Saturday morning, 1978. My mom wakes me up, then comes back in 5 minutes later and wakes me up again, and again. I finally get up, wolf down breakfast, and put on my skating outfit. "Time waits for no one . . . " I tune out the weekly lecture about late as I lace up my skates in the car.
"Yes, I know," I answer when she stops talking. That's 10-year-old for "What's the big deal? Isn't this why they make blade guards?" I jump out of the car as soon as she pulls into a parking spot and run through the mall, toss my blade guards on the boards, and skate out to my class just before the coach starts teaching.
30 minutes later, it's over and now we have time to kill before the public session. We have the usual debate: Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor, The French Bread Bakery, or McDonald's? This week, it's special, so we go to Farrell's where I have a hamburger and a marshmallow sundae.
The next argument is about whether or not we can ride the glass enclosed elevators that go to the top of the office complex. Mom wins that one and instead, we go to the clock shop and try to decide which grandfather clock we would get if we could. And of course, we can't pass B. Dalton Booksellers without stopping and getting the next book in the Little House series.
Finally, it's time to go back to the rink. I have a private lesson with Harry, my coach. He tries to carve a tiny piece of ice out of the center of the rink for me to practice my jumps and spins. He wants me to jump BIG, so he puts his hands on my waist and spots me and gets exactly the result he wants. "Now let's see you do it by yourself." My waltz jump returns to a waltz hop. So, he spots me again and gets the result he wants. "Holly, I'm not doing anything to help you jump. Why don't you jump like this when I'm not spotting you?"
"I dunno." That's 10-year-old for, "Because it's a lot more fun this way and I think I'd really like to learn how to skate with a partner. Can we please make that a goal, and talk about how I can get there, because I'm bored senseless doing the same old thing every week, and how on earth can I get a program so that I can compete? I've got music picked out and I choreographed it in our living room."
By the time my 30 minute private lesson is over, the rink is filled with people who don't know how to skate. There is a little bit of space left in the center where some of the really good girls are practicing their jumps and spins, but I'm not as advanced as them, so I go cower in a corner of the rink and try squeeze in a few moves between the throngs of people stumbling around the ice. Mom calls me over and tells me that if I'm just going to goof off, it's time to go home.
"OK." That's 10-year-old for, "Hey, why don't you get out there and try to practice a sour cow with a little boy in shorts cutting you off every time you turn around?" (FYI, "sour cow" is 10-year-old for Salchow.)
These are the memories flitting around my mind every time I step on the rink at the Galleria. The shops have changed names, but it's really pretty much the same.
Except, wasn't the rink a whole lot bigger when I was 10?
Thank you for making me smile this morning. I can see you bent over, tying your skates in the car, not really careing what is coming out of your mom's mouth... and as always, just wanting to skate.
ReplyDeleteWell, don't you get something similar every time you take Boo skating, or anywhere else?
ReplyDeleteI think it's time for you to write that novel. Skating isn't the only thing you've always loved.
ReplyDelete