A great trip, despite the one that got away ~ March 7, 2001

David Heiller

Tom pointed out the bare hills bordering Moose Lake shortly after we started skiing down it on Saturday, February 23. They looked black and stony, as if a fire had burned them, but the deforestation actually came from a wind storm.

The real magnitude of that famous July 4, 1999 storm hit us a little later, as we skied on a portage into Rice Lake. Three years ago, the portage was right out of a Boundary Waters postcard. Big, beautiful birches and poplars lined the ski trail.

But not now. About 90 percent of the trees were on the ground, or snapped off at right angles 15 feet above the ground. They all lay in the same direction, as if a volcano had erupted to the west.

David cooking on Little Puffer.

“Look at all the new growth,” Tom said when we stopped in the midst of the mess. He was right; you couldn’t put your arm out without hitting a small tree. Fickle old Mother Nature was fast at work, undoing the damage she had wrought.

And once we got to Basswood Lake, the storm damage was gone. That was amazing too. How could the wind mow down a whole forest like a scythe, and not touch a tree a mile away? Those are the kinds of questions that winter ski trips bring out.

Once we hit the bay on Basswood, we drilled holes and started fishing. This spot had yielded some big northerns in the past, and both Tom and I expected no less this time.

Then we pitched our tent on an island. Several huge white pines still stood there untouched. They seemed like stout old friends to me. Tom figured they were a couple hundred years old. It was good to see them standing, although Tom noted that they were in poor health and would probably fall down soon. Science teachers notice things like that.

Tom put Little Puffer in the middle of the tent. Little Puffer is a stove that he made out of an old gas can, and it is a testimony to the importance of a stove in winter camping that it is given a name.

We cut firewood and watched for the flags on our tip-ups to spring into action. Not more than an hour later, I had the first northern on the ice, a four-pounder. Then Tom pulled in two more, a couple pounds bigger than mine. They were dark and fat. “You just don’t see northerns like that back home,” Tom marveled.

As darkness fell, a west wind whipped across the bay. We foolishly ate our supper outside by the campfire. It was cold! But that changed after we crawled into the tent and lit Little Puffer. “What took you so long?” the stove almost seemed to say as Tom struck a match to the birch bark and twigs inside it. In just a few minutes we were sitting on our sleeping pads and starting to shed our layers of clothing.

We lit two candle lanterns and hung them from the center pole. They cast a golden light. Our pads were on benches of snow that conformed to our bodies better than the most expensive mattress. We talked and read. Then I started dozing off. It was getting late. I looked at my watch: 7:30 p.m.

If there is a better recipe for sleep, I would like to find it: a cozy tent, a warm sleeping bag. The sound of the wind blowing through the friendly pines. A body that is tired from a seven-mile ski.

Skiing till your head is clear.

We were both asleep by nine. I can’t remember the last time I slept that well.

The fish of the weekend hit Tom’s tip-up the next morning. He set the hook, and the fish didn’t give. It was like the cliché that fisherman say: “I thought it was a snag,” although Tom to his credit didn’t say that, because snags don’t tear line off a reel like this one did. Then it shook its head and the line sliced into Tom’s little finger, and it was gone. Tom pulled in the line with a mixed grin of disappointment and admiration.

We will never know how big it was. That’s kind of fun to think about. Basswood Lake holds the state record for northern pike, 45 pounds, 10 ounces. Maybe this one was its grandson.

And that was the peak of the fishing for us. That happens sometimes. After that, the fish quit biting. They would take a line and run with the bait, then drop it. When it came time to set the hook, there would be nothing to set. The storm system that was dumping a foot of snow on Pine County was sending its signals all the way to the Canadian border, telling those big dumb northerns not to eat any more smelt.

On Sunday afternoon, I took a day trip and skied into Canada for several miles. I didn’t see another person, or any animals. But it was still a fantastic time. The songs that were rattling around in my head finally quieted down. That’s when I know I’ve reached some inner peace, when my brain is empty, and I can just think about the wind and the lake and my skis gliding effortlessly over the snow like I could have skied forever, just kept going.

“Did you catch any fish?” I asked Tom when I got back to camp later that afternoon.

Hanging up stuff.

