The winter pond was strong enough to hold a Jeep; men dug circular holes and occasionally their lines retrieved a perch, or some other inconsequential fish. You could play hockey there too, and no kid ever was injured.

At night, the AM radio crackled basketball and the announcer set you to sleep. On nights with no game, you reeled through the shortwave; Chinese trawlers barking in the shipping lanes, Maine’s snowfall report, opera in Italian… all the world’s mysteries inhabited those depths.

In summer, the pond was weak enough to kill you, murky and inscrutable. One time, a very kind boy who had done nothing wrong swung on the rope and splashed into a bad place and was paralyzed for life.