Your mention of the ice has reminded me of what is perhaps the major event of the year up in Danforth, Maine where I served as a boy Methodist Minister for a couple of years. Danforth is located near a major lake: East Grand Lake (11 miles long. One mile across). In winter, the ice gets to be at least two feet thick: thick enough for heavy pulpwood trucks to be driven across to pick up the wood that has been cut all summer on the other side where there are no roads. The big event is the day the ice “goes out.” On the counter in the general store is a large jar. Beside the jar is a pile of blank slips of paper. During the winter, people write a time and date on a slip, attach a dollar bill to it, and drop it in the jar. The date and time refers to when the ice “goes out,” which it does with an awesome “boom” and rumble. Whoever has the slip with the day and time closest to the “boom” gets the money in the jar. ​During my first winter there, the old reprobate across the street from the parsonage drove me out to the lake. He headed down the boat ramp and, to my horror, straight out onto the frozen lake (which actually could have held a locomotive). We then proceeded to make the rounds of this fellow’s old buddies who inhabited little plywood and tar paper shacks fitted out with holes for fishing, cots, small stove, and an ample supply of liquor. By the time we had made the courtesy calls, I was stupefied. I was returned to the parsonage under cover of darkness, having learned a valuable lesson about the winter culture of northern Maine. The only other major event in Danforth was when the train came through.