I think it was the winter of 1970, New Brighton, Minnesota. My first experience living in the frozen North, the snow was deeper than my three year old was tall. I was born and raised in Miami, Florida, so dressing a young child to go out was a project. Getting dressed to go ice fishing meant layering shirts, long pants, two pairs of socks, sweater, then…thread the cute padded plastic mittens on a string through arms of a shiny quilted snowsuit, put the suit on the floor, put the child on top, into this "spacesuit", arms in, legs in (while lying face up), zip up, stand, put feet in "moon boots", knitted hat secure over ears, scarf over the chin, twice around the neck and tucked in, finally mittens snug on wiggly hands. Now ready to go ice fishing with Dad.

Hours later the two returned from Lake Johanna. My little man seemed to have stayed safe and warm enough, had lots of fun walking on the frozen lake and seeing fish in the ice hole. But there was a mitten problem; dangling out the sleeves of the snowsuit was a black melted plastic lump of a mitten and the other mitten had a soggy wet lining hanging out. Dad said, "Oh, he put one hand in the fire and the other in the ice fishing hole.” Thus, as luck would have it, only mittens got burnt or frozen, not those curious little hands. I don't remember letting my young child ice fish, ever again.

The next year, another season, while lake fishing, this curious boy fell over the side of the boat. Dad pulled him back in the boat visibly fine but crying and upset because his shoes were soaked and Mom might be mad at him. Upon hearing the story I thought at least there was not a fire in the boat, and the shoes dried out.