The Ice Goes Out

It's been a long time since we've had ice like this. I'm talking about big chunks, huge blocks of ice that smash together and pile up on the edges of creeks and rivers, jam up in the middle of lakes. When I first moved to West Virginia and we had no electricity, we considered building an ice house. I was enchanted with the idea of blocks of ice covered in sawdust in a dark little building, sweating through the early summer heat.

I remembered when as a child I would go with my father to Manassas Ice and Fuel Company to buy ice blocks for the Fourth of July. Those massive blocks were surreal in July, and I loved pressing my face to them to see a distorted view of the world. Later, we'd take an ice pick and break off pieces to put around the melons and soft drinks in large galvanized tubs, preparing for the celebration of our annual "Kids Day" picnic in the back yard.

We never built that ice house, and I've always been a little sorry about that. In retrospect, of course it was a good thing because the hard winters left in the mid-1980's in this area. Some winters we've had no ice at all, which left us feeling oddly bereft. Winter means cold, and snow, and ice. When those things don't happen, is it really winter?

So this year it's been reassuring to see the big, dirty blocks resting at odd angles in the mud and water of the thaw. Al Gore is right, of course, and most of us have been well aware of it at least anecdotally as we observed the loss of commonplace signs of the passing seasons. But this February restored winter in all its frigid beauty, and I have enjoyed its present and its past memories.