Thursday, December 6, 2007

Don't Go There...

It was Winter of 1964 following a severe ice storm that hit both Dakotas, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and continued eastward to the coast, leaving every surface in its path coated with a thick ice veneer.

As eleven-year-old Gary waited by the cars for his mom and sisters to finish grocery shopping, he was mesmerized by the smooth, cold layer of ice that had completely enveloped the cars' door handles. Bored, he paced up and down the sidewalk, running his hands over the cars' hoods, door handles, windows, pressing both hands into the ice on the windows and holding them there for a bit, melting perfect handprints into the ice.

The ice looked so smooth, it even looked a little like water. He slowly stretched out his tongue to explore the cold, smooth door handle of his family's car.

Eyes bulging, there he stood--his tongue was stuck. He turned his head slightly from side to side, eyes darting up and down the street, returning several times to the grocery store as he willed his mother and sisters to come to his rescue.

"Ith anyone athound who can hep me? Outh!! Outh!! Hep! Hep! Hep! Ith's tharting to hurth!--ith's tho cod!"

He pulled--it really hurt--he pulled some more. Slowly, painfully, his tongue pulled loose from the door handle leaving a small patch of skin behind. He choked back tears, rubbed his running nose, and spat on the ground.

See for yourselves:

No comments: