building that housed a gymnasium and bleachers, the local library and the police station. The gym was used for basketball and roller skating as well as junior proms and wedding dances. When I was 17, a good-looking young man asked me on a date to one of those dances, and I was very eager to go. He must not have been quite as eager as I was, because he was late. Very late. So late, in fact, that I left without him, angry, hurt, and determined to go by myself and have nothing to do with him ever again. When he finally caught up with me, full of apologies and excuses, I kept my nose in the air, arms crossed over my chest, and pouted. For some strange reason, I thought of that long-ago dance last Saturday night, when I was lucky enough to spend the evening with my grandson Max, who is nearly three. After a Curious George marathon he took a bath in a tub filled with soap and cars, which he appropriately calls the “car wash”. I thought he would settle down and go to sleep, but he grabbed his harmonica instead and started to play. He took me by the hand and we danced and stomped around the living room with the exuberance that only a young boy and an old grandmother can have. We held hands and twirled until we fell on the couch, laughing. Once we (me more than him) caught our breath, we started all over again. I didn’t care that the curtains were open and that the neighbors, who might not see the small boy, would wonder why an old woman was stomping and twirling around the living room playing a harmonica. To be honest, neither of us even knows how to play the harmonica, but we made lively music and for a few glorious moments, time stood still. Sometimes, time can be an enemy and sometimes, time can be a friend. It can tear down old arenas until they are no more than memories. It can give you many minutes or hours or days with those you love but can it also turn 17 year-olds into grandmothers in what seems like only the blink of an eye. At that long-ago wedding celebration, I finally stopped pouting and agreed to have just one dance with that good-looking young man. As we walked to the dance floor, the music slowed. Time was my enemy at that moment, because I wanted that dance to go on for ever and always. I guess in a way, it did. HE was a really good dancer, and still is. I hope we’re both around to dance at Max’s wedding. I might even play the harmonica.

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