Messin’ Around

Editor’s Note: A wonderful childhood story about what life in Minnesota used to be like and how we wish it still were in places like Minneapolis and throughout Minnesota . . . 

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My dad had weekends off. On weekdays he was owner, partner, and chief mechanic at Peterson’s D-X gas station across from the original St. Marys Emergency Room in Rochester, Minnesota. It was a full service gas station. He was on his feet all day long, fixing cars, filling gas tanks, washing windshields, and doing all the extras that come with owning your own business.

He was great with the public and amassed many friends and customers with his kindness, humor and unconditional acceptance of others. I remember him being able to have a conversation with ANYONE. He was truly interested in every person’s story.

On weekends and three evenings a week he became a family man and buddy. He performed outside chores and cultivated his hobbies with me and my brothers in tow.

There were ample opportunities to be outdoors “messin’ around.” Dad grew up coveting his time outdoors. As a youth, he spent hours on his grandmother’s farm in Eyota, or at home fulfilling outdoor chore responsibilities, as well as family outings with his parents and four brothers. I imagine there was NEVER a dull moment in that household! Many family outings involved fishing, hunting, picnicking or camping. Dad’s love for these activities was a part of his fiber. He effortlessly passed them on to us.

I wonder if at one point in their marriage, there might have been a conversation between Mom and Dad about whether he HAD to include us in his outdoor hobbies if he wanted to continue doing them. Or if he willingly took us as tag-alongs, so he could pass along his love of the outdoors. I’d like to think it was the latter. No doubt Mom enjoyed the break from making meals and managing behaviors while overseeing our activities.

Now, as a grownup and former teacher, I recognize characteristics in my dad that are typical of individuals with Attention Deficit Disorder, but he found a lifelong way to channel his energy. He lived a life of perpetual motion. The only time I saw him sit was at mealtime or when he came home from work at the end of a long day.

On weekends or evenings after supper, Dad, my brothers and I headed outside to mess around. There was no job too small or too big that he couldn’t find a task for us to do. I’m not sure we were helpful. I’m quite sure job completion may have taken longer with our help.

Through his tutelage, we learned tool names, their uses, task planning and procedure, as well as his tried-and-true methods passed down from generations before. For example, garden potato planting was always done on Good Friday.

There was always a measure of fun and chaos mixed in with our group projects, rides in the wheelbarrow, target practice with a bow and arrows (I put an arrow through the garage window), and squirts of water from the hose — out of nowhere — while watering the garden. Squeals of laughter were common when Dad, “The Biggest Kid on the Block,” was in charge.

He was the king of “messin’ around”—defined as the art of finding something to do, no matter what the setting.

As our skills became more refined and we honed our tribal cooperative efforts, we were ready to up the ante and tackle a “messin’ around” opportunity of the next level: a five-hour family outing — ICE FISHING! We were rugged ice fishermen! No pansy icehouse or clamshell for us back in the day. There would be no protection from the elements for this small clan.

Preparation included making Dad’s famous scrambled egg sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, or a package of hot dogs and buns, a large can of Campbell’s Pork & Beans, plus a bag of Old Dutch Potato Chips. To quench our thirst and warm us from the inside out, Dad filled thermoses with hot chocolate and strong “fishing” coffee.

Matches and the fire starter were necessities. Tip up poles, waxy worms, manual ice auger, long handled ice skimmer and snow shovel were loaded into the trunk, along with our decades-old toboggan.

Dad, Jim, Dave and I wore layers of shirts, sweaters, pants with snow pants over top, jackets, two pairs of socks, winter boots, hats and mittens, sometimes doubly thick, completed our ensemble.

We were sure to grab our ice skates on our way out the door, in case we found a location where there was no snow on the ice-covered lake or we were motivated to shovel our own rink.

Prime destinations were Sandy Point or Ryan’s Bay, both on Lake Zumbro, just half an hour away. In winter the expanse of the lake was quiet and stark — perfect for our little band of explorers.

Side roads off the beaten path were snow-packed by plows and less traveled. Sandy Point had a steep driveway down a hill to get to a parking spot close to the edge of the lake. We piled out of the warm car, loaded up the toboggan with our tools and provisions and started our march through the snow to the BEST fishing spots across the frozen lake. The journey was often arduous for our little legs! Trekking through windblown drifts or taking penguin steps while slip-sliding on glare-ice took concentration and persistence.

Once we reached our fishing spot, we took turns using the manual auger to open three or four holes in the ice. Depending on the ice thickness, this process usually burned up a chunk of time and energy. Tip-up poles were baited. Jim, Dave, and I were in charge of periodically skimming the thin layer of ice that formed on the open holes.

The next order of business involved building a smallish bonfire off to one side of our fishing boundary. We three kids scattered to the opposite lake bank populated with fallen tree limbs. Each of us made several trips to drag back large branches and armloads of twigs, enough to last as long as needed.

Dad built the fire, our open-air warming house and the means for cooking our lunch.

Our adventure had only begun. Now we could get down to the business of “messin’ around”! My older brother and I headed up a dried-up stream bed, through the densely wooded hillside, turning over boulders as we climbed, looking for fossils or interesting rock specimens. My younger brother stayed closer to the fire, happy to toss in sticks and branches, mesmerized by the crackling, dancing flames.

Dad manned the fishing poles. He hollered to us if the tip of a pole dipped downward as a lunker took our bait. That was the signal to come running, discarding our mittens as we pulled up our line to reveal our catch, often a perch or a bluegill. The sport was in the catching. The joy was releasing the fish and telling it to grow even bigger before next winter. 

Our morning activities kept us warm; we burned energy and calories. Once noon rolled around, Dad called us from our explorations to come and make lunch. Foil-wrapped scrambled egg sandwiches were placed in the hot coals and embers at the edge of the fire. The can of beans, lid cranked open three-fourths of the way, deftly nestled in amongst flaming branches, where it heated through in a very short time.

If we had hot dogs, we took turns using Dad’s Swiss Army knife to whittle a point on our chosen roasting stick. The contest was on to see who could roast the perfect hotdog. Frankly, it didn’t matter to me. I was famished and even a slightly warmed dog was tasty with enough ketchup! The heated pork and beans were the best part of the meal.

Those shared meals, savored around the little bonfire, are ones I will never forget.

After lunch we scooped the ice layer off the holes, rebaited hooks and donned our skates. We made connecting paths through the snow to the ice with the snow shovel. A lively game of cops and robbers sent echoes across the lake.

Sometimes we shoveled a large square rink where I practiced twirls and gliding. If the lake was clear ice, we skated as far as we wanted, keeping Dad in sight, close enough to zoom back if a fish tipped our poles.

By mid-afternoon our toes started to tingle. Our energy was waning. It was time to sit by the fire to thaw our toes and fingers. One more agile climb up the hillside before dousing the fire with water from the open holes.

The toboggan was repacked with gear, garbage and any treasures we might have found. We reversed our path back to the car, stowed our gear and begged Dad to turn the heat on high as we piled into the frozen car.

Our last challenge of the day called for Dad to aim the car at the center of the road ahead, gun the engine, and send us on a zooming trajectory across the flat ground — with my heart pounding and fingers crossed — to launch us up-up-up to the top of the steep hill. On a few tries we teetered midway and had to gingerly back down for another attempt! Once safely on our way home, I’d drift off to sleep.

Another perfect day of “messin’ around!”

Copyright © 2026 Cathy Meinhardt