Kevin Kling's Holiday Inn (3 page)

At three o’clock the next the morning, I’ll wake up and rush to the kitchen for water, where I’ll find all my relatives huddled around the sink and a running tap. There isn’t even time for a cup. The mouth goes right to the tap. After at least a gallon of water, the two strongmen squeezing my kidneys slowly release, and it’s back to bed.

Mom sets the ham down. Somehow she had found a country ham, made in the same county where her parents had lived.

The whole table gasps. It feels like the Cratchits’ house on Christmas, when the table of guests is astonished at the turkey. The younger kids are asking, “What is it?”

“You’re going to like it.”

And they do.

After dinner we assemble in the living room

Warmed with apple cider, we sit in front of the Zenith TV. We watch
The Ten Commandments
in Technicolor. Edward G. Robinson is the slave master and talks like he’s smoking a stogie: “Yah, Moses, where is your God now, see?”

Then
It’s a Wonderful Life
comes on. My uncles love Mr. Potter, the villain. They explain that a hero is only as good as his nemesis is bad. They love it that Mr. Potter never learns his lesson. They figure if Scrooge had taken NyQuil, he would have got away with everything, too.

I like watching Bambi with my uncles, all avid hunters. By the end of the movie, you’re shouting, “There’s one—in the meadow.”

The aunts move into the living room and we turn off the TV. It’s time to visit. We hear about relatives we never knew. These aunts are responsible for our family tree, and they’re expert pruners, leaving all branches neatly trimmed. I often wonder who was lost to their shears. Sometimes their topiary looks good, but it’s at the expense of some interesting fruit.

The unmarked present under the tree has been unwrapped, and all the uncles sip from coffee mugs. “Can I have a taste?” An uncle hands me his cup, but an aunt intercedes: “Absolutely not.”

An uncle tells about the time he got an orange and a comb during the Great Depression, tears up, and sips from his coffee mug. There’s an argument over who got the dog. “I got the dog.” “No, that was my dog.” “Well, he never minded you.” “But he was mine.” I look at my brother, and we both realize we’re looking at the future.

A cousin reads a Bible verse.

We all remember the Christmases at my grandparents’ farm, everyone laughs, and it grows silent for a minute.

A cousin’s new baby gets passed around. Even I get to hold her. She smells so good—new baby smell is even better than new car smell. I have to be so careful with her. The future.

As I hold her, it seems clear why God sent Jesus as a baby. When it came time to teach a sinning world a lesson, what else could he send? He’d already tried floods, bugs, famine, and other devastations. What would he visit upon a corrupt and careless world? A baby. Fragile and helpless. Take care of your faith, or it will die.

God was so way ahead of us. It’s like when my brother looks at a rock, and my Dad says, “Don’t even think about it.” How does he know?

The uncles and dad go to the basement with the ice cream maker. They take turns adding the salt and ice and turning the crank that spins the drum. It’s a challenge, because the ice and salt jam the works, so it immediately becomes a competition, which uncle can spin the fastest.

We have ice cream and pie. Then an uncle says, “Well, I s’pose,” and it’s the early warning sign that the visit has ended. The cousins pile back into the clown car and drive off into the night.

I go up to bed and fall asleep hearing my parents’ muffled voices as they clean up the house. There is nothing better than falling asleep to that sound. I think again of my grandparents. I think of
The Mitten,
the book in Granddad’s drawer. My family is like that mitten. It seems impossible that we could all fit, but we do, we all belong.

And of course I would see them in a couple of hours, at the kitchen sink.

WINTER SOLSTICE   

I want to tell you about a guy named Otto and the advice he gave me one winter solstice, but first you have to know a little bit about ice fishing.

Every November in Minnesota, the call goes out: “The ice is safe.” Open water has turned into prime real estate, and overnight, clusters of tiny shacks pop up on frozen lakes. Ice fishing season has begun in the nation’s icebox, Paul Bunyan country, where carpaccio is still made with real carp and an especially frigid winter is referred to by its year, like a fine vintage wine.

