He-Man

Thin Ice

Winter. I was just a kid, maybe 10 or 11. I went down to the stream with my brother and a few of his friends. The stream, a tranquil space, was located in a thick patch of woods only accessible by a large horse field. In the summer the field was a rolling ripple of grass, in the winter I'd imagine it as a distant wasteland, the frozen battlefield of Hoth where At-ats would fight against the rebellion. There was a lone tree that stood at the top of the first hill. Everyone said to run beneath it if there was a lightning storm because lightning always searched for the shortest route to the ground. So we made one more treck that early winter afternoon, blowing smoke with our breath. I could taste the scarf with its cotton grit, feeling like a spaceman as I lifted my staypuff marshmallow legs out of the holes in the snow my brother made before me. Down, down the hill, the woods slowly came into focus. There was a short trail that led from the edge of the woods further down to where the stream flowed, under a rock bridge. I imagined that the bridge must have been put there during the Revolution so the Union soldiers could drag supplies, artillery and everything else they delivered to the other soldiers fighting up on the hill. In some places the stream got pretty deep. In the summer, we'd find the deeper parts to swim in. There was a large rock in one area that we'd actually jump from. Now, the water had frozen over. The sun was fading, temps dropped. I'd sometimes imagine Ichabod Crane fleeing from the headless horseman through dead trees, over packed leaves, blowing smoke with his breath. We'd walk over the ice and look down through it. In some places it had broken apart into several icebergs, each floating limp on its brothers' shoulders, water below, air above.

At some point I ended up walking to the heavy side of one of those bergs because the whole thing lifted out of the water and came back down on top of me. Seconds became minutes, then the minutes stopped. My space suit had become ten pounds heavier, my boots filling with dirt and water. At age 11 I could barely imagine this as Ute Lemper's wattery grave. Trapped under the ice.

My brother commanded the elements and soon enough I was home again, wet clothes in the basement, pjs on. My mother made hot tea and we watched cartoons for the rest of the afternoon. I'm not sure if that memory would have ever been recalled had I not seen He-Man a few hours later.

Looking back I realize how the snow against the dark night sky provided the incident's punctum. The only image I can solidly remember is that of the snow and ice against a black backdrop.