“Look by the fire,” he said with a poker players grin.

I walked over and saw five nice northerns on the snow. Tom let me babble on for a bit, he told me that they were the fish we had caught earlier. He had had to move them because a mink had discovered them and was trying to eat them. Tom said he had to chase the animal away three times.

That night, before we went to bed, we hung the fish in a pack from a tree, to make sure the mink wouldn’t return.

We skied back on Monday, after a morning of fruitless fishing. The seven mile ski back home seemed easy. Just before we reached the landing on Moose Lake, two dog teams sped past us. They were cruising. What a beautiful sight. They moved with such ease and joy, and each musher gave us a wave as they rode past. The sight will stick with me for a long time, a carefree memory from a successful winter camping trip with the big fish that got away.

Three weeks and counting ~ February 4, 2004

David Heiller

Cindy and I are on the verge of moving into our new house. I hesitate writing that, because of the jinx factor, but I will forge ahead with the hope that all the sequences will fall into place.

Sequences are a big thing when you build a house. I swear they rival the chain of events in your average nuclear bomb.

I started noticing the Sequence Factor with Tim, our fine plumber. He really didn’t want to put the toilet into the bathroom until the trim was in. Otherwise, it would be harder for John to do his fine trim work.

And that trim work, well, it really should wait till Matt gets his floor registers in place. And Matt really needs Brad to get the furnace wired. And Brad should have that tile on the wall before he puts in the receptacles. But Will, the tile guy, needs the vanity in place first so he can work on that. And Casey should have the vanity done tomorrow, but he has to finish the trim first. Then when the trim is done, Tim can get going on those toilets.

Cindy and I have handled this Circle of Construction in different ways. Those primal screams you hear from the big gray house in Brownsville every few nights are coming from Cindy. I’m more apt to shrug my shoulders and do the old stiff upper lip routine. Not that that’s superior. Maybe it’s the Mars vs. Venus thing I mentioned a while back when Cindy was mulling over her paint colors.

Our home, worth the wait!

Either approach is an equally ineffective response. And that’s fine! Because it isn’t easy to build a house. It’s a mind numbing process that is much too complicated to spell out in this newspaper column. And all those guys I mentioned above have skills that truly amaze me.

So does Cindy. Hang on; this is a family newspaper. I’m talking about all the things she has had to research and order, like lighting and bathroom fixtures, the furniture, the flooring, the kitchen, and talking to contractors—and let’s not forget the paint.

Now we are like a sled at the top of a big hill, teetering on the edge of a great ride.

It should be ready in three weeks.

That’s the other fascinating thing I’ve learned from our contractors. Everything takes about three weeks.

When Tim was making headway on the plumbing back in October, he figured three weeks should wrap things up.

How the geo-thermal system coming, Matt? “Should be ready to test in about three weeks:”

The wiring? About three weeks, Brad said in November.

How about that tile work, Will? “I’d say we’ll be done in about three weeks.”

How’s the trim work coming, John? “Well, let’s see, we’ve got to stain and put on three coats of lacquer. I’d say three weeks should wrap it up.”

Any idea on that siding project, Paul? “Looks like a three week job.”

Almost!

Hey Dave, when will the kitchen be ready? “I should be down with it, oh, let’s say three weeks or so. But the floor really should be on first.”

There’s the beauty of it. The Sequence Factor and the Three Weeks Syndrome are interlinked. It’s like being in a beautiful Twilight Zone episode—beautiful because we can see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel now. The sled is heading down the hill. The ride is almost over, and that scream you hear from Cindy is one of joy. I might join in too in three weeks.

A new outlook on life ~ March 8, 2001

by David Heiller

“Did you get a good cornea?” I asked Dr. Skorich. I was lying in the pre-operational room at Miller Dwan Medical Center on Wednesday morning, February 28.

Dr. Daniel Skorich answered that yes, the numbers looked good. “It came from Florida,” he said.

David in pirate-mode on his banjo.
He had three cornea transplants. (One didn't do so well.) 
Each one was a time of gratitude and hopefulness.

“So you’re going to have a sunny disposition,” the anesthetist joked as he wheeled me into the operating room.

