The theme of this week was true life stories. This is a little story of a youthful adventure.

This is the story of an impetuous boy. It takes place during the winter in rural Massachusetts, the first Saturday of December. Those days well after all the leaves have fallen and crumbled to dust but before the heavy snowfall has come. In later years I found it to be a dreary period but as a young boy it was a time of crisp air and wonders. On this Saturday morning the house was bustling with my older brothers and sisters getting ready for their important teenage activities.

A neighbor friend appeared at the back door. With a promise of adventure, we set out that cold morning to tromp through the woods and fields, chasing field mice and poking things with sticks. Down the road from the family home was a dairy farm. We often snuck though the barn full of cows, fascinated by the milking machines and silos. Today we went the other way. Across the street from the barn was a beaten down dirt road used by the farmer to access the corn and hay fields. The road dipped and led to a pond. I had heard my brother tell the story of how the pond came about. The farmer had taken a bulldozer to a patch of dirt surrounding a small spring. He dug out a bowl, perfect for the cows to use as a watering hole. The pond was maybe thirty feet across, though to our young minds it seemed to be so much bigger.

We wandered down the road, through the crunchy scattered snow left over from an earlier day, eventually coming to the pond. The ice had begun to freeze over the surface. It was new ice, the kind that can be a bit wobbly when walked on, making ominous sounds. We had been hoping for a solid covering suitable for sliding but were disappointed. We took a few cautious steps onto the ice and returned to the shore. As we stood next to the pond an idea was hatched. Whether it originated from my friend or myself, I do not recall. The idea turned into a dare, one not to be denied. Wouldn’t it be something to run across the thin ice of the pond? Calculations were made, trajectories plotted. We agreed that given a good fast run, there was no danger, the ice would hold. I was the chosen adventurer as usual. My friend normally had more sense than me.

I backed up an appropriate distance, enough to get a good head of speed going before leaving the shore behind. And off I ran, pumping with mighty effort, clearing the tangled grasses at the pond’s edge and out on to the wobbling ice. With each footfall the ice flexed a bit more than the last. I could feel the ice cracking beneath my feet, but I knew not to stop. My only salvation was to continue at breakneck speed until I reached the far shore. I was aware the ice was thinnest at the center of the pond. Getting past the halfway mark was the goal, once that was accomplished, I was home free. Step after step I ran, the thin ice barely supporting my scampering weight.

Without warning, one foot broke the surface, the rest is as inevitable as tipping dominoes. Down I fell into the water, getting soaked up to my neck. Fearing I would sink down in the depths and never be seen again, I heaved forward in an attempt to pull my sodden body up on the ice, only to have it crack and break away. Frantically kicking my feet with all the force and effort I could muster, I shed my rubber boots and socks to the turbulent water. I continued to throw my body forward, each time yet again breaking through, the thin ice being no match for my soaking wet clothes. I caught a glimpse of my friend on shore take a few steps onto the ice, hoping to carry off a rescue attempt. He broke through, then retreated to safer ground. Heave after heave finally brought me to the edge of the pond where I stood and stepped out onto dry ground.

The shivering began immediately. Encased in ice and barefoot on the frozen ground, I contemplated the distance back home. It was far but I had no other option. With my friend at my side, we began the trek back up the dirt road towards the dairy barn. We reached the street finally; my feet numb beyond feeling. With flagging energy, I looked down the road towards home. It was much farther than I could imagine walking but yet we began. Only yards into the journey, I knew it was not possible. To my left was the house of a neighbor’s grandparents. Yankees to the core, they had lived here seemingly forever and would continue to do so long past the time when the rest of us had moved on. They always presented a stern and serious face to the young rascals in the neighborhood, but for me it was any port in a storm.

I slowly made my way to the door and with shaking limbs I proceeded to feebly knock with what little energy I could muster. Finally, the grandmother came to the door, I tried to explain my predicament through chattering teeth. But she could see the entire story, written beginning to end in my bedraggled state. She scooted me into the house, taking me immediately to the bathroom where she drew a tub of lukewarm water while yanking the frozen clothing from my shaking body.

Stepping into that tub was like walking into hell itself, the water felt as if it were scalding my skin. As I immersed into the water I began to settle down. She brought in a kettle filled with warm water and poured it into the tub. I cried out in pain and shrunk away from what felt to me like boiling water being poured directly on my skin. She gave me that look, and I immediately knew better than to complain. Taking my punishment like a lobster, I sat in the boiling pot until the shaking subsided and I was able to speak without chattering. Soon after, my mother appeared in the doorway, carrying dry clean clothes. She dried me off vigorously, let me dress and bundled me in blankets for the short ride home. Once we arrived, I took the prime spot next to the radiator in the kitchen, still thoroughly bundled up. Like a prisoner stripped of all rights, I was required to stay in that spot under the concerned eye of my mother and be subject to the questions and teasing of my siblings.

I did not return to the pond at any time during that winter. Only once spring had arrived, did I dare venture back to the scene. I went alone as this was something I had to face on my own. I forced myself to stand next to the pond until I no longer had the desire to flee. Only then did I notice the gradual slope of the pond’s bed leading to the bubbling spring in the center, barely two feet below the surface.