Out walking yesterday, once again I found the ice formations on the Charles to be totally new. At first what appeared to be a pure uninterrupted white snow blanket became on closer examination a continuous surface of surprises.
What caught my eye the most was the small circular spots of water extending out into the snow- covered surface in a spider-like crawling motion. Crawling its way towards warmer weather and the promise of spring. I remember 50 years ago as a young girl ice skating on Felsmere Pond in Malden or on the lake in Mount Hood in Melrose or the pond behind the first Chestnut Hill Mall, but now nothing freezes over; no one skates on local ponds and every day I walk across the Mass Ave bridge, I want to walk across the ice formation but know it's too thin or I'm too scared to find out. I remember one year an MIT pledger to a fraternity was sent across the icy river and drowned. Just like standing at great heights there is a compelling impulse which goes against all sense of safety and reason that calls to me to jump, so, too, there is some ice creature, sulking and trapped beneath the still white coldness that calls to me with an equal haunting invitation to step onto its immense expanse, to play with it. But I keep walking. The words "ice spiders" crawling through my mind long enough for me to remember to write about it.
Out walking yesterday, once again I found the ice formations on the Charles to be totally new. At first what appeared to be a pure uninterrupted white snow blanket became on closer examination a continuous surface of surprises.
What caught my eye the most was the small circular spots of water extending out into the snow- covered surface in a spider-like crawling motion. Crawling its way towards warmer weather and the promise of spring. I remember 50 years ago as a young girl ice skating on Felsmere Pond in Malden or on the lake in Mount Hood in Melrose or the pond behind the first Chestnut Hill Mall, but now nothing freezes over; no one skates on local ponds and every day I walk across the Mass Ave bridge, I want to walk across the ice formation but know it's too thin or I'm too scared to find out. I remember one year an MIT pledger to a fraternity was sent across the icy river and drowned. Just like standing at great heights there is a compelling impulse which goes against all sense of safety and reason that calls to me to jump, so, too, there is some ice creature, sulking and trapped beneath the still white coldness that calls to me with an equal haunting invitation to step onto its immense expanse, to play with it. But I keep walking. The words "ice spiders" crawling through my mind long enough for me to remember to write about it.
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