December 17, 2004
The big anticipation for the winter months at my parent's house on Whitewater Lake was the first deep freeze over the water.My brother and I would begin the process of testing the ice's thickness by throwing large stones out as far as we could, watching them spin and slide farther and farther until they either broke the surface or remained stoic on the top of the ice. This event never failed to cause my mother grief as she periodically peeked out the windows of our living room with a frown, watching our intrepidation with anxious eyes.
Since I was the smaller of the two, my brother, Chris, being seven years older than myself, it was only logical that I should venture out first, prodding with feet spread out, arms stretched into the air and head faced down with excited fear. My brother would coax me to go on further.
"You're lighter, keep going and don't fall in."
Grand advice.
With shuffling motions and slow, slippery steps, I made my way out toward the middle of the lake - the cracks and groans that rarely frightened us unless we were to such a point that we knew the icy water below would be so deep. I looked back at my brother, still standing safely on the shore and motioned for him to tempt the ice himself. This was always a careful process which we took more seriously than our mother would have ever supposed. Before an hour's time, we were heading back to shore with visions of ice skates in our heads.
Our impatient pleads to our mother resulted in success and we quickly ransacked our closets for the ice skates which were buried deep from the warmer months. Chris always had his skates on first, trampling down upon the frozen ground of our back yard to the lake. I was still lacing my own pair as he was just beginning to glide out onto the lake and my mother would pop her head out the door.
"You two be careful and stay close to the shore," she warned.
Chris, in his speeding hockey skates and I in my old white blades, usually blazed the trail for onlookers watching us from their cozy houses.
We grabbed a large, black garbage bag and made a sail which would carry us well across the lake. We ventured to the island in front of us, about halfway out, and explored the area with heightened curiousity. In the snowy patches about the ice, we would play tic-tac-toe with sticks and Chris always won. Sometimes our big standard poodle, Max, would join us with my mother's worry that we would skate over his paws. But we never did and the cold was never too cold and the ice never failed beneath our feet.
Thus we continued, for an entire afternoon, until we were too weary to go on. We fumbled back to the house and doffed our skates by the porch door, huffing and puffing from the exersize and chilly air. Inside, it was wonderfully warm and the smell of hot chocolate filled our noses as our mother prepared our cups with tiny marshmellows and silver spoons. We sipped our drinks and looked out upon the lake, related the whole of our adventures to our mother while she nodded her head in deep enthusiasm.
I look out onto the lake today, with its harsh freeze making the ice appear all gathered up and rough. The sun is out, adding an inviting tone to the 22 degree weather, and I am entirely tempted to test the thickness as I did years and years ago. Upon mentioning this to my mother, she dropped her eye brows and placed her hands on hips.
"Well then, you be careful and keep close to the shore."
"Only if you make hot chocolate, Mom."