Ice Rink

Our lake has finally frozen, and now wears an ice cap several inches thick.  The view from our house seems stark as well as alluring – snow-swept and bone-chilling in an inviting, wild sort of way.

Today I shoveled an area in front of our house as a skating rink. The unveiling of the ice from beneath the snow was invigorating work, a throwback to earlier years.  I wore sunglasses to block the blinding reflection of sun on snow, pushed the shovel back-and-forth millions of times in order to gather only a manageable amount of snow each time, and replayed lots of old ice-related memories from long ago. 

There was a time in my teen years when I skated in my sister’s old hand-me-down skates (they were a little too narrow), and contemplated becoming an Olympian who could do triple jumps in a wispy, sparkly outfit.  That didn’t happen, obviously, but I did teach myself to skate backwards.  I still remember the thrill of the dream, the thought that girls could became ballerinas on ice. 

Then there was another era, years later, when I skated in my other sister’s old hand-me-down skates (they were a little too long but wide enough), and introduced my kids to skating.  I still wear those same skates despite their wobbly, broken-down leather that hardly supports my ankles, not to mention very dull blades.

When I felt today’s rink was big enough I stopped shoveling, pleased that I’d cleared the whole thing myself, without help.  Something in me said I might not be doing this in the future, maybe even next year, which made the day even more precious.