January Started with a Bonfire
Hardy Pond, frozen and glittering under the winter sun, was the heart of my neighborhood growing up in Waltham, Massachusetts. And in January, fitting for the first month of the year, it came alive—in a blaze.
Hardy Pond, all 45 acres of it, was once a summer respite for locals who came to camp, fish, and skate. Tiny summer “cottages” dotted the shores, relics of an earlier time, though many had since been converted into year-round homes. My neighborhood was filled with many of those cottages and houses built in the 1960s like ours. My dad used to joke that we had “waterfront property,” even though our house was two blocks away. And on hot summer days, when the pond became choked with weeds and vegetation, he’d call it “Hardly a Pond.”
But for us kids, Hardy Pond was much more than a polluted patch of water. It was our stage—a backdrop for adventures, traditions, and, occasionally, a few reckless escapades. And nothing marked the beginning of January quite like the Christmas tree bonfire.
By the first weekend after Christmas, discarded trees began piling up on the curbs, their needles shedding into the snow. Stray pieces of tinsel fluttered in the breeze, catching the sunlight like tiny mirrors. The older boys, the “teenagers,” as we called them—would start their rounds. They’d drag the trees onto the pond, stacking them into a towering pyre. The pile was impressive, maybe standing twelve feet or more in height.
They'd light the bonfire when the ice was thick enough, sending flames leaping into the night sky. The orange glow reflected off the ice, and the dried branches cracked and popped in the blaze. Everyone stood mesmerized, caught in fire and ice’s ancient, primal contrast. And, of course, those teenagers had probably had a beer or two—or three. It was the ’70s, after all.
Not every bonfire night went as planned.
Neighborhood legend has it that in January 1980, a group of neighborhood kids decided to hold their own Christmas tree bonfire behind David M’s house. Since his yard bordered the pond, it was the natural gathering spot for anyone who wanted to join in.
It was one of those bone-chilling January evenings when the stars seemed sharper than usual, and the world felt utterly still except for the creaking ice underfoot. The kids had piled up their trees onto an outcropping of rocks about 35 feet from shore. Now, it was time to light the fire.
David, probably twelve or thirteen at the time, came prepared—with a red gas can. He held it up with a mix of pride and nervous energy. Nobody questioned him. David was the neighborhood cut-up, with mischief in his eyes and a devil-may-care attitude, always living in the shadow of his older, bad-ass hockey player brother, Kenny.
David poured the gas generously over the pile, the sharp, dizzying smell filling the air. Then, he struck the match.
Woosh.
The fire shot up instantly, roaring to life like it had been waiting for its moment. David froze for a split second, but that was all it took for the flames to leap up the gasoline stream. Suddenly, his mitten was on fire.
He dropped the gas can, which—mercifully—didn’t explode, and threw himself into the snow, rolling furiously. When the flames sputtered out, the only evidence of his near disaster was the singed edges of his bangs, eyebrows, and eyelashes. But David, true to his devil-may-care nature, shrugged it off like it was no big deal.
Later that evening, after the fire burned out, the group headed to Mike B’s basement to play pool and have a few beers—this was the ’80s, what can I say? But their fun was cut short when Mike’s dad opened the cellar door and said, “Hey, I smell gasoline!” One of the boys quickly made an excuse about helping his mechanic dad earlier in the day while David tried to keep his singed eyebrows out of sight.
Oops!
Skating on Hardy Pond
If the bonfires were thrilling, skating on Hardy Pond was pure joy. The pond became our playground as soon as the ice froze—usually by early December. After school, I would rush through my homework, lace up my skates, and head out to join my friends on the ice. We stayed there until dusk’s last light faded, or our toes felt like frozen blocks inside our boots.
The boys played endless pickup hockey games, slapping a puck across the ice and shouting plays and insults. Sometimes, my dad, who had been on Waltham High School’s hockey team, would join their game. Or another friend’s father would lace up his skates and glide onto the ice. When it snowed, we’d grab shovels to clear a wide rectangle with the determination that only kids could muster.
Unlike my little sister Brenda, I wasn’t much for hockey. Skating itself was my escape. With my white leather figure skates—an unforgettable Christmas gift—I’d carve figure eights into the ice or try a spin, imagining myself as Dorothy Hamill. The cold air stung my cheeks, and the rhythmic scrape of my blades was like music. I never took formal lessons, but skating felt natural and meditative—a rhythm that lulled my mind into quiet happiness.
Even when there wasn’t a Christmas tree bonfire, there was always a fire on the ice. Someone would drag out wood, and people would gather around to warm their hands and swap stories. On weekend nights, I’d head out after dinner feeling brave enough to join the “older” crowd, feeling the glow of the fire on my face and the cold beneath my feet seeping through the soles of my boots.
The last time I skated on Hardy Pond was in the late ’80s. I took my boyfriend from Ireland, who had never skated, out onto the ice. He wobbled and laughed, and though I didn’t know it then, it would be my last time skating on the pond.
I don’t remember what happened to my skates when I moved away. I still picture them hanging from a hook in my dad’s garage. Sometimes, I think about buying a new pair, but Hardy Pond doesn’t freeze like it used to. Winters aren’t as cold. For years now, I haven’t seen the pond freeze completely, if at all.
But a few Sundays ago, I went for a walk near another local pond, and to my surprise, people were skating. The ice had been thin and unsafe the week before, but now the surface was solid.
In the distance, I saw a young girl carving a figure eight into the ice. For a moment, it was like watching a memory.
Update
The temperature has been cold for the last three weeks, not unlike the cold weather we used to have in January when I was a kid. And I wondered, could Hardy Pond be frozen? On Sunday, I decided to make a pilgrimage. Lo and behold, the ice was frozen solid! A few kids had cleared a small patch of snow and were playing a pickup hockey game. I walked out on the ice and admired the frozen expanse. Once upon a time, the pond would have teemed with skaters, and the air would have rung with an occasional snowmobile whirring across the ice. I took a few pictures with my phone and went home to finish working on this essay.
Beautiful story Doreen. I, too, have vivid memories of being with my dad on the "pond" down the street from where I grew up. Fires on the pond (complete with roasting hot dogs), skating around, playing hockey and frozen feet!! Really enjoyed your memories.