Welcome to Winter

“Staring won’t make it melt faster Nick.” Sonya cheerfully called from our side porch.

My body awoke from a streaming swirl of thoughts and sent a tremor of alertness up my spine. The sudden motion angered my plastic Adirondack chair past a moment of reconciliation, sending an alarming crack through the frigid, still air. The remains of my seat collapsed around me like cheap shrapnel as I was unceremoniously dethroned, meeting the packed snow beneath me with a dull thud.

Sonya, always a lover of schadenfreude humor, exploded into a deep cackle that quickly erased the last remaining threads of peace from my winter landscape.

I scrambled to my feet, foregoing any attempt at recovered dignity, and took a final glance at the white frozen pond in front of me. It was the middle of a particularly cold February and the ice capped pond was locked tightly. Soon, however, spring will come and reclaim the lush, lively landscape.

I sighed and brushed snow off my ski jacket. Thinking, I shoved my hand quickly into my pocket, and in a sigh of relief, felt the edges of the folded piece of paper that hadn’t left my side in weeks. While I was never one for complete certainty, there was one fact brewing in my mind that could never change.

When that pond thaws, my life will be over.

***************************

A few months back, in the limbo timeline that exists between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Sonya and I were in the midst of a problem. While most new home owners experience their fair share of ups, downs, and shattered cosmetic dreams, our problem had a name.

“Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Bev,” the aged yet lively woman who suddenly appeared on our porch had said. At this point, we had been residents of the neighborhood for approximately 13 minutes. Sonya and I were attempting to maneuver the solid oak china cabinet that her grandfather had built in the early 1950s through the narrow entryway corridor.

We turned to see Bev, mouth covered with a quilted, handmade mask. She was old, maybe mid 70s, and was wearing dark black Crocs lined with fake black fur. She had on a loose, baby blue robe pulled tightly at the front and was holding a tin loaf pan in her wrinkled outstretched arms.

We carefully set the heavy cabinet down on the recently refinished hardwood floor, wiped the early fall sweat from our brows, and sauntered over to greet Bev.

‘Whoa!” She shrieked and jumped as if stung by a hornet. “Six feet away! I’m just dropping something off, AND letting you know about the town ordinances.”

Oh good, one of those neighbors, I thought to myself as I feigned a welcoming smile. Sonya, trained in the art of pleasantry, walked towards the front door, careful to mind the requested pandemic induced buffer zone, and said, “Thank you! We’d love to have you over once we get settled.”

“No need,” Bev snapped. She bent over, showing a surprising level of elasticity for her age, and placed the pan and a folded stack of papers on the step. “Just...read the ordinances. Had my daughter in-law print those out. They are from the county. Official ordinances mind you.”

She paused and peered at Sonya’s prized family cabinet. “That looks cheap,” Bev said with a snap. “And don’t forget, your bins must be brought in by 5 PM at the latest after trash day. No exceptions.”

With that, she turned and shuffled across the front lawn towards the closest house. She was careful to give a wide berth to the small pond that acted as a semi-boundary line between the two properties.

“Huh, she sucks,” I said, flipping Bev the finger behind her back as she strolled past the pond and onto her property.

Sonya gave a slight chuckle, “Oh I’m sure she’ll be fine. Old people like to let you know who’s boss in these sleepy little towns.”

And sleepy it was. Sonya and I, as with so many of the young and childless working population, had taken an opportunity when COVID turned our deskbound jobs into permanent couch bound ones and did the trendy thing...we left.

We chose a new life as rural upstate bumkins. The land we had purchased was originally used as a hunting retreat by a late 19th century politician I had never heard of. The house, old yet humble, was propped up on a small hill that sat back from the sparingly used county road. Ancient trees towered over the house on either side, while the property shot out back for more than two acres, only to meet the outskirts of dense game land.

My favorite feature that won me over after the four hour drive to view the house was the small green pond. The southern side of the pond had been cleared, and thick luscious grass grew slowly beneath towering pines, soft dogwoods, and thick maple trees that rustled welcomingly in the warm breeze. Several chairs had been arranged in a moon shaped crescent around a hand built fire pit. This was our future.

Sonya picked up the loaf that Bev left and burst out laughing. She handed me the pan out as she unfolded the list of ordinances we were politely asked to view.

I took the bread, searching for Sonya’s source of amusement. My eyes landed on a piece of masking tape on the side of the pan and I soon joined Sonya’s laughing fit. On it, in fine blue ink, the words “Amish Friendship Bread” were scrawled in neat, clear writing.

“Now that’s irony,” I said. I tore a piece of the wonderfully smelling bread off with my fingers and popped it into my mouth. “Mean neighbor lady rudely leaves friendship bread. Mmmm, it is delicious though.”

“Oh look! She highlighted some stuff,” Sonya called. She was in the front room sitting atop a blue IKEA sofa that was the first item to leave the uHaul.

