The Ballad of Frozen Charlotte
If someone offers you warmth, take it.
When I was a boy, my dad used to tell me a story that didn’t come from a book. It came from the part of the world where people told stories to keep you from making the same mistakes twice. He never made a big show of it. Just told it straight, like it was something worth knowing.
The story was about a girl named Charlotte. And every year, right around the holidays, when the snow started sticking and the wind made the windows rattle, he’d say, “Let me tell you about the girl who froze.”
So now it’s my turn. It’s Saturday night, and the moon’s hanging low, and it seems like a good time to pass it along. I hope you enjoy it. I always did.
Charlotte was a pretty girl. That’s how stories like this usually start. She was pretty and she knew it, and not in a quiet, humble way either. She was stuck-up. Always fussing with her hair and smoothing her skirt. Always fishing for compliments. She wasn’t cruel, exactly. Just a little too proud for her own good.
One New Year’s Eve, she was invited to a party over at the Colonel’s place, about ten miles out. Her boyfriend Nathan came by in a sleigh, looking like a young man does when he’s trying his best—coat buttoned, scarf twisted wrong, but full of effort.
He brought along an old buffalo robe, heavy as sin, and held it out to her.
“You oughta wrap up,” he said.
Charlotte gave him a look.
“I didn’t spend all afternoon getting dressed just to hide under that thing,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
Now, winter doesn’t argue. It just waits. And as they set off through the dark, Charlotte sat tall and proud, her dress catching snowflakes like she was trying to show off for the moon.
Nathan checked on her a few times.
“You doin’ all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, teeth chattering behind her smile.
By the time they reached the Colonel’s drive, the wind had picked up and the air had that sharp, metallic taste that means trouble. Nathan hopped down and went to help her out.
But Charlotte didn’t move.
She was sitting just the way she’d been, with her hands in her lap and that same polite little smile frozen on her face. She looked perfect. Which is to say, she didn’t look alive.
People talked about it for months. Maybe years. And somewhere along the line, someone got the idea to make a doll—porcelain, all in one piece, with painted eyes and no moving parts. They called it a Frozen Charlotte. Kids played with them, though their mothers usually looked away when they did.
And that’s the story.
Nathan went on to marry a girl who wore mittens and didn’t fuss. They had a good life. No drama. Plenty of warmth.
Charlotte stayed the same.
They say pride goeth before the fall, but around here, it goeth before frostbite. That’s the version we know.
Moral of the story? If someone offers you warmth, take it. If someone’s trying to care for you, let them. Looking good doesn’t mean a thing if you freeze before the party starts.