Passion for the Pond

My father used to shovel snow so he could play pond hockey when he was a child. Although I have never played pond hockey myself I feel like I can almost recreate the experience of what he went through in order to play on those mornings. I can picture walking out of my grand parents house, a typical post WW2 old fashioned home. I can see snow covering all the landscape, while the wind nips at my face. I’m wearing my father’s favorite cap, my no-name brand coat, and my slightly itchy long underwear. I stumble clumsily through the mounds of snow to the garage. I hobble through the side door and rummage through objects until I can find a shovel that I know all to well. I lazily drag it behind me as I trudge out of the garage and across the treacherous snow covered tundra. On the way I meet up with my best friend, but the way he’s wrapped up he might as well be an alien. We continue our march while the wind seems desperate to defy our every advance. Through shear will alone we make it to our second home, as many times as I’ve played here it might as well be.

The pond itself is non-existent due to the deployment of kamikaze snowflakes. However, were not afraid of a little work, my friend and I look at each other as other neighborhood comrades emerge from the tree lines to aid us. We are here for a reason; despite the tear freezing cold we start shoveling. We spend what seems like eternity pushing, lifting, and cursing. However, the enjoyment we will receive after we finish is more than enough to make it worthwhile.  As the last of us finish our own assignments we stumble back to the edge of the pond. We turn and look at what we have accomplished and smile, a sense of warmth and accomplishment envelops us and all of a sudden it’s not cold anymore. That feeling lasts for about a second and then reality sets in and we break for our houses like madmen. It’s freezing and if we don’t go home to get our stuff and warm up a bit we’ll never get to play hockey and we would really, really like to play!