Forces of nature

Somewhere in my formal education, a teacher listed Jack London’s short story, “To Build a Fire”, in the class syllabus. I’ve since recalled this depressing and poignant story throughout my lifetime, particularly this snowbound and icy winter.

If you haven’t read this small piece of fiction by London, published in 1908, I recommend you do. Particularly if you plan to tread alone foreign territory such as the Yukon.

On the other hand, one hundred and seventeen years later, whether one of Michigan’s frozen lakes, or a pond left by a developer near your home, watch your step in winter lest the ice break under your weight.

On another freezing February day, I speak from experience.

The place is Wagner Street, the first of a new subdivision in the city of Warren where I live with my parents and four sisters. I’m a young teenager, long for fresh air and exercise, and ask my mother permission to take my five-year old sister with me to the pond at the end of our street.

Unfamiliar with the pond’s dangerous condition and occupied with chores, Mom says yes, to dress Patty in her winter coat, hat, mittens and boots.

I do, and bundle up likewise.

We find the corner and pond cluttered with tree roots, limbs, branches, rocks, and garbage. Yet, the pond is frozen, and large enough for some fun sliding.

After a few steps, the ice breaks under our boots. We sink in mud, trip on submerged branches. I grab Patty and lift her up, place her on the frozen ice closer to the edge of the pond. The ice breaks again.

As Patty sinks, I struggle to get hold of her waist. I sink deeper, can’t move my feet, trip again, almost fall into the water. Thankfully, the pond is too shallow for me to drown.

“Hold on, Patty” I cry, desperate.

“I can’t!” my little sister yells.

A car stops by the curb. A man throws open his door and runs to us in a long, dark dress coat.

He pulls Patty out of the mud and water and sets her on dry ground in safety. He wraps his arms around my waist and helps me dislodge my boots from the mud.

I stand next to Patty, safe.

As if an angel, without a word, our hero returns to his car and drives away.

Patty and I waddle up the sidewalk to our door, muddy and chilled to the bone. I open our door and yell for Mom.

She strips Patty of her clothes as I remove mine. Mom prepares a hot bath for us.

She carries our soppy, dirty clothes to the basement, throws them in the washing machine, wipes our tracks from the front door.

Dear Reader, we don’t have to tread the Yukon alone to face the forces of nature and adventure. We may learn her power and fury in our own backyards.

Furthermore, I’m ever grateful for the angel who rescued my little sister and me.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com