Hank Groff’s newest book, THE ONE DAY GIFT, launched in late November to rave reviews. Here is an excerpt of the story:

David and the icy river

When I was a ten-year-old boy, my parents decided to move our family away from the darkening world of suburbia in Delaware. I joke about it today, but during the mid-1970s, the township known as Brookside had become an increasingly rough place to live. My mother often said, “This town ain’t got nothin’ but drugs, crazy music, and gangs.” While she exaggerated a bit, it was confirmed that the neighborhood had become a much sketchier place to live compared to when our parents bought the house a decade earlier. Members of a motorcycle gang known as the Pagans lived just a few streets away from us, and even my eldest sister, Lee Ann, got married at seventeen years old so that she could find a way out of the neighborhood.

So, for several months, our father took the entire family on weekend drives to find a safer place to live, and week after week, we sojourned throughout the eastern shores of Maryland until our parents agreed upon a small town known as Millington. Tiny is a more accurate word to describe this community. The entire downtown consisted of a stop light, gas station, hardware store, and a five-and-dime shop with an old-fashioned lunch counter owned by Herman and Barbara Voshell.

During the hot summer days, my mother would give me a one-dollar bill to buy us an ice cream cone. While the town may have been small, the cones were enormous. A 40-cent serving was packed with two huge scoops, and my mother’s 60-cent cone seemed like half a box of ice cream. I would ride my bike four blocks to Voshell’s store and, knowing I had to hurry back home before it melted, the counter girl would make sure she packed each cone with the coldest ice cream she could find from the back of the freezer. I would stand in awe of each growing mound, wondering how to deliver two cones topped so high home. I was always tempted to lower the risk of dropping it by licking some of my portions. Still, Mrs. Voshell would tightly cover the desserts with her fancy waxed paper, shine her famous country smile, and command me to “Ride home as fast as you can, Harry, and don’t stop because your momma don’t want a milkshake!” During those 90-degree days, I would have to pedal pretty fast to get back home in time so we could both enjoy our sweet treats.

While the summers in Millington were occasionally quite hot, the winter months were intensely cold. The county, with its surrounding towns and rolling hills, became well known for its vast corn fields, but with very few trees left to provide a wall of protection, the whipping winds would only make the freezing temperatures much more bitter.

Regardless of the season, my best friend, David, and I would spend all twelve months fishing, canoeing, camping with the Boy Scouts, or aimlessly exploring places posted with no trespassing signs. No matter the time of year, we always had a plan for our next adventure. Nothing could stop these two boys from exploring, even during the dreary winter days.

On one bitterly cold day, David knocked on the door and asked me if I wanted to walk on the water. He said to walk on the frozen river, but it sounded like the story of Jesus walking on the water across the Sea of Galilee in Israel. I spent most nights reading bible stories as a kid, so I knew that one well. “Sounds great, buddy. Let me get my coat!” I exclaimed. David was three years my senior, and I would never let him think I was too chicken to try something new. After all, there was a rare chance to be accepted into the big boys’ club. I jumped at the chance.

At first, everything seemed fine. We lowered ourselves slowly from the muddy bank onto the ice's edge and tapped hard a few times with our feet. No cracks. No splits. We were confident it was strong enough to hold us both. David was about three feet away from me when we stood up, and while he meandered away in one direction, I started my journey heading the opposite way. Everything seemed fine at first. We even joked about who would be the first to take a wrong step and fall on their ass. The ice seemed rock solid at the edges, but something did not seem right as I walked further toward the center of the river.

The tributary of the Chester River that flows through Millington can sometimes act strangely. While there is never a torrent of rushing waters, the dragging current can sometimes flow in weird directions. During the summer months, you can enjoy a casual swim, and before you realize it, the force of the water will push your body toward the areas where cold, thick mud resides at the bottom of the river. When you attempt to stand up, the mud will suck around your feet and lock you in it like quicksand. If you don’t have someone nearby to grab your arm and slowly pull you out, your body weight can push you down even further. As your limbs sink deeper into the pressuring mud, the currents will quickly change course and begin to rise toward your shoulders and neck. The more you move, the quicker you can sink, and if no one is around to pull you out, you will flail like a bird in a noose until it becomes almost impossible to escape the rising tide.

As each second passed, I shimmied closer and closer toward the center of the river until I could see the river rushing beneath the ice. The whipping winds seemed angry that day, as though they had an appetite for destruction, even at the expense of someone’s soul. Suddenly, everything around me started to tick down into slow motion. As I bent forward to look into the icy waters streaming below me, my ears heard a loud crack, and the frozen floor holding me up seemed to disappear instantly, dropping my entire body entirely under the fast-flowing water. I recall thinking, “I can’t tell if these waters are that cold.” When David heard the pop of the ice, he turned to look for his younger friend, who was no longer in sight.