Sometimes I just stand on the ice, caught between the poles of the present and the past. The cold winter air does that to me. All that sunlight, all that snow.
I will never be a great ice fisherman and have no ambitions as such. I auger my holes by hand. I don’t own a shack. But each December, my son and I check the morning ice on the way to his school. We estimate its thickness, brave our feet across it, inch by
