The Thaw

To call the body of water in the center of my hometown a lake, was to be very generous. Walking the circumference of its shores wasn’t as much a day hike as it was a pleasant stroll; what's more, standing at any point around its perimeter, one could easily see the opposite side, even on a foggy day. I always thought of it as more of a pond, than a lake. Large pond, small lake. Of course, if it had been any smaller, the ‘last big freeze,’ might’ve actually happened.

The discrepancy in size never stopped my hometown from celebrating the grassy pool of water. Every winter, from December to the end of January, the town constructed a small market of booths and stalls—hawking everything from maple snow candy, to hand-knit scarves, to aromatic tinctures—across the frozen surface of the large pond. In the past, when the ice would grow so thick cars could be driven across its surface, the festive bazaar would hold foot races, strongman competitions and even winter rodeos. However, ever since Ms. Hayes’s prize mare broke a leg by falling through a thin patch in the ice, the market has limited its occupants to humans only. But, the old timers still thought the talk of the ‘last big freeze,’ was nonsense. According to them, there was a ‘big freeze’ every winter and nothing was going to change that.

I still felt like this season was different. It was unusually warm and the sun was out—which itself was odd, at that time of year. I knew something was off; I may not have had the experience of an old timer, but, I was still able to recognize change and it made me apprehensive as I meandered through the winter market. I could see the same uncertainty on the faces of the people working the booths; Mr. Anatoli of Anatoli’s Wood Carving stared fixedly at a spot just past Mrs. Luce’s jam stand, his brow furrowed furiously. I couldn’t make out what interested him so, but saw similar looks of unease on every other person I walked past. We all wondered at the same question: “Is this really the last big freeze?”

According to the high school sophomore manning the raffle kiosk, it was the largest, most grand freeze of them all.

“Place your bets! Bowling ball or sand bag, which will fall through the ice first?! The ice is thick, the wind chilly—how long will they last?! February, March, April? Try your luck on this wonderful, blistering, last big freeze! Place your bets, you won’t get to next year!”

Jane, the little sister of one of my close friends, shouted her heart out, peddling raffle tickets off with the practiced grace of a pro. Behind her, in yellow spray-painted circles on the ice, rested a ten pound bowling ball and equivalent sized nylon bag of sand. A cork board with different dates rested beside the stool Jane managed her raffle from, a collection box for money atop its wooden seat.

“You really think this is the last big freeze?” I asked her, stopping to put five dollars on the sand bag. It would absorb the sun’s heat more effectively.

Jane shrugged. “No, I think that happened before Ms. Hayes’s horse fell through the ice. This is more like the first little thaw.”

I murmured my agreement and was about to walk away when I heard a bone-chilling sound: the taut, metal twanging-like noise of ice cracking. Both Jane and I looked at the source of the sound, a spot behind Mrs. Luce’s jam stand. As we stared, unmoving, I noticed Mr. Anatoli from the corner of my eye hurrying his aged frame across the market thoroughfare, towards the stricken silhouette of Mrs. Luce.

The old wood carver waved at Mrs. Luce and beckoned her away, taking her hand and pulling her back just as her jam stand adopted a sudden crookedness. A puddle of water began to appear around the stand’s base of two-by-fours and without warning, the entire structure toppled sideways with a tremendous thud. More snapping sounds emanated from the ice as inch by inch, the wooden stall slid under the pond’s frozen surface.

Jane and I, like every other person at the winter market, stood rooted to the spot; everyone was petrified by fear for a split second, then, everyone moved. The attendants of the winter market were an even mix of sedimentary locals and towny tourists on vacation. The locals, old and young alike, shuffled their way towards the shores, leaving merchandise and hand-crafted gifts aside as they carefully maneuvered their feet with accustomed practice across the rapidly shattering frozen pond. The tourists, on the other hand, ran like a herd of spooked gazelles.

The tourists, unversed in proper ice etiquette, pounded their way across the frozen pond, each footfall like a small explosion against the fragile crystalline surface; every thunderous step sent a spider web of cracks through the ice. A bald man with a puffy vest zipped up to his neck, slammed into me as he sprinted past; I stumbled, fell and sprawled across the ice at Jane’s feet. As she moved to help me up, the frozen sheet disintegrated from under us. We plunged into the frigid water.

The pond was painfully cold; the water stung my face and bit at my skin like a thousand intangible hornets. Thankfully, I was a strong swimmer and quickly bobbed to the surface, spluttering plumes of condensed breath into the winter air. Jane surfaced beside me, treading water with ease despite her soaked down jacket and snow pants. All around us, the market slowly sank into the depths, leaving a film of flotsam floating on the surface. Some of Mr. Anatoli's hand-carved serving spoons drifted past as I surveyed the destruction.

Through chattering teeth, as I began to wade to the shore, I said, “Forget ‘little,’ Jane. This is the BIG thaw.”

Jane was already out of the icy water, dragging herself onto the frosted grass like an exhausted sea lion. As I followed her example, she replied between bursts of shivering, “You think the old timers will believe that?”

“Nope,” I panted, struggling to catch my breath, “I don’t know if they ever will.”

I sat on the shore in my wet, cold clothes for a couple minutes, gazing over the wreckage that littered the surface of the once-frozen pond. In the distance, about from where Jane and I swam from, I spotted a lone ice float with two yellow circles painted on its surface. Only the sandbag remained, the bowling ball having sunken to the pond’s dark bottom. After watching the last few sodden tourists clamber onto dry land, I stood and left the last frozen pond bazaar, shivering violently despite the unusually warm day. No doubt, the old timers would insist on trying again next winter.