Although months of below-zero temperatures test the heartiest souls, surprisingly, a good number of people live here on purpose. I overheard one northern gentleman say, “When you freeze paradise, it’s bound to last a little longer.” It’s true, however, that one must either get out and embrace the winter or suffer the consequences of cabin fever. That’s why outdoor activities flourish, such as skiing, ice hockey, curling, and especially ice fishing. To most people below the forty-eighth parallel, ice fishing is like hitting your head against the wall, in that it’s not doing it in the first place that feels good. While I agree it’s not for everyone, it must be experienced to be truly appreciated. Here are some basics to get you started.

First, find a spot on the lake where the ice is thick enough to drive your car without dropping through. If you’re unsure, watch someone else go out first. Next, auger a fishing hole in the ice. An ice auger is like a post hole digger, a large, screw-shaped, spiraling, cutting surface you rotate either by hand or with a gas-powered motor. In the fun department, the power ice auger sits just behind the chain saw and way ahead of the power leaf blower.

You’ll need an ice fishing pole with a reel, a monofilament line, and a bobber. An ice fishing pole looks like any angling pole, only it’s much shorter because casting isn’t an option unless you want to back up and aim for the hole. You’ll need a skimmer (a heavy slotted ladle for clearing out the ice that will form on the hole) and a five-gallon plastic bucket to haul your gear and your catch, or “tonnage.” For bait, use a minnow or leech on a hook with a brightly colored weight. The best fishing is usually just off the bottom of the lake, and a slight tug on the line every few seconds—“jigging”—draws attention to the bait.

Other ways to increase your luck include following feeding time charts or using depth finders and topographic maps of the lake, so you can set up over ridges and shoals. Every fisherperson has a secret weapon. Maybe it’s a lure that will make that fish react against its better judgment, whether by seduction, rage, or appetite, and will draw in that fish like a Lutheran to Jell-O. Some folks spray their lures with fish oil to take off the human scent. (Word of caution; keep the fish oil away from your beer, or you’ll be tasting fish for a week.) Others have lucky hats or do a dance that doubles as a way to keep warm.

Keeping warm can be an issue where skin is often referred to as “exposed flesh.” To stave off the cold, the best advice is to dress in many layers. Avoid wearing cotton because the fibers don’t wick the moisture away from you, and if you sweat it will turn to ice. Wool breathes well, as do many new synthetic fabrics. Wear a hat and scarf: sixty percent of your heat goes right out your top. Get good boots. If you bought them anywhere but up north, you’re probably in trouble. Battery-powered hand and feet warmers work for some people. I knew one guy who used red pepper in his boots because “if it works in your mouth, it’ll work on your feet.” There are many forms of ingestible “antifreeze.” Some of the homemade varieties should be kept far from open flame. You do have to be careful because hypothermia is real. Remember the rule: if you are cold and upset, you’re fine. But if you start feeling happy, and everything is right with the world, seek help immediately. That is hypothermia talking, and you don’t have much time.

Most people opt for an ice fishing house, a ten-by-ten-foot house with a propane stove and floor holes in the corners for fishing. The holes are usually covered by plywood with hinges that can be flipped up. Some of these ice houses are luxurious, complete with stereos, TVs, kitchens, bunk beds, couches, even hot tubs and saunas.

Many fisherpeople use a “tip up,” a gizmo that flips up a flag when a fish bites. This frees one to multitask: fish and play cards, fish and watch TV, fish and learn Spanish, etc. Other warning systems including buzzers, bells, whistles, car alarms, voice-activated computers (“I believe you have a fish, Dave”). I knew a band teacher who rigged cymbals to crash when a fish bit.

There is a great deal of pride associated with one’s fish house. It is usually painted to reflect the owner’s personality, whether it’s love of a sports team or hobby or particular cause. Because of the environment, brilliant colors are an advantage, as an all-white ice house probably wouldn’t be found until spring.

