Not Even Halfway

Six girls: cousins.
Between the ages of eight and twelve.
Snowsuits. hats. gloves. scarves. boots. plastic bags around our feet inside the boots. only the outside layer.
we are all sweating underneath. unaware of where our bodies begin and the clothing meets.
this time we are determined.
the grown-ups at our grandmother’s house laugh.
“you’re gonna do what?” an aunt asked.
“walk around the icehouses to the island on the lake,” the twelve year old.
“that’s at least a mile. plus there’s at least a foot of snow. it’ll take an hour at least. just one way, too,” an uncle added.
“we don’t care. we’re doing it,” the eight year old.
The grown-ups make shifty eye contact, approve their attire, and let us go.
down the driveway.
onto the ice.
deep snow. coming up to our knees when we break through the crunchy hard top layer. we never anticipated it to be so much work. last year there was less snow.
the first icehouse: one hundred yards from shore.
no problem.
that’s roger’s icehouse, he’s even got a heater and a tv in there. he goes there to escape his crocheting wife. she always sends him off with an afghan fresh off her needle.
an uncle comes out to where all us six girl cousins are taking our break. offers us a ride.
“no. we’re going to the island,” the ten-year-old.
“but I’m tired,” the eight-year-old.
“i have to pee,” the nine-year-old.
the ten-year-old gets mad, walks into roger’s icehouse, and screams.
“what happened?”
“he was fishing naked in there.”
“eeeeew. gross, let’s tell our moms.”
we laugh and the nine-year-old pees in her long johns printed with pink flowers, her jeans, and her red snowmobile suit from
a garage sale in moose lake. We walk back defeated. the nine-year-old wet and crying. the other five laughing.
the moms: “ice fishing is for men. don’t question what roger does in the privacy of his own icehouse. He’s a nice enough man.”