THWUuuuuuump. The sound came from deep beneath the ice and echoed across the Lake. Even the bravest lost their composure momentarily as we scattered, skating as fast as we could through the darkness toward the shore. We looked around to make sure no one was missing and laughed, feigning bravery. No matter how many times we heard an ice quake, the response was the same. The Lake made all kinds of noise on those winter nights. It is said that lakes “sing” as they freeze solid. The sound results from the expanding ice. There was no chance of anyone falling through thin ice because the ice wasn’t thin. We didn’t know that. We relied on each other’s knowledge, which was limited (no Google.) Our parents knew but we wouldn’t ask them, of course. We didn’t want to lose our freedom. So the Lake sang, twanged, cracked, moaned and boomed. We didn’t know for sure we were safe. We DID know we were Free. When I was a kid, this was our magical Winter playground.

I was fortunate enough to grow up on a lake in Michigan. There were some other kids around, and we found sweet freedom in, on and around that Lake year-round. We made our own rules. There weren’t any parents except in the abstract, you know, we had them at home. We were free from school norms too. Our friendships trumped social protocols. The popular kids hung out with those of us that weren’t. We were solidly bonded by something more important than cliques. We existed in Nature, where we explored our environment, our friendships and the world. We grew up together.

Last night a Cat Stevens song on the car radio reminded me of those friends. I could almost taste the memory. “You’re still young, that’s your fault” are the words I heard in isolation. That is the beauty of Art. We can take the inspiration where we want to, so, I blink and am skating on Algonquin Lake on a cold night. My ankles hurt. My skates are too tight, but my fingers are cold, and I don’t want to remove my gloves and pick the ice off the laces to loosen them. I skate faster to take my mind off my feet. My nylon pants rub noisily together. I wipe my nose with my gloved hand and swing around, skating backward. I see a boy, my first crush. My heart pounds and I have butterflies in my stomach. Back in my car, nostalgia, bitter and sweet, has me in a chokehold. I feel a tear run down my face and smile.

Poet David Whyte says, “Nostalgia is imminent revelation arriving from deep below our horizon of understanding, from the center of our body, rather than from the heavens above.” I believe it’s true. I understand we played and grew. I love Nature because Algonquin Lake was my playground. I am who I am partly because of those friends. Our time was relatively short, but our foundations were built together, solid and true. Nostalgia.

It’s snowing now. I love the snow.