Ice, by Ricky

When I was 8 and 9-years old, I was living on my maternal grandparents’ farm in central Minnesota. During both winters, my uncle, Dixon, would take me out on the small farm lakes which were more like large ponds, to go ice fishing. We didn’t have one of those fancy ice-fishing sheds to keep us warm while fishing. We just bundled up with winter clothes and warm coats.

I never did care much for ice-fishing. It was always cold and I was anxious when walking on the ice, regardless of how thick it was. At ages 8 and 9, I didn’t weigh very much so the ice was not concerned about a little boy walking on it. I’m sure it was more upset by our chopping a hole so we could get to the fish.

Another reason I did not like ice-fishing was due to all the effort it takes before you can put a line in the water. Chopping a 10-inch hole in 12-inches of solid ice takes a lot of muscle power. I did not possess much power in my small muscles. My uncle, who was 12 and 13 during those winters, had bigger muscles, but it was still a chore to chip-out the hole – and then it had the audacity to keep freezing up while we fished.

Over the years, I have repeatedly been reminded just how slippery ice can be. One winter, I swore that I would not go outside without a pillow tied on my butt to cut down on the ice inspired bruises.

My first experience with “black ice” happened one January while I was driving from Rapid City to Pierre, SD at 2AM one Monday morning. I was driving a little Geo down the east-bound side of Interstate 90 moving at 60mph. The road consisted of long straightaways with occasional gentle curves. The roadway appeared to be completely dry. I needed to stop and relieve myself so I applied the brakes gently. The speedometer instantly went to zero as all four wheels quit turning. The Geo was still traveling straight down the highway at 60mph. After experimenting with the phenomena 3 or 4 times, I just let the car coast and guided it over to the shoulder. When it finally came to a stop, I opened the door and started to get out. Wham! I was on my butt again. My feet were out the door and my butt was sitting on the car’s rocker panel. Do you have any idea just how hard it is to get up from that position when your feet keep sliding away from you on the ice? After that experience, I still had to slide my way around the car to rough ground so I could relieve myself.

After careful and thoughtful consideration, I have concluded that the only good ice are the cubes one puts in a glass of water on a hot summer day.

© 5 Dec 2016

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com