By this time I had a very sunny outlook on life. It had a lot to do with whatever it was he had injected into my intravenous tube. I didn’t have a care in the world. I wasn’t worried at all about having my old cornea cut off and a new one—from Florida!—sewn on.

That’s what happened over the next hour. I could see out of my left eye, which was draped with a cloth. My right eye was open, but I couldn’t see out of it. That was the result of another shot that Dr. Skorich had given me under the eye.

He gave me updates during the operation. “We’ve got the old cornea off,” he said.

Great, I thought. I couldn’t seem to get the words to come out of my mouth.

“We’ve got the new cornea half on,” he said a bit later.

Take your time, I thought.

“A couple more sutures.”

No problem.

Then it was over. Dr. Skorich said that it went well and it was a good match. He looked tired—it was his fifth corneal transplant of the day. I was wheeled to my hospital room, and 90 minutes later I was on my way home.

It is hard to imagine how uncomfortable those surgeries might have been. 
David was not one to complain, and kept his upbeat attitude.

I wore a metal patch on my eye that day and night, then went back to Dr. Skorich the next day. His nurse took off the patch. The vision in my right eye was blurry. That’s normal, Dr. Skorich said a few minutes later. It will take about two months for the new cornea to adjust and for the swelling to go down. Then he will start removing stitches, which will reshape the cornea. He might leave some stitches in forever once he gets the shape right. “You need the patience of Job,” he told me.

I’ve lived with lousy vision for most of my life, I thought. Six months is a piece of cake.

If all goes well, after about six months my vision will be pretty close to normal, probably 20-40 or so. Then I’ll get a prescription for glasses that will make it perfect.

That’s something I haven’t had for a long time. When I went to the University of Minnesota at age 18, an eye doctor told me that I had karataconus, an eye disease that causes the cornea to become cone-shaped. It can’t be corrected with glasses, but it can be corrected with hard contact lenses. So I wore contact lenses for the next 29 years. The karataconus kept getting worse, and doctors had a more difficult time fitting my eyes with contact lenses.

A corneal transplant had never occurred to me. I thought I would always have bad vision and contact lenses that sometimes gave me fits.

Then Cindy heard about the cousin of a friend who had karataconus, and how her vision had been corrected with a corneal transplant. It’s funny how things like that work, how a casual conversation can lead to positive changes. We found out the name of her doctor—Dan Skorich in Duluth—and the rest is history.

Two nights after the operation, I walked out to the garage to do a chore. I looked up at the heavens, at the moon and the countless stars. When was the last time you looked at the night sky, I thought, thinking of my new eye. Whoever you were, thank you.

Modern medicine is a miracle. I say that with a knock on wood, because my new cornea and I have a long way to go. But to quote Humphrey Bogart, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Some things that money can’t buy ~ March 3, 1991

David Heiller

It started with Alvin Jensen’s scrap wood.

Alvin, 82, had cleaned out his basement a few weeks back, and had filled a large plastic bag with pieces of scrap wood from his various woodworking projects, things like birdhouses, puzzles, rocking horses, and baskets.

He stopped me one morning and asked if I could use it. Of course, I said yes; I’ve never met a piece of wood I didn’t like, and neither has my woodstove.

(LESSON NUMBER OΝE: Never turn down free firewood.)

A few days later, Alvin came into the American and wondered if I wanted half of cord of wood in his basement.

Alvin and Marie.

“It’s pretty dry,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s been there since the early 1970s.”

Alvin, like many of his peers, scrimps and saves and Prepares (with a capital P) for emergencies. He had bought a cord of wood from Ed Ellson back when the Arab Oil Embargo hit, and put in a wood stove in his basement to be Prepared.

But for the some reason, the chimney wouldn’t draw properly, so their basement would fill up with smoke, and Marie Jensen would have nothing to do with that, thank you, Embargo or not.

Alvin agreed, but being a full-blooded Dane, he was stubborn enough to hold onto that wood in his basement for 18 years, just in case. When he told Marie that he was giving me a bag of scrap wood, she saw her chance. She “suggested” that he clean out ALL the scrap wood, including that half-cord of birch and oak, and give it to Dave.

Alvin saw his chance to save face too, and that’s where I came in.

