There is proof I’m in my second childhood. I take delight in things left behind many years ago. I love to walk in snow, stroke cats and dogs, play Solitaire, look for cloud pictures in the sky, and crack ice on puddles. Cracking ice was not common when I was growing up in West Tennessee. Prolonged periods of below freezing temperatures did not happen often. I adore the sound of breaking ice on a puddle, especially if there is air between the ice and water. There is a hollow sound as the ice shatters. You look for white ice, because if water is frozen solid and clear, it would take a jackhammer to break it.
John humors me, and today he stepped on a puddle, causing a satisfying crackle. It wouldn’t have mattered if a bit of water had spurted up, because he was wearing boots. A breathless heroine in an old novel might have swooned and said, “My hero!” Being a little more modern and less dramatic, I said, “My ice-breaker! Thank you.”