Is winter finally coming to an end in Minnesota? When my sister lived in St. Paul, she said they had two seasons: shovel and swat.
Here in Clarksdale this past Wed, we had low temps, wind, rain and heavy cloud cover making everything seem winter dark .It reminded me of Scotland. I compared it to November here and thought about Christmas shopping.
The MS river is rising about a foot a day. Locals are relocating whatever is movable from behind the Levee. We watch the Helena, AR gauge. At 4 pm today, it was at 37.74'. Next Wed. it is expected to hit 40': Take Action Stage. I did not see mention of 40' as the crest. With all the snow and rain up north, west and east, it could be an eventful summer. We've done what we can. Now we watch and wait.
2/21/1937 the river reached an all time high of 60.2' The all time low of -4.20' was 7/11/1988.
2013 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label Minnesota. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Minnesota. Show all posts
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nesting Rocks
"You're making shishky, aren't you?" Papa inquired hopefully.
"I'm packing the poppyseed right now."
We looked forward to the crisp air and our limit of crappie and walley fall fishing in Minnesota.
Shorelines would be decorated with orange and yellow fall leaves. Fog would rise from the warm water. The lake might have already turned over. We packed coveralls, gloves, insulated boots, and hats.
Walleye and northerns like small frogs. One evening we came back to camp in the dark. Papa was driving and slammed on the brakes. Small frogs were all over the road. They wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get to the lake, if they'd known the fish were waiting for them. He was so excited he had me stay behind the wheel with the lights on, while he got out with his butterfly net and a Styrofoam bucket.
In the headlights, it was as if the frogs had personalities. One hopped across the road three times and into his net. Another hopped in and back out. One stayed in the same place and jumped up and down. All said and done he was happy as a little kid when he captured five. The refrigerator wouldn't accommodate the big bucket. Papa put the lid on and left it in the car overnight.
I was fixing breakfast when he came in wearing an 'I'm in trouble' look. They frogs had jumped up, moved the lid, and escaped. They were no where to be found in the car. We opened the car doors so they could escape. I was concerned one would pop out when I was driving. We watched two come out of the car. The rest were never found or discovered, thank God!
Our appetites were ravenous, and I loved to cook at camp. The cabin was so small it reminded us of a pumpkin shell with plumbing, but we had room to cook and eat hearty: fried crappie and walleye, homemade soups, breakfasts of bacon, scrambled eggs with potato dumpling slices and shishky.
Papa liked the potato dumpling dough rolled out in strips, then cut into one-inch squares and baked. The Bohemians called it "shishky." We ate it with melted butter, a little sugar and ground poppy seed. One trip we forgot the poppyseed grinder. Drifting near the shore, he spotted small rocks, reached in and grabbed two. I baked and he ground poppyseed between the nesting rocks. Another great trip. Another timeless memory.
2010 Red Convertible Travel Series
"I'm packing the poppyseed right now."
We looked forward to the crisp air and our limit of crappie and walley fall fishing in Minnesota.
Shorelines would be decorated with orange and yellow fall leaves. Fog would rise from the warm water. The lake might have already turned over. We packed coveralls, gloves, insulated boots, and hats.
Walleye and northerns like small frogs. One evening we came back to camp in the dark. Papa was driving and slammed on the brakes. Small frogs were all over the road. They wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get to the lake, if they'd known the fish were waiting for them. He was so excited he had me stay behind the wheel with the lights on, while he got out with his butterfly net and a Styrofoam bucket.
In the headlights, it was as if the frogs had personalities. One hopped across the road three times and into his net. Another hopped in and back out. One stayed in the same place and jumped up and down. All said and done he was happy as a little kid when he captured five. The refrigerator wouldn't accommodate the big bucket. Papa put the lid on and left it in the car overnight.
I was fixing breakfast when he came in wearing an 'I'm in trouble' look. They frogs had jumped up, moved the lid, and escaped. They were no where to be found in the car. We opened the car doors so they could escape. I was concerned one would pop out when I was driving. We watched two come out of the car. The rest were never found or discovered, thank God!
