Snow Princess is in town

Merry Christmas 2012

Short & Sassy

My mother loved to ice skate. She grew up with seven brothers and owned only hockey skates until adulthood. She didn't do fancy spins or jumps, but skated with strength, speed, and ease, until the age of 60 when she went on the ice for the first time with a brand new pair of skates my father gave her as a Christmas present.  He apparently couldn't bear the sight any longer of the 40-year old ones she loved that were held together with duct tape. On her first outing breaking them in, those sharp blades and stiff leather did her in, she fell, broke her arm, and never skated again. 

When we were toddlers, she taught each of us to skate in double blades on Schoolhouse Pond, standing behind us as we held onto and pushed small but heavy metal chairs across the ice. Before that, she bundled her babies up and put us in a wooden sled with metal runners, the kind I only see now in the antique shops downtown.  They fetch a good price.  She'd pull us swiftly across the pond, subtly giving us the clear message that being on ice in the cold, fresh air was a good thing.  Nothing pleased my mother, a proud December-born baby and mother of four more winter babes, more than the redness of cheeks that came from being outdoors. Her French-Canadian blood was thick and, while she never stated it aloud, I believe  that winter was her favorite season.

On snow days when "no school" was announced, my brothers would race to King's Pond, skates thrown over their back, for a pickup hockey game. I followed along, skating on the outskirts and exploring the edge of the pond, testing how thin or thick the ice was in spots, listening, watching for the sounds and sights of the little cracks, often followed by bubbles of water underneath. Later I took a few lessons at the rink at Pomfret Prep, a local private high school. I knew of Peggy Fleming, adored Dorothy Hamill, and reacted with horror later in life when Tonya Harding whacked Nancy Kerrigan in the leg? (or maybe she paid someone to do it, my memory fails me). 

My last time on ice was in my late 20's, after a few year hiatus, and I can remember the feeling of my weak, sore ankles to this day.  I don't think figure skating is like bike riding, in that it just "comes right back to you."  Beatrice has seen skating on TV, because I still love to watch this crazy sport, and she desperately wants to go skating. After all, it's ballet at it's core, and the fancy dresses and pretty hairdos command her attention. She "skates" around the house in socks and our TV room rug is her "rink," which more often comes out as "wink." She wants me on the ice, and I mean real ice. She saw my pair of skates, covered in dust yet still pristine white, hanging on a rusty nail in our basement.  I am terrified. She asked last winter, but I put her off.  When is the precise moment when all of a sudden one thinks about and dreads falling?  For me, it came a few years ago.  I can usually rely on my younger husband for moments like this, but he's skated on ice only twice in his life.  Skateboarding was his thing, and he snowboarded a bit. My feet have run a few thousand miles, carrying a body that was never a runner's body, and they suffer on a daily basis.  There's almost no way they will get me skating again.  But my daughter wants to skate. Looks like this is the winter I may have to enter a rink somewhere (the unevenness of natural water with its twiggy bumps?  No way.) I'll try to find some double runners, and will bring along a little metal chair for balance and security.  And Beatrice might need something too.

All of her favorite things, dreams, and wishes come out in her artwork.  Above is a "'mazin' skater, and below is "a 'mazin' skater teaching a kid who doesn't know how to skate." My little Picasso.

While pondering our advent calendar:

"Jesus was not born from Mary's belly, I think he was adopted."  "Why?" I asked.  "Because, Mama, look at him... he is big!" (true, he looks like a 2-year old in this version) "And there is hay and babies cannot be born on hay, only cows, so I know he is adopted.  That is the real story."

Ballerina on Picnic Table

It's not been an easy couple of months.

                                      My brother had to have his right leg amputated,

                                  Anthony's beautiful 22-year old cousin was murdered,

                                       Beatrice has been in, let's just say a "rough phase,"

 in which she's emotional, clingy, demanding, trying, and at times overcome with anxiety.

 Work has been especially stressful. Our dog is on Prozac because she apparently feels that our heating system is haunted, causing her to pant, paw at us, hide, and interrupt our sleep. And then yesterday, the events of Newtown, CT (which is nearly 2 hours away from us) unfolded.  I'm still in shock.  It's a parent's nightmare.  An educator's nightmare.  A mental health professional's nightmare.  I fit all three of those categories.  It's almost more than I can bear.

So this morning I took a few minutes in the sunshine to admire the blue sky to watch a spontaneous ballet performance on my picnic table.