So I borrowed a friend’s pick-up, and drove to Jensen’s last Saturday. Alvin had already brought most of the wood up to his garage for me. (Like I said, he likes to be Prepared.) As we went to get the last few pieces in his basement, he was excited to show me a woodworking project he had made. It was a jigsaw puzzle of the United States, cut out of plywood. The states were painted different colors, with the capitals printed on the back side, and the name of the state on the board where the pieces went.

I was amazed at it, at the detail of each state, it how neatly they were painted, at the perfect it. Alvin had spent hours making it. It was truly work of art, one that you couldn’t buy in a store.

Noah and Jake working on Alvin's wooden
puzzle of the United States.
And yes, our kids always aced the
"state and their capitals" tests!

“Why don’t you take it for your son?” he asked. That’s why he seemed excited; he had brought me to the basement to give me this gift.

“Are you sure?” I asked, but I knew he was sure. Alvin is the type of guy who means what he says when it comes to giving away scrap wood and cord wood and jigsaw puzzle masterpieces.

I brought Noah and Mollie to the basement, to make sure they would want it. They both marveled at it too, like me, and said yes, they would like it. They even said thank you.

When we were done loading the wood, Alvin said another thing that made me happy. “Come on in, the Mrs. has got coffee on.”

(LESSON NUMBER TWO: Never turn down coffee with a full-blooded Danish cook like Marie Jensen.)

“Mussie” had the table all set in the kitchen for us, with milk and cookies for the kids, and coffee for Alvin and me. She also had some home-made caramel rolls, with plenty of walnuts and raisins. She offered me one, and I took it. Thirty seconds later, she offered me another one, and I took that too. There are some things money can’t buy, and those caramel rolls were one of them.

We talked about this and that, and the kids drank their milk and ate cookies and made me happy and even a little proud, because they said please and thank you and didn’t destroy anything.

Malika "playing" with the Danish wren house.
We got almost as much pleasure from that
little house as the wrens did!

As we were leaving, Alvin got that twinkle in his eye again, and asked me to come to the basement. “Pick something out for your wife,” he said, sweeping his arm around shelves filled with all sorts of hand-made wooden things.

I remember Herman Klawitter, who owned a grocery store in Brownsville, told me to pick something out from his candy shelf once. I can’t remember what I picked, but I recall the thoughts that raced quickly through my mind: Should I pick the most expensive thing, or something moderate, or just something Ι really like?

I knew what I liked—and what Cindy would like—in Alvin’s basement. I walked over to one of his Danish birdhouses, and said firmly, “That’s what she would like.”

The minute I said it, I realized that I had also picked the most expensive and time-consuming project in the basement. A wave of guilt swept up. But I couldn’t help it. Those birdhouses are unbelievable, like the jigsaw puzzle. A work of art, wooden with a tin roof, complete with a fence and lamp post and bright coats of red, green, and white paint.

We had bought one for my mom a few years ago, at the Partridge Store in Askov. She and my grandma marveled at it as much as I did. The wrens like it even more. You’d almost swear that they chirp with a Danish accent every spring when they move back in.

I started apologizing to Alvin for choosing the nicest thing, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and I realized I had better leave, because there’s no telling what he would have given me next, if I had lingered. The truck was pretty full anyway.

Mollie held the bird house on her lap on the way home. I asked her if she thought it was her house. “No, but it will be when Momma doesn’t want it anymore.” (Maybe in about 50 years, kid.) Then she tried to jam a Barbie Doll into the hole. Now THAT’S a sign of a nice birdhouse.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile at Alvin and Marie Jensen. They had ladened us down with firewood and toys, milk and cookies, coffee and caramel rolls, and most of all, kindness and generosity. These are all things that make our life richer, and things that money can’t buy.