“She used a pink highlighter. That’s cute,” Sonya cried cheerily. “Residents are allowed to own no more than 7 chickens, which must be kept confined to the resident’s property….Who would want more than 7 chickens!? 7 is plenty!”

“Well not if we want to make a fresh country breakfast for several guests,” I quickly retorted with a smile. “They say the best Eggs Benedict uses only the freshest eggs.”

Sonya continued to read, “Most of these are noise ordinances….this one is about a boat. Where would we put a boat? The pond is barely 20 feet across. Oh! They have specifics on shrubbery heights...this is good reading!”

Sonya laughed and smiled, full of hope, cheer, and the excitement of a new challenge. It might have been both the first and last time we were ever happy together in that house.

Not long after, we established a routine with Bev. She would complain, we would ignore her, she would report us, and the dance would continue. Eventually, Bev upped her game. Small things at first. Our garbage bins would be tipped over with refuse spread across the lawn. Our freshly cut firewood would go missing. We once even found a dead rabbit on our front porch in the middle of our welcome mat.

“Neighborhood cat?” Sonya had asked playfully.

“More like neighborhood bitch,” I responded coolly.

One day, Charles, the county inspection agent, a regular visitor, arrived with some familiar news.

“Really Charles!? Another one!?” Sonya had been arranging Christmas lights and red ribbon around the banister as Charles drove up the gravel driveway.

“Sorry, Sonya. I don’t want to, but I have to follow up on official complaints. She keeps calling the local representatives, town mayor, and the sheriff. It’s a huge pain in the ass but we just don’t know what else to do here.”

Sonya sighed and walked towards Charles. I was on the front porch replacing rotten floor boards, ripping up the old ones with a large framing hammer Sonya’s dad gave me as a housewarming gift. “What’s it for this time?” Sonya sighed.

“Excessive holiday decorations.” Charles said as he glanced at an old timely notebook.

“Are you kidding me!” I screamed as I stood up clenching the framing hammer in my fist. “We hardly have anything! And we literally just started!”

“Yea,” Charles said nervously. “Call came in a few minutes ago. I was down the road following up on another….call….and then this one came in. Priority 1.”

“Oh Jesus!” I screamed.

“Careful, noise complaints count in the daytime on Sundays.” It was Bev. Standing in her robe and Crocs, an angry, mean look spread across her angry, mean face.

“Charles!” She squealed to the ordinance inspector. “Can’t you make them do something about that hideous pond? The color is disgusting!”

“Oh come off it Bev, it’s my pond!” I yelled, inadvertently waving the hammer at her. “The pond will be frozen over in a week. I wish you would freeze up already and die!”

I then, in full fury, tossed the hammer high in the air, far away from Bev, into the thick, recently dead undergrowth near the pond.

I immediately regretted my actions. Sonya frowned while Charles shook his head in disbelief.

“Fine,” Bev said quietly. And trudged back through the light snow towards her house.

After cooling down and apologizing to Charles over a beer, Sonya and I had a relaxing night by our indoor fireplace.

“You should probably go find that hammer. We’re supposed to get a huge snowfall tonight. My dad will be pissed if you lose it,” She smiled and playfully tapped at my arm.

“Oh fine, “ I said as I pulled on my ski jacket and boots and trekked into the cold air. I walked, flashlight in hand, toward where I had thrown the hammer. I couldn’t find it. Getting cold, I picked up my pace and widened my search, only to trip on a rubbery, Black Croc.

Bitch, I said to myself as I looked at Bev’s lost shoe, laughing as I thought of her hobbling home half barefoot. Without a second thought, I picked up the shoe and tossed it into the near frozen pond. Well, I feel better. I turned, hammerless, and went back to the house.

***************************

Back in the present, a strong wind whipped through the bare trees, stinging my face and forcing my eyes to water. I looked past the pond towards Bev’s empty, cold house. A few remains of bright yellow police tape flapped in the wind. I remember almost collapsing in a panic as police dogs had run quickly past trees and over ancient boulders toward our house, noses tight to the ground. They sniffed, and continued to sniff through the cold, hard snow, giving up after 30 minutes or so to return to their handler without reward.

Police detectives later told us that her son called in a welfare check a few days after the storm since she wasn’t answering her phone. She was gone and there were signs of a struggle, but any other evidence had been covered by the thick snow storm and cold spell. They knew about our previous argument, but had no reason or evidence to take it any further.

Sonya had gone back inside, and I stared back at the pond, just like I had every day since it froze over. I continued to finger the folded sheet of paper in my pocket. I remember the day I found it. Tucked neatly under my front mat after the first heavy snow storm. It had been covered slightly with drifting snow, so Sonya hadn’t seen it on her morning walk.

I flipped the paper open, and reread the words that had led to my long, deep staring matches with the pond ice.

In neat, blue hand writing were the words, “You’re right Nick, it is YOUR pond. Goodbye and Enjoy the Winter.”