The Magic of Skating

It’s funny the way one tiny moment can stir up a flurry of memories you didn’t even know you still had inside you. A few weeks ago, Andy and I had the privilege of taking our friends’ four and a half year old daughter, Camille, ice skating for the very first time. The outing was an extension of our Christmas gift of hockey skates to her last year.

I was absolutely twitter-pated last December picking out her skates because I remembered how much I loved ice skating when I was little. I grew up thinking that the snow white figure skates with the spiky toe picks you always tripped over were the only skate option for girls. But after wearing and playing in hockey skates for the past four years, I can honestly say they are much more comfortable and user-friendly option. So I knew that’s what I wanted for Camille. After picking out the miniature Bauer skates, I special ordered some hot pink laces to lace them with and give them a little more girly flair. Camille hadn’t even tried skating yet but I already felt like she was ahead of the game from me at her age.

I don’t remember the first time I went ice skating. I can’t recall how old I was, what color of snow pants I wore or how much snow was on the ground that day. I don’t know whether I even enjoyed it at first or not. I don’t remember that day at all. But I do remember dozens of days after that first one…..and all of them took place with my dad on the outdoor rink at Memorial Park. 

I remember sitting on the hard wooden bench inside the warming house at Memorial with one of my feet wedged between my dad’s thighs as he laced up my skates. I remember how tight the leather hugged my ankles but the pain never deterred me from wanting to go outside. I don’t remember how exactly my dad taught me to skate…although I do have fragmented memories of landing on my plushy snow panted butt quite frequently. But eventually, I did learn to skate. And that’s when the real fun started.

The ice rink was always bustling during the day on Saturdays and Sundays with groups of friends and families clutching nervous toddlers. Not exactly the kind of primo ice time my dad wanted for me. I suppose that’s why I often found myself at the rink at night with just my dad and a lonely street light or two to throw light on the ice.  The warming house wasn’t open at night so we had to walk through a tall pair of metal gates left open to get on the ice. Even now, I have a habit of looking to see if those gates are open whenever I drive by the rink in the winter. 

When we skated at night it almost felt like we owned the rink because there was seldom ever anyone else there. The air was always still save for the scraping of our blades across the ice. And it was on one such fateful night that my dad first put a hockey stick in my hands. It was a short little guy made of solid wood like most sticks used to be. I remember skating around in circles and trying to get a feel for passing the puck back and forth between my stick. I wasn’t coordinated enough yet to be very successful at it but I enjoyed the struggle of trying to find a rhythm between me, my stick and the puck.  

I can’t remember how many nights I skated at Memorial growing up, but I do know that my grandpa joined my dad and I for one of them. That was the one and only time I’ve seen him skate. I loved that three generations were on the ice that night knocking the puck between our sticks. It was a night that, even then, I knew I was going to look back on and appreciate. Playing under the street lamps on an outdoor rink is the way hockey was meant to be played after all. 

When a day finally freed up for Andy and I to take Camille to the ice rink, I felt rather nervous. I had no idea how exactly to “teach” her to skate and for all I knew she was going to hate it. She arrived suited up in an adorable pair of pink Carhart bibs and looked ready for action with her helmet strapped snug under her chin. While we were lacing her skates up she looked down at mine to see that my laces were blue. “I want blue laces like you,” she said. I just smiled and explained that I’d picked the pink ones out especially for her but we could look at getting her blue ones too. 

Upon first standing up on her skates, Camille giggled and staggered about like a new born giraffe. Grabbing her hands, Andy and I led her over to the door onto the ice. Her amusement at the whole skating concept only grew upon touching her blades onto the ice. She immediately started swinging her legs back and forth. Andy and I clutched her mittoned hands and held her up off the ice. Little by little we worked her up to letting us push her along across the ice. It was neat to watch her take in skating for the first time. The feeling of it all is so unique and magical, but once you learn to skate, you forget how great it felt the first time.  

 

With sore feet and a hungry tummy, our ice time that day was short and sweet. Not to mention that my back felt like it had aged 40 years from holding Camille up on the ice all afternoon. But I was thrilled to have shared in her first time on skates and was proud of her for simply having the courage to try it. I hope that someday I share in a similar moment with my own son or daughter. Hockey is a tradition and great love in my family, so learning to skate is a must!

With an indoor rink to play hockey on now, I don’t often think about going to skate at Memorial. But I never cease to smile when I drive by it at night and see a few lowly skaters, sticks in hand, circling about on the ice.