Family and Ice

A lodge nestled next to a lake in southern Vermont is the stage for a great gathering of souls. Each January they have been coming for 25 years, but this year the stars aligned and the group grew to nearly 70. Grandparents who brought their own children when they were toddlers. Parents who came before they could walk. Children who have inherited a legacy we can only hope they will appreciate. Friends. Boyfriends and girlfriends. In-laws.

I have been coming for ten years, off and on, since I got serious about Peter (you are only invited to Family Camp if you are “serious”), and I have never experienced the great room by the fire so filled with din and movement, chatter, laughter, music, toddlers, elders, friends new and old. The tables were crowded at every meal, but wherever I managed to find a spot a compelling conversation awaited me. The kids passed from grown-up to grown-up, their own grandparents or someone else’s, reading books and dressing dolls from dawn till dusk, exhausting themselves on the ice, dancing their hearts out until way past their bedtimes. Once when I was sitting with the 2 – 4 year olds on the couch reading a book, Jack started a conversation:

Jack: Family Camp is so much fun.

Luca: It’s wonderful.

Jasper: Oh my god, it's so awesome.

Rosie: Yeah.

Josie: Me love family camp.

No arguments here.

On Sunday morning I slipped out a bit before breakfast, grabbed my skates and went down to the lake. Just as the sun rose above the eastern shore, a thick mist was released from the ice and swirled about like steam in a tea cup. The ice was thick, black and still smooth, despite the warm sun and relentless recreation of Saturday. It popped, gulped, and sang against a distant woodpecker’s percussion. I put on my skates and stepped on the surface. It hissed, acknowledging my presence. I pushed off over the crystalline fissures and constellations of bubbles, into the mist, in search of morning answers.

I coasted easily until with a sharp crack the surface gave under my weight. I knew that the ice was thick enough to hold the ice houses, trucks and fishermen dotting the lake. It had been building for weeks, was recently measured to be two feet thick. I knew I wasn’t going to fall in, drown, or even get my feet wet. It was going to hold. But the surface slush from yesterday’s sun had developed a thin sheet of new ice over night. This shattered beneath my blades and I stopped dead, immediately regretting my foolish adventure and wondering how I could get back to shore as quickly as possible. I no longer felt safe. Despite knowing what was beneath me, I felt as if I were on precarious ground. Thin ice, as they say.

Later that morning, after an enormous hot breakfast and more conversation, I chose to walk around the lake instead, sticking to the two lane road along its edge. I marveled at the groups of skaters who glided carelessly over the same spots I had run from that morning. These folks clearly had a faith much stronger than my own. Or maybe I turned back just because the going would be bumpy, not because of fear at all.

The kids were distraught when we confessed that we would actually have to go home on Monday. Jasper cried. Josie asked if she could live with Polly and Anand (and Mama, Papa and Jasper). But by the time we were packed up and pulling out of the parking lot, it seemed right. All good things must come to an end. Otherwise, they would drive you nuts.