Spring was exciting, to be sure, but the other day I remembered a winter ritual we had. "Ice-cracking," I guess we called it, but it only happened a handful of times, so I'm not sure it warrants any special nomenclature.
Essentially, we would wait until the first week of freezing cold weather. That point in late December or early January - sometime over Christmas break - when the wind was bitter, the night skies were crystal-clear, and breathing had that bracing edge to it, like when you drink ice water after eating peppermint.
We'd head out to the "top" of the creek (where the large drainage culvert emptied out behind the local store) and work our way down with sticks, rocks, and shovels, shattering all of the new ice along the way as we went. It was partly our pre-adolescent impulse to destroy; a visceral desire for all things to be loud and broken, which my generation had not yet learned how to channel effectively through hyper-violent video games. It was partly a rage against the seasonal imposition of "indoor time." We were outdoor kids and being cooped up against our will always rankled. And, whatever else it was, it was fun.
One winter, nearly frost-bitten, I fell on the ice. Though I couldn't feel it, a jagged rock cut my knee deeply, a gash I didn't discover until I got home and peeled off the jeans that had absorbed the blood. To this day, there's a small, horizontal patch of thick tissue just to the right of the kneecap.
There's no need for me to go out there and risk life & limb today. The snow is melting, the frozen land is thawing, rain is plopping against my window, and baseball is on t.v.
I'm lying on the floor, wearing cargo shorts, and the old wound is visible. Like the twelve-year old I was, I still wear my scar with a great deal of pride.
Brian Schneider, the new catcher for the Mets, just hit one out of the park.
It must be spring.
No comments:
Post a Comment