Nimrod

Family vacations were different for my family. While some flew to Florida, others flew to Mexico. There was never a commercial flight for us. We were the family that drove. We went to Nimrod.

Sure, there were other places we went to. The itinerary was sometimes rough, including lake hopping—my brothers and I speculating on the fish we might catch and the most effective bait. The money we earned picking rocks and pulling weeds from farmers' fields went towards lures, lines, and sinkers. But for a few days every summer, we went to Nimrod.

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Some families have reunions and remember why they don’t see each other often. My family didn’t need reunions. We were always close. We always had a reason to visit, and if we didn’t, we could still drop by. If there were such an event that we called a family reunion, then the venue was Nimrod.

Nimrod, Minnesota, is the kind of place with the three essentials: a church, a bar, and a fuel station. One of the three might even double as a post office. With a population of sixty-nine people, one thing brought us all together: Gloege’s Canoe Rentals.

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I have an early memory of sitting in the middle of a canoe on the Crow Wing River. Mom in front, spotting paint-back turtles, and Dad in the back, steering the ship. With the right tailwind, Dad would pass me his jacket and have me hold the sleeves while he held the bottom corners. We would raise our arms and spread the jacket wide, forming a makeshift sail to catch the breeze. It pushed us along while Mom took over steering from the front.

In the summers when the river was high, it swept us along with ease, gifting us views of long river fish, opal-colored clam shells, and clusters of seaweed. In dryer summers, the current was low and harsh, exposing logs and river rocks. If skilled with a paddle, one could navigate with ease. The lesser and unskilled, with bare feet on cold metal, felt the aluminum belly of the craft ripple and strain as the current forced their canoe over sandbars and protruding boulders. Canoes occasionally capsized, with passengers panicking and gathering their possessions before the river could claim them for itself.

Regardless of depth, when the waters warmed, my cousins and I debarked our canoes, slipping into the clear river. Emptied vessels strategically maneuvered into position, concealing those that stalked paint-back turtles. Quietly, we closed the gap before the unsuspecting wildlife abandoned their sunning logs for the security of nearby reeds. If quick enough, young hands could grasp shells. Raising turtles high above the water to claim another victory and gently returning them to the river. And a new score, true or exaggerated, was tallied.

The day would finish as we set up camp at the nearby Huntersville Forest Campground. A quiet space, turned tent city. Uncles and kids set up tents while Grandma and aunts prepared dinner. It was customary for everyone to contribute to the beef stew. Some years, it was simple; everyone brought a store-bought can of stew to add to the pot. In other years, ingredients were assigned: Jane would bring the potatoes, Audrey the beef, Maxine the carrots and celery, and so on. Whether intentional or not, it symbolized coming together.

The food was never limited to just stew, though. There were salads: pasta salad, potato salad, ham salad, fruit salad, and Jell-O salad. In Minnesota, anything can be a salad if it comes in a big bowl. And to tide us over between meals, there were always baggies of Gorp (peanuts, raisins, and M&M’s). Hunger pains were a rare thing on weekends like these.

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One particular summer, before I was old enough to manage a canoe without my parents, I recall taking the early morning journey to Nimrod with my mother and two older brothers. Dad was working road construction that summer and couldn’t make it.

Without both Mom and Dad, I might join some of my older cousins in their canoes. I looked up to them so much. Tera made the best jokes. Brian was a top track star. Nate played the guitar and knew every song by Nirvana. They were all so cool and lived in the Twin Cities. I wished so badly to be like them, to live near Minneapolis or Saint Paul, to have access to the amazing things they had, like Game Boys and skateboards. But I lived in a farm town and wasn’t good at anything. Picking rocks, maybe. These canoe trips would be the only chance I had to hang with them.

Cars loaded with relatives arrived at Gloege’s. Aunts, uncles, and cousins reconnected. Life jackets and paddles chosen. Cousins paired quickly. And I took too long finding the right paddle. I missed my chance! Tera, Brian, Nate, Mindy, Tina, Kalanie, Katrina, Kevin, and Kelly had found their partners. My other options, my other cousins, were too young. They got their older cousins before I got mine.

I didn’t know what to do. Mom was taking Grandma in her canoe, and I knew that if I joined them, I wouldn’t be able to catch turtles. My tally would be zero. Maybe they would let me in and out of the canoe, but it ran the risk of tipping Grandma’s canoe, and no one was allowed to tip Grandma’s canoe.

In a sulk, I asked Mom if I could still go in the canoes if I didn’t have a partner. She said I would need to join my older brothers. Join my brothers? No way! I would rather have stayed at the campsite by myself and risk a visit from a bear than ride with them. Trevor always tried to tip canoes and pinched my back. And Shawn would throw seaweed at me and punch my shoulders. Catching turtles was out of the question as I dreaded the idea of them leaving me behind the moment I slipped into the water. But I had to accept my fate. The adults had spoken, and my brothers were already plotting to ruin my day.

Canoe trailers hitched to cargo vans. Lifejackets and paddles stowed. Cousins found their seats, and the sliding doors closed. Our driver turned over the engine, and from the back, my cousins began singing songs from Bible Camp. Even if I wanted to sing along, I couldn’t. Everyone got what they wanted except for me. Why should I be happy? Why should I sing?

Vans with trailers and Sunday school choirs lumbered up the sandy driveway. With a left-hand turn onto the county road, the first van disappeared past a thick row of pines. A slight pause, and the second followed. Our van was next. Before taking the turn, from the front, my mother shouted, “Wait! Is that Kim?” To the right, in the distance, a small blue pickup truck grew steadily closer. It was him! Dad! How did he get here?

Earlier that morning, we saw the sun and clear skies while nearby counties saw rain. Storms stood down road works for the weekend. Dad got the call and left immediately. No sleeping bag. No pillow. No spare clothes. No time to waste.

Make time. Make launch. Make memories.

With a few quick seating changes, I was back with my parents, while Trevor and Shawn were now assigned to ferry Grandma.

The day went on as jackets became sails, cousins tallied turtles, canoes remained upright, shoulders went unbattered, and stew brought us together. We all went to Nimrod.