By Mary Sharry
Sun contributor

It was the time of Winterfest, mid-February, in the village of Empire, when temperatures dipped well below the freezing mark. Snow had been shoveled to clear an area for ice-skating on South Bar Lake. Earlier in the day a fire truck had been there to spray a fine mist of water making a smooth surface.

An almost-full moon sailed high over frozen South Bar Lake where luminaries glowed around the border of the skating rink. A bonfire burned near one edge of the lake. Someone had provided a canister of hot chocolate inside the gazebo where another person had tacked sheeting around the sides of the structure providing a warming hut for the skaters and protection from the winds. Captured in the flickering candlelight from the luminaries, the bonfire, and the steady light of the moon were the outlines of grown-ups and children gliding over the ice. The metallic scrape of skate blade edges cut through the night air.

Inside the gazebo I laced my skates and then half crawling, half standing, made my way down the sandy embankment to the frozen surface of the lake. It’s an odd sensation when first out on the ice. You haven’t had skates on your feet in years and suddenly here you are, standing on thin blades, uncertain of your balance, but with a little push off from one foot you glide onto the other and feel like a youngster. That was how I felt venturing farther out onto the ice, cautious and wobbly. Suddenly a strong arm circled my waist. The figure of a young man was at my side and he whirled me around. I felt a sense of exhilaration. Imagine Katarina Witt and Brian Boitano!The Winter Olympics! Just for a moment, and then this stranger released me and skated away, and I was left to wobble back to the shore and climb the bank to the gazebo. Who was that stranger? An apparition?

One year I took my ice skates out of their storage box in the basement, tried on the first skate, and found I could not stuff my foot inside. Upon examination, I discovered the skate was full of popcorn. Apparently there had been a mouse in the house who had taken to my regular late night bowl of popcorn, the remains of which were set aside for tossing to the birds in the morning. Painstakingly, over the summer months, this little creature must have carried each plump kernel of popped corn to the basement and chose my skate for his cache.

Iceskating on South Bar was not the only activity of Winterfest. There was the plunge into the frigid water of the lake, the big event, the Polar Bear Dip.

“People jumping into the lake in the middle of February? Must be the height of boredom!”

That was my first year in Empire, and I expressed that thought to someone who immediately chastised me and said that there were many good people who put time and effort into the entire Winterfest event. Obviously I was a newbie to the village, a fudgie.

Of course I walked down to South Bar Lake with so many others just to watch the polar bear dip. There at the edge of the crowd of onlookers was an ambulance. The event took on an aura of danger. Yikes! Jumping into icy water could cause one to go into shock. The ambulance was a necessity. And it was. Someone, an older woman somebody said, had slipped on the ice and later I heard that she had broken her leg or ankle. To the rescue, Empire’s expert first-responders did what they do best. There was definitely reason to have emergency support there.

A couple hundred people stood around the hole that seemed large enough for two back-porch Jacuzzis laid side by side or, say, a king-sized bed. Men, women, children, teenagers, the elderly, and so many dogs all came to watch the jumpers. About 30 people wearing only their bathing suits with towels or robes around their bare shoulders waited their turn to jump. Some of them wore flip-flops; some were barefoot. First in, though, was Empire’s mascot polar bear. It was Mike Vanderberg in those days who came out onto the ice with the stuffed toy polar bear tied by a rope to a long pole. He had the honor of dipping the bear after which the crowd cheered and the polar bear dip officially began. Some of the jumpers simply held their nose and with one hand over their head, stepped off the ice and plunged into the cold water of South Bar Lake. At one point there were so many people gathered around the opening in the ice that their weight caused the ice to sink somewhat making for shouts of concern, scurrying, laughter and wet pant legs. As the polar dip continued a few of the participants stepped daintily, big toe in the water first before their big splash. Someone went in doing a belly smasher and another, a cannon ball, and then came someone performing a neat, heels-over-head backflip. Acrobats all! There was applause for each jumper.

Last of all there came a man out onto the ice dressed in a business suit, oxford shirt, necktie, homburg or bowler derby on his head and a briefcase in his hand. He looked as if he had just walked off Wall Street or Madison Avenue. An executive type, he casually walked into the water as if walking into an uncovered manhole. He emerged as did everyone, wet and cold. The event was over and the crowd observing the event turned to walk home or to their cars.

One year little South Bar Lake thawed, just in time for Winterfest. That was the year the would-be jumpers ran en masse into the big lake across the road — Lake Michigan. I don’t know what happened to the polar bear, but I imagine he was carried into the water, too, dangling on his line from the pole.

One year, at the time of Winterfest, there was a deep freeze, so cold that your breath froze in front of your face. The Polar Bear Dip was called off, but around the village you could hear people grumbling about how they could have stood the cold. These temperatures, this wind meant nothing. They’d seen worse.

Empire’s Winterfest has been not only about a bonfire, moonlit iceskating, a plunge into icy waters. There have been cross-country ski races, children’s games, curling, chili cook-offs, live music, dances at the town hall where boot-clad folks danced to live music, their parkas hung over the backs of chairs. As the festivities wound down on Sunday morning there would be a pancake breakfast and an open mic at the local tavern in the afternoon.

These events occurred because of the spirit of this village. Here in the village of Empire, in the deep mid-winter, there’s no boredom. Here the spirit of camaraderie and joy has been alive and well. Now at this point of mid-January, 2012, we have had scant snow and thin ice. We’ll see what’s in store for this year. Viva Winterfest!

This GlenArbor.com story is sponsored by La Becasse, serving authentic French country fare in Burdickville.