Our appetites were ravenous, and I loved to cook at camp. The cabin was so small it reminded us of a pumpkin shell with plumbing, but we had room to cook and eat hearty: fried crappie and walleye, homemade soups, breakfasts of bacon, scrambled eggs with potato dumpling slices and shishky.
Papa liked the potato dumpling dough rolled out in strips, then cut into one-inch squares and baked. The Bohemians called it "shishky." We ate it with melted butter, a little sugar and ground poppy seed. One trip we forgot the poppyseed grinder. Drifting near the shore, he spotted small rocks, reached in and grabbed two. I baked and he ground poppyseed between the nesting rocks. Another great trip. Another timeless memory.
2010 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, September 14, 2007
Frank does Repousse
...not to be confused with Debbie does Dallas.
At Lake Charles, Louisiana, we met Frank McDonald. Fun to be around, he has a great personality, quick deep laugh, twinkly blue eyes, can sell anything, and has lots of great stories. In the last few years he has taken up an ancient art form that dates from the Bronze Age (2800-1100 BC) called Repujado (Spanish) or Repousse (French). It is how the Statue of Liberty was made. See his website "The Art of Frank McDonald" for further explanation of the process, the types of finish, and the varieties of fish and other creations. He's good. The Loggerhead Turtle looks like it will eventually crawl off the wall.
He is making me a Black Crappie relief. They are what we fished for in Minnesota for over twenty years. One fall five of us fishing Lake Osakis found them suspended at twenty feet in forty foot of water. Our boat didn't have enough anchor rope necessitating a quick return to camp. The fish were still biting when we got back taking our bait fast as we could throw it. All of a sudden they stopped. Back at camp we poured them on the grass and counted out 76, one over our limit. We ate it.
From the pictures of Frank's work I will want to handle the finished project. It looks smooth, shiny, and won't stink or be slimy. Keep hammering, Frank, you'll get relief!
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
At Lake Charles, Louisiana, we met Frank McDonald. Fun to be around, he has a great personality, quick deep laugh, twinkly blue eyes, can sell anything, and has lots of great stories. In the last few years he has taken up an ancient art form that dates from the Bronze Age (2800-1100 BC) called Repujado (Spanish) or Repousse (French). It is how the Statue of Liberty was made. See his website "The Art of Frank McDonald" for further explanation of the process, the types of finish, and the varieties of fish and other creations. He's good. The Loggerhead Turtle looks like it will eventually crawl off the wall.
He is making me a Black Crappie relief. They are what we fished for in Minnesota for over twenty years. One fall five of us fishing Lake Osakis found them suspended at twenty feet in forty foot of water. Our boat didn't have enough anchor rope necessitating a quick return to camp. The fish were still biting when we got back taking our bait fast as we could throw it. All of a sudden they stopped. Back at camp we poured them on the grass and counted out 76, one over our limit. We ate it.
From the pictures of Frank's work I will want to handle the finished project. It looks smooth, shiny, and won't stink or be slimy. Keep hammering, Frank, you'll get relief!
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, March 02, 2007
Taking our spaghetti for a ride
We had a whiteout blizzard yesterday that dropped a foot of snow. High winds continue rearranging it. Footage of nature's gift to Watertown, NY, puts us to shame. They wouldn't be impressed with our piddly nuisance amount even though it closed the interstates in Eastern Nebraska and 100 miles into Western Iowa. Omaha's Westside High's girl's basketball team HAD to get to Lincoln for the state tournament. Forget hell an high water, they maneuvered snow closed roads and whiteouts to make it, play and win. It will be talked about for years.
When Minnie and I traveled through southern Canada we noticed few garages. A local said it was no use. When snow piled up they couldn't open the doors. Radiator heaters stood ready. Ropes connected houses and barns. Some houses had built-ons connecting to the barn. Rachael Ray says another month of winter means four more feet of snow and three more power outages. We thought it was rough when Minnie lived in St. Paul, Minnesota with its two seasons: shovel and swat. Further north is worse.
Fall foliage of the Northeast was our destination in '98. We had all kinds of plans to see, do and taste, but that's another story. I will say Cracker Barrel in Watertown was the first Cracker Barrel we've stopped at that had a Reuben sandwich. It was good. So was Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream at their plant. We'd reserved a condo at Smuggler's Notch, Vermont, and another at Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. Kitchens mean we take food. Since it was fall we packed fresh tomatoes unaware they could be confiscated, not leaving the US, but getting back in.