Water from another time ~ March 2, 1989

by David Heiller


(Cynthia' note: to hear the song, click the link... it is worth your time)

link to John McCutcheon's song Water from Another Time

There’s a song I’m thinking about tonight by John McCutcheon, called Water from Another Time. It’s about grandparents, and how they pass on their knowledge and wisdom. Part of it goes:

Tattered quilt on the goose down bed

Every stitch tells a story, my grandma said

Her momma’s nightgown, Grandpa’s pants

And the dress she wore to her high school dance

Now wrapped at night in those patchwork seams,

I waltz with Grandma in my dreams

My arms, my heart, my life entwined

With water from another time

Grandma Schnick, 1984

My old bedroom is now a sickroom for Grandma. She lies in my bed, her eyes closed, mouth ajar. I have to look close to see her chest rise and fall slightly, yes, she’s breathing. I take her hand, so thin now, all knuckles and skin.

“Hi Grandma, it’s me, David.” Her hand tightens in mine, the other reaches over to join it. Her lips come together into a smile, her eyes still shut like she’s in a sweet, sweet dream.

“It’s good to see you again.” My eyes fill, a tear spills down my right cheek. Mom moves to Grandma’s side, a water glass and spoon in hand. “Would you like some water, Mom?” she asks. The voice jars me—I haven’t heard it in maybe 25 years, but it’s a voice you never forget, a mother’s voice caring for her sick child.

Grandma’s smile has gone. “Noah and Mollie didn’t come with us.” I want to say why, but I can’t. How many times did Noah sleep with Grandma, waking her in the early morning by growling under the covers like a tiger? How many times did he spread her toys on the floor upstairs and chatter away? He wouldn’t understand this new Grandma. Grandma understands.

Stella Schnick, as a young 
woman, on the family farm in 
North Dakota. (I wish that I 
could see the auburn hair!)

“Mollie lost a tooth. She got an abscess, so her top front teeth have a big gap now.” Grandma shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows lowered, a worried look and shake so familiar to a grandson who has lost teeth of his own, only now the look and shake are slow motion, a shadow of the old Grandma.

Mom comes into the room again. “Does your leg hurt you?” There’s pain in her voice. Grandma nods her head, coughs. She looks calmer somehow, with Mom there, like she knows her daughter will take care of her. Seventy years ago it was a look Mom might have given Grandma, a look of trust peering through sickness.

Sitting up with Grandma Saturday night, I tell her, “I should have brought my banjo.” Grandma nods. She was always my most faith­ful audience back when a banjo never left my side. I hum anyway, hymns, Rock of Ages, Old Rugged Cross, Beautiful Savior, Just As I Am. Grandma’s arms reach out, like she’s trying to grab hold of something. “Should I stop singing?” She shakes her head.

After she falls asleep, I stroke her gray hair, imagining it’s auburn color from a lock she showed me once. My mind adds youth and flesh and color to her face, and I wonder if Grandpa ever sat next to Grandma at night and stroked her hair and gazed at her sleeping beauty.

Sunday noon, time to leave. I didn’t think three weeks ago I would be saying goodbye again. But this time is different. A woman who gave so much, Grandma is helpless now, and I am helpless too, because the one thing Grandma wants, I cannot give, no one can give.

“We’re going now.” Her hand tightens on mine, a hard grasp that doesn’t seem possible from an arm that’s all bone. Her eyes open, turn in my direction. “David, David,” she whispers. “Don’t go.” I hold her hand until her eyes shut again.

You don’t take much, but you got to have some.

The old ways help the new ways come.

Just leave a little extra for the next in line,

Going to need a little water from another time.

You call that a winter camping trip? ~ February 19, 1998

David Heiller

Tom and I lay in the tent and listened to rain fall on it. Rain falling on a tent is usually a comforting sound. But in the middle of February, it seemed out of place and a little worrisome.

That’s what we wondered when we woke up last Monday morning on Tom’s Bay on Basswood Lake.

After all, we had six miles to ski back to the landing, pulling heavy sleds. Neither of us wanted to do that in the rain. We had cross-country skis, not water skis.

I’m sure Noah didn’t either, although he wasn’t talking to us at the moment. He was snoring in his two sleeping bags.

Noah and Tom

Noah, my son, had worried before the trip that one of us would snore and keep him awake And now this.

But he wasn’t keeping us awake. Tom and I had woken up all by ourselves at five a.m. That isn’t early if you consider that we were asleep by 8:30 the previous night. When you go winter camping, there isn’t a lot to do after dark except lay in your sleeping bag and talk.