Lake Mille Lacs is the most popular lake for ice fishing in Minnesota. It’s located in the middle of the state and is known for its abundance of walleye pike, arguably the best-tasting freshwater fish. Thousands of anglers move onto this lake every year. In fact, in one night it becomes the fourth-largest city in Minnesota. Besides the fishing houses, one can find bars, churches, a bowling alley. The roads are even plowed by local resorts that rent ice houses.

The fun of ice fishing is that you never know what you might catch: perch, trout, northern pike, muskie, crappie, the coveted walleye. Or you can drop a line down deep and try to snag something with a lantern on its head. Who knows what lurks in the depths?

I knew one guy who felt a tug, so he set the hook with a sharp pull on the line. There was a tremendous fight until finally the line pulled free and he thought he’d lost the fish. Up came a license plate. He threw the plate in the corner and re-baited his line. Suddenly he was hit with a moment of recognition. He ran outside to see the hole in the ice where his truck used to be.

There’s something incredible about pulling a fish up through an eight-inch hole. You just don’t know what you’ve got. It’s like going to the fair, it’s the lottery. What’s going to come out of that hole? The mind wanders and one dreams as he reels. A whole world of possibilities opens up, even if you don’t catch fish, when you sit on a frozen lake in contemplation.

Few sights are as breathtaking as the northern lights over a frozen lake. Or the serene stillness of a night at thirty below zero, or the sudden quake of the ice settling and cracking. During the day, the light from the outside looks like a cathedral. In the midst of isolation and beauty, it’s impossible not to think great thoughts and drift into philosophies greater than ourselves.

My favorite story is about a group of twenty Russians in Siberia. These guys were out on the ice when the chunk they were fishing on broke free and headed out to sea. As the ice melted, their “lifeboat” became smaller and smaller. Rescue teams in helicopters were sent through foul weather to save the stranded men. But when the copters arrived, nobody would get in them. No way. The fish were biting.

•   •   •

Which brings me to Otto.

I’m standing on the road just south of Bemidji, in northern Minnesota, hitchhiking after a very productive ice fishing trip. I’ve learned that two things will greatly increase your chances of getting a ride when hitchhiking. You can make a sign that says where you’re going, in this case Minneapolis. And if it’s raining out or bitterly cold, you can take off your hat and coat and try to look really miserable. Someone will usually take pity and stop. The only trouble with this method is you really
will
be miserable. I take off my coat. It’s probably thirty below zero.

The first vehicle to pass is a 1960s robin’s-egg blue pickup truck. It pulls over to the shoulder just ahead of me and stops. The passenger door swings open. I run up to it and look in to see a guy who must be eighty if he’s a day. He says his name is Otto. I hop in, throwing my pack and fish in the back. Otto tells me he’s headed down to the Cities, but he’s originally from Embarrass, Minnesota. He gets a serious look on his face and says, “It’s French”—for what, he doesn’t know.

I like Otto, and that’s a lucky thing, because we’re rolling down the highway at about thirty miles an hour, and at this pace it’s going to take several hours to make this trip. I’m about to say, “Okay, Otto, this is good, you can let me off here,” when he kicks it down and we’re going about ninety. Now we’re blowing past the cars that have been passing us, and I’m hanging on for dear life. I’m wondering how long a pickup of this vintage can go this fast, when Otto kicks it back down to thirty again. We crawl along for a while, when again Otto floors it. We’re up to ninety in no time. Now, as we fly past the cars a second time, the drivers are looking up at me like they really want to know: “What are you doing?” I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, he’s driving.” Sure enough, Otto backs it off to thirty again.

At this point, I’m wondering what the heck’s going on. Otto says, “I bet you’re wondering what the heck’s going on.”

I say, “Yeah.”

He says, “Well, when you get to be my age, the first thing to go are your knees.”

I’m thinking, “Otto, your knees are running a distant second here.”