When I moved to Minnesota at about 30 years old, I can guaran-darn-tee you that this tender California girl was a duck out of water. I was totally unprepared for the realities of living in a state that prides itself on its -40 degree weather. It was only by the Lord’s hand that I did not perish in the first two weeks buried butt up in the snow. That could have happened, but my husband was hungry for dinner and he came looking for me. Thank God for that hearty Midwestern appetite!
I thought I was prepared for the change in climate and culture, but I’m telling you…I was clueless on both fronts. We moved to Minnesota in the dead of winter. That was mistake number one. Moving into a rental house with no attached garage while we looked for our perfect home was mistake number two. I hadn’t thought about warming up the truck prior to going out on errands with my year-and-a-half old son, Chris, and my husband in his infinite wisdom felt a .22 rifle was a more important purchase than an automatic car starter. But, to his credit he did reminded me before he left for work to warm up the truck about 15 minutes prior to leaving to go anywhere. Did I listen? Do bears refrain from you-know-what’ing in the forest? Why would I do that? So, on my first foray into the frozen tundra, Chris and I both sat in a frozen truck crying as we waited for the engine to warm up enough to move out of the garage. I couldn’t feel my toes or nose and poor Chris had snot frozen to his upper lip. I thought he would be warm as I bundled him in his spanking new snow suit and some kind of wool hat that made him look like a demented court jester. Unfortunately, the snow suit was three sizes too big. Apparently all snow suits that would actually fit a toddler were sold in July, so by January, all you are left with are snow suits that would fit an adult dwarf. Excuse me…adult little person. Hey, listen, I know I lost my “Mother of the Year” award that day, but at least I went to Kmart and made the attempt to outfit the kid, right? Come on, give me a break here, do YOU know where to find a snow suit in southern California? It's like Sasquatch...until it is in your hands or hanging in your closet, it don't exist.
I thought about returning to the house and letting the car warm up, but that really wasn’t an option because it nearly killed both of us getting to the car to begin with! The snow was thigh-high and I was holding Chris in my arms, or over my head pushing through mounds of the newly fallen snow just to get to the garage. Once I got there, I had to put him down somewhere, and I think I completely lost sight of him in a snow bank for a minute or so while I tried to figure out how to open an ancient garage door that was nearly frozen to the ground. Once I got it open, I dug Chris out, and we proceeded to the truck. I'm wondering at this point if anyone in this state knew about automatic garage door openers? I mean seriously folks, they are sold all over the%*# state! I was cursing every native son in Minnesota that day! I was beginning to see how these people become so dang hardy. It has to do with the fact that you get hardy or die! I thought it would be just my luck to die behind the wheel and never leave the garage.
So, as I’m busy acclimating to the frozen tundra, exchanging my pretty high heeled pumps for mukluks and my double breasted wool jacket for a parka, my husband announces that he is going to go ice fishing with the relatives. Ok, this is a new concept, this ice fishing thing. Explain ice fishing to me. Apparently it has something to do with packing up an inordinate amount of supplies, bundling into ten layers of clothing, leaving at a ridiculous hour of the morning to travel out to the middle of a frozen lake, drill a hole in the ice and then stare at it until you see a fish swim by, then you try to catch it. In between all this staring, copious amounts of beer and football are consumed while you sit in an “ice house” the size of an outhouse. I think I just described to all females the equivalent of ripping out our uterus without anesthesia. I mean, really! Who could find this enjoyable? I know there are a few hardy women out there who swear they love ice fishing, and to them I say that is all fine and dandy. Go ahead and fit in your love of ice fishing between your hide-tanning and jerky-making, but as for me, I’ll be at the nail salon.
I thought about returning to the house and letting the car warm up, but that really wasn’t an option because it nearly killed both of us getting to the car to begin with! The snow was thigh-high and I was holding Chris in my arms, or over my head pushing through mounds of the newly fallen snow just to get to the garage. Once I got there, I had to put him down somewhere, and I think I completely lost sight of him in a snow bank for a minute or so while I tried to figure out how to open an ancient garage door that was nearly frozen to the ground. Once I got it open, I dug Chris out, and we proceeded to the truck. I'm wondering at this point if anyone in this state knew about automatic garage door openers? I mean seriously folks, they are sold all over the%*# state! I was cursing every native son in Minnesota that day! I was beginning to see how these people become so dang hardy. It has to do with the fact that you get hardy or die! I thought it would be just my luck to die behind the wheel and never leave the garage.
So, as I’m busy acclimating to the frozen tundra, exchanging my pretty high heeled pumps for mukluks and my double breasted wool jacket for a parka, my husband announces that he is going to go ice fishing with the relatives. Ok, this is a new concept, this ice fishing thing. Explain ice fishing to me. Apparently it has something to do with packing up an inordinate amount of supplies, bundling into ten layers of clothing, leaving at a ridiculous hour of the morning to travel out to the middle of a frozen lake, drill a hole in the ice and then stare at it until you see a fish swim by, then you try to catch it. In between all this staring, copious amounts of beer and football are consumed while you sit in an “ice house” the size of an outhouse. I think I just described to all females the equivalent of ripping out our uterus without anesthesia. I mean, really! Who could find this enjoyable? I know there are a few hardy women out there who swear they love ice fishing, and to them I say that is all fine and dandy. Go ahead and fit in your love of ice fishing between your hide-tanning and jerky-making, but as for me, I’ll be at the nail salon.
So as I tried to absorb this ice fishing information, I asked my husband if it wouldn’t be easier to wait until the lake was unfrozen - which in this state is for at least for three weeks? Wouldn’t that give him a sufficient amount of time to get that “hunter/gatherer” itch out of his system? Well, that would be a logical argument of course, but as time went by, I realized that ice fishing is less about providing for the family, and more about husbands and boyfriends escaping wives and girlfriends with “Honey Do” lists. Whether they come home with fish or not is irrelevant. The fishing is thrown in for good measure to hide all the beer drinking, football and time away from "The Drones." Since I have been divorced for well over 15 years, I think you can guess how that ice fishing thing went over in our house.
I mean, really…if you are going to develop a Midwestern hobby, why not take up something fun like Bingo? That seems like a much more productive hobby than ice fishing. Think about it, you could hit a $500 Blackout at Bingo and help your church or favorite Indian Reservation at the same time! And, realistically, by the time you split your winnings with all your relatives, you would have just enough to buy your own fish dinner at Long John Silvers. All that, and you wouldn’t have to spend the evening rubbing Icy Hot and Udder Butter on your frozen backside as you wonder who in the heck thought a 5 gallon bucket made a great chair. I’m just sayin’…
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