It was fun to have Noah along to lighten up the talk, which can get pretty ponderous between two men. It takes a teenager to bring you back to the real world, like whether the Vikings would re-sign John Randle.

I stepped out of the tent. It was still dark. The rain wasn’t falling hard. It didn’t feel like it would last. My worry lifted. What was to complain about? The temperature was above freezing. Our fishing holes hadn’t even frozen over.

Last year at this time and spot, the temperature had dipped to minus 23. I’ll take El Niño any year.

Getting some wood for the Little Puffer.

Sleeping sure was better this year. Last year I brought one sleeping bag and got darn cold. This year Noah and I had each brought two bags. We stayed plenty warm, even after Little Puffer, Tom’s woodstove, turned cold.

The fishing this year was probably the best of my life, although we didn’t catch a true lunker. Last year I caught a 17-pound northern, and so did Tom’s son, Ben. Even that isn’t a big fish to some people. Tom, for example, thinks that some day he will catch a big northern.

“How big is that,” Ι asked him on Monday morning.

“About 35 pounds,” he said with a little smile. I wouldn’t bet against him.

The fishing was thrilling. At one point on Sunday, two flags popped up on tip-ups at the same time. I took one and Noah took the other. I kept one eye on my son and one eye on my line. My fish fought hard, but I pulled him in steadily. Fourteen pound line gives you a lot of confidence.

I eased the fish into the hole. It gave a thrust and came six inches out of the hole. Ι hooked my finger under its gills and lifted it into the air.

“Look at this!” I shouted to Noah. It was a beauty, about 34 inches long and weighing about 10 pounds. He barely glanced my way: Who cares about someone else’s fish when you’ve got one on yourself? I dropped my fish and ran over to help him haul it out. It was a measly seven pounder.

Noah and Tom and a nice catch

We ended up catching our limit of three fish each. We let many go. We lost some nice ones too, fish that tugged as hard as the 17-pounder did last year. One broke a line. Another wound itself around a snag.

Noah lost a big one in a way I had never seen before. When he set the hook, he felt the fish for several seconds, then it was gone. He pulled up his line, and found a half-digested eel pout on the end of his hook.

A northern apparently had swallowed Noah’s cisco, then when he set the hook, instead of the hook catching in its throat, it dug into a fish in the northern’s stomach and came out. The eel pout saved the northern’s life.

“How big do you think that fish was, 35 pounds?” Tom asked me later, with Noah standing nearby.

Checking the weight on Noah's fish.

“No, it was probably about 17 pounds.” I can’t let my son out-fish me. But Tom might be right. That’s the thing about fishing. You never know. It keeps you going back.

The rain quit early Monday morning. We broke camp and took down the tent and started packing our sleds. We stood by a fire at the edge of the lake. Tom heated up some left over spaghetti. I cooked up two hotdogs. It’s funny how good food can taste around a campfire. We drank coffee. Noah had a cup of cocoa.

At about 11:30 we headed back. The snow was slushy. The sleds pulled hard. But it wasn’t bad enough to complain about. I didn’t even have to wear gloves. That’s how warm it was on February16 in the coldest area of the United States.

Tom stopped to point out some fresh otter tracks to Noah. He is always doing things like that. He teaches science for a living and his teaching day doesn’t end at 3 p.m. Often during the trip he would ask things like, ^“What critter made those tracks?” or “What bird call is that?” You’re always learning something from Tom.

At one point we skied four feet from the edge of a creek that was open. It was a little scary. None of us wanted to go through the ice with skis on, belted to a sled.

But having an element of risk is a big part of camping. We trusted our judgment, and with Tom leading the way, things felt safe. He really knows his way in the wilderness.

David with one of the sleds.

The hardest part out was a half-mile-long portage. It had been downhill coming in, and the skiing conditions had been perfect. But now it—was hot and slushy. We sweated and struggled up slope after slope, carrying our skis and poles, and pulling our sleds. Warm weather can work against you in the winter.

Noah’s sled snagged on a few trees. I saw him wave his arms angrily. Ι heard him yelling. I had to stifle a smile. Every good trip has a moment where you struggle physically and reach a low point. That was it for Noah, and me too.