Northwest of Watertown, NY we crossed over the St. Lawrence River's high arched bridge onto an island for customs processing. There was no getting off unless approved. I was driving. The official looking official asked where we were from. Before I could answer Minnie hollered, "Wahoo!"
I gasped.
He asked, "Where we were going?"
She burst out, "Smuggler's Notch, Vermont!"
I cringed
"Are you related?" .
"Sisters!"
He bust out laughing. "I'll bet you two have a lot of fun. Get out of here."
We say Minnie confettied customs.
As for our spaghetti and tomatoes, we never took them out of the box, they were just along for the ride.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
When Minnie and I traveled through southern Canada we noticed few garages. A local said it was no use. When snow piled up they couldn't open the doors. Radiator heaters stood ready. Ropes connected houses and barns. Some houses had built-ons connecting to the barn. Rachael Ray says another month of winter means four more feet of snow and three more power outages. We thought it was rough when Minnie lived in St. Paul, Minnesota with its two seasons: shovel and swat. Further north is worse.
Fall foliage of the Northeast was our destination in '98. We had all kinds of plans to see, do and taste, but that's another story. I will say Cracker Barrel in Watertown was the first Cracker Barrel we've stopped at that had a Reuben sandwich. It was good. So was Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream at their plant. We'd reserved a condo at Smuggler's Notch, Vermont, and another at Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. Kitchens mean we take food. Since it was fall we packed fresh tomatoes unaware they could be confiscated, not leaving the US, but getting back in.
Northwest of Watertown, NY we crossed over the St. Lawrence River's high arched bridge onto an island for customs processing. There was no getting off unless approved. I was driving. The official looking official asked where we were from. Before I could answer Minnie hollered, "Wahoo!"
I gasped.
He asked, "Where we were going?"
She burst out, "Smuggler's Notch, Vermont!"
I cringed
"Are you related?" .
"Sisters!"
He bust out laughing. "I'll bet you two have a lot of fun. Get out of here."
We say Minnie confettied customs.
As for our spaghetti and tomatoes, we never took them out of the box, they were just along for the ride.
copyright 2007 Red Convertible Travel Series
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Shades of Blue
We've seen Minnesota lakes turned into cities with ice houses, snowmobiles, pickup trucks, and plowed roads with street signs. We didn't fish there, but we walked out on a small frozen lake to ice fish inside an ice house. Heavy clothes were in order, but we were out of the cold wind with the freedom to move around, drink coffee, eat sandwiches, play cards, and at the same time catch crappie, walleye and northern. Sweet.
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
At daylight, the day after Christmas, we piled into our friend's pickup truck to ice fish on Minnesota's Saint Croix River. Just the thought was spooky. Moving water. A river. My heart pounded. I held my breath. He didn't seem afraid, he'd grown up on it. I gripped my coat collar and shut my eyes when he drove onto the ice without hesitation. Clunk, clunk, clunk made me open them. Was he driving over planks? "No, it's the ice," he said.
Several blocks from shore he stopped and cut the engine. All alone, what ifs raced through my head. "Come on, get out," he urged stepping onto the ice. "It's okay." Not convinced, I stepped softly holding my breath, as if that would make me lighter. Ice scrunched under my boots. Nose-nipping cold greeted my face. The ice supported the truck and us without effort.
Exhaling, I looked around and discovered one of the most beautiful mornings I've ever seen: a still, silent, sacred secret of heavy cloud cover that created a world of everything awash in shades of pale blue to slate. Stunning. I wanted to walk away, look back, and see what shade of blue the truck and our friend were, but I didn't. Stay close I thought and speculate.
While I gaped, our friend drilled a hole a foot and a half deep in the ice. Thirty-eight feet of water moved beneath. The occasional crack of the ice, like a shot, made my tummy flip, but nothing disturbed the blues. Fishing brought up a few small ones we returned to the river. It didn't matter, there'd be more fishing trips, but I might not ever again see the blues.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
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