But Tom kept a steady pace, and we gritted our teeth and followed. When we came down the hill to the end of the portage, Noah broke into a run. I smiled at that. We rested then, and ate candy and drank water. It tasted good.

That portage is one reason why Tom’s Bay is full of big fish, I thought. Not many people could make it. But we did. And it won’t be the last time, El Niño or not.

The humble act of ice fishing ~ February 21, 1991

David Heiller

There’s something about ice fishing with two kids that can put a little humility in you, and some pretty good food, too.

First of all, they’ll probably out-fish you. That’s what happened on Sunday afternoon on Fox Lake, west of Willow River. Noah had pulled a crappie onto the ice before I had even put a minnow on Mollie’s pole. It wasn’t anything to rave about, only the size of my hand.

But Noah was excited, and I couldn’t blame him. Is there anything more exciting than watching a bobber disappear down a hole in the ice? Sure, it’s probably a dinky panfish. But maybe, just maybe, it’s that five pound largemouth that you’ve dreamed about, the kind Bob Dutcher likes to tote around town every fall. Or a 20-pound northern that would look great at Stanton Lumber, next to Nick Worobel’s lunker.

Catching a fish through the ice is like opening day of baseball, where hope springs eternal in the human breast. Maybe the Twins will win it all this year...

But back to reality. After Noah pulled in that first fish, I had to instruct Mollie on what to do if HER bobber went under. Mollie has a tendency to be impatient at times, even for a five-year-old. (I could even say she was down right ornery if I didn’t know that her mother and grandmothers were reading this.) I had even considered not taking her along, until she (and her mother) insisted.

So I told her, “When your bobber goes under, count to two, ‘One, two,’ then pull it up. OK?” “OK, Dad,” she answered, with a tone that said, What do you think I am, an idiot?

And she soon proved me wrong, because before I had MY hook baited, I heard Mollie counting, “One, two.” Then she started pulling up on her line, her rod tip trembling. She lifted it over her head, but with six feet of line in the water, she wasn’t making much headway, and couldn’t even see the fish.

I was tempted to grab the line from her and pull it in myself. A vision of a five-pound bass crossed my mind. But I caught myself, and instead just stood next to her. “Walk away from the hole,” I said. She started walking, and soon another crappie was flopping on the ice.

That became the pattern of the day. The kids caught a fish every 10 minutes or so, and I watched them.

Yes, Bob Dutcher, I had a pole in the water. No, Bob Dutcher, I didn’t catch any fish at all. Remember, I said ice fishing with kids could be humbling.

What David failed to catch when
 fishing with small children.

In fact, I think Mollie caught the two biggest crappies on Fox Lake last Sunday. I know the guys around me didn’t seem to have much luck. Every so often they’d yell, and a little panfish would flop onto the ice. But mostly they stood around in their snowmobile suits and grumbled about their lousy luck, and mumbled about how much better the fish were biting yesterday, and watched—humbly—as Mollie would count “One; two,” and walk away from her hole to drag another crappie onto the ice.

One of the other guys even laughed when Mollie pulled a large one out nice and easy and said, “That one was sure polite, Dad.”

We talk to Mollie a lot about being polite. I guess she knows a polite crappie when she catches one.

This is a year or two later, but our kids weren't too bothered by the cold.

The only low point of the afternoon came when Mollie ventured onto some smooth ice next to Dave Balut’s fishing shack and promptly fell and cracked her forehead. Then she cried, and THEN she realized that she was cold and that the fish had stopped biting. And then she wanted to go home.

But a cup of hot chocolate bought some time, as did the minnow bucket. She had watched me bait the hooks enough to try it herself, sο she rolled up her coat sleeve and played with the minnows for ten minutes. I warned her that her hands would get cold. My hands were cold, and I only put them in the water for a few seconds at a time. But tell that to Mollie. She had a great time until her hands DID get cold, and then she truly did want to go home.

That was all right, because by then the fish had gone home too, and most of the grizzled fishermen that surrounded us had too. Besides, we had enough fish for supper.

Fried up with plenty of oil and butter and some farm eggs, all the cold hands and cracked foreheads and all the dads’ humility in the world is well worth the effort of an afternoon of ice fishing with the kids.