Judy P's Tickle Trunk

I gingerly set my skate blade on the ice and smile broadly as I feel the rush of cold air on my face and my nose hair matting with the frost. There are people of all ages here on the new Halifax oval: older women with skate helpers which look like rudimentary walkers, lots of working people on their noon break, and children of all ages and sizes. Pint-sized skaters in elaborate hockey helmets speed, nay, zip, past me. They are not wearing the standard white leather figure skates or the heavy brown hockey skates of my childhood. These children are wearing sleek modern affairs constructed of bright plastic and alloy metals which look more like apparel designed for space missions, likely purchased from specialized sections of sporting goods stores. And pink helmets! Oh my word, this isn’t just skating, it’s a sporting event and now I am embarrassed by my yellowed Value Village figure skates, my lack of helmet which would keep my grey hair from flying into my face at worst, and my long grey wool coat with toggles. But of course I’m one of them, I convince myself; this is a public recreational skate. I hold my chin up, thrust my hands into my deep pockets, assume the posture I remember from the last time I skated, and let myself glide freely…..What the heck, this is not the skating I was imagining last night as I was coaxing the knots from skate-laces and packing my knap-sack. I had seen myself as the Barbara Ann Scott of yesteryear (now that dates me) with her arched back and head cocked jauntily to one side as she skated foot after foot around the arena to Debussy’s second movement, twice removed!

Barabra Ann Scott

Ach mein Gott, this is rigorous. My legs feel as if they are connected to my pelvis by wooden pegs. There is no fluidity in my movements and I am like a marionette whose joints have seized from having spent a long winter stored hanging from a nail in a damp basement over the sump-pump hole. Really now, my joints should be more slippery and smooth than the ice! I try and coach myself “Come on Judy, minimize the effort; use only the muscles you need to balance and propel, relax the leg as it drops behind” and stiff as the minister’s wife I push one foot hesitantly in front of the other as I move ahead with the crowd. Push-push-glide, push-push-glide like a toddler I go forward. Blurs of pink mittens and the rainbow stripes of scarves, and the shiny silver of parkas rush past me as I concentrate on my momentum and on staying upright. All is accompanied by the scritch, scritch of skate-blades keeping time to the music of Tracy Chapman. I feel wonderful and, zen-like, I am one with the day; the fresh air, the smiling skaters, the clear blue sky. Then BANG. The next item in my line of vision is the cold, flat expanse of mother-of-pearl surface. My verticality has failed in spades and I am one with the ice.

I had had only a fleeting sense of my skate pick catching on a rough spot as I toppled forward faster than a leprechaun’s wink. The fall itself plays out in excruciating slow motion. I have gone down like a plank with a perfect four-point landing; a pair of breasts and a pair of knees hit the ice simultaneously with a sharp thud/crack combo. I feel my ribcage flatten like a can in a crusher and the sudden whoosh of warm air from my emptying lungs brings up a little cloud of steam as it meets the chilled air which drifts along above the ice.  I wait for my face to hit, and to taste the blood as my teeth are propelled down my throat, but wonder of wonders, a miracle no doubt instigated by Saint Ludwina, the patron saint of skaters, I come to a complete stop with my mouth mere millimetres from the ice surface.

Saint Ludwina, the patron saint of skaters.

Time stops briefly and I take stock. How much flatter can I get (I was already as flat as mammogram) Will those ribs spring back? Did that cracking sound come from my chest wall or my kneecaps? Am I alive or am I dead. Do I laugh or cry? I havn’t even yet made full contact with the ice when I hear an older woman’s voice ask with great concern “are you okay?” I am not yet sure, but with my eyes still shut I manage to nod to save face as quickly as I can. In fine Parsons style, I try and giggle as I scramble to an upright position using the skate-trainer offered by the lady who has stopped to help. I attempt to breath and speak but am incapable of either. Like an old dried up bellows, my chest expands and the icy, cold air comes rushing in. I manage a groan “ooooongh-oooo-uh” as I think “Jesus, I’ve gone and knocked all ‘de spring out ‘o me ribs!!!” and the pain blinds me for a split second. I open my eyes and find that I am the centre of the universe; every skater within eyeshot is looking at me and, I am disappointed to see, that it is with more concern than amusement. I would be much happier if they were all laughing; then I could do another little slapstick pratfall to complete their entertainment. Oh the humiliation!! The fun of the day is gone and I have just one more reminder that this old grey mare is not what she used to be.

Ouch!!

So when has skating ever really been fun? As a kid it always seemed like the most exciting idea ever before we started out. Never mind that we never had much in the way of skates. Mine were always handed down through two sisters and who knows how many generations before that. The first pair in the house belonged to June, who had begged my mother to buy them after she saw them hanging in Noble’s grocery store, already used, with a tag asking two dollars. She had to promise that she would share them with Mary any time she asked.

Like this but with buckles.

(I recall seeing those skates again much later when I was ten or eleven. I had asked my father if he would buy me a new pair because my elementary school was going skating and all my friends had beautiful white skates with shiny blades and furry pastel skate covers zipped over top to keep their feet warm. He scowled and said that we had plenty of skates already and went off to fetch a pair. When he strode through the kitchen door with the skates dangling from his finger I howled in desperation “I can’t wear dat!” The skates were a horror to behold with their white leather discoloured and cracked and crumpled with age. Small buckles on the sides were rusted into solid square chunks and the fur trim on top had, not only the hard matted texture and colour of a badly abused teddy bear, but the musty stink as well. I burst into tears and ran off to my room as Dad, between slurps of milky tea and long puffs on his cigarette, went on a tirade about spending good money for something to be worn once and outgrown. I never did go skating with my class but had one of my most memorable days at school, being left behind with a handful of other kids who were skateless – the high point being sat on the floor beside Rayfield Foster and colouring a huge piece of bristol board with scribbles in time to the tune playing on the portable record player. I digress.)

Used skates.

We would spend evenings giving our old skates a dry chalky coating after much dabbing of the topsides with liquid white shoe polish, the same stuff we used on our canvas sneakers summer past. A bit of steel wool to the blades and they were as good as used could be though, despite the thickness of the leather, they offered little more ankle support than a kid glove. They were never sharpened as far as I know, for after all, didn’t they come sharp? My sister would find me the closest fitting pair hanging from a nail in the basement and impatiently wait for me to pull together an ensemble of warm socks and mittens. Really, I was more excited by the prospect of being included than that of skating which I was never very good at. (Nothing to do with the quality of the skates, I don’t suppose). Most often I was excluded from my sisters’ adventures and was left at home to be envious because they were skating with their friends, or were on the bay ice where I was too small to venture. My brother once skated on the bay out as far as the Briton, (HMCS Calypso originally) an old war ship that was anchored in the middle of the harbour for years – I remember someone said that someone else had gone aboard and had stolen a book to bring home and I fantasized about skating out there myself and finding my own bag of old books; exotic books that weren’t in our library because they were so adventurous. But until I was an adult I only skated on ponds. My memories of those adventures are a blur of snot, sore ankles, and extremities chilled to the brink of frost-bite. We would arrive at the pond and find a cold rock on which to sit. Boots off, wool socks on and then the skates. The better laces had usually been salvaged by my siblings so on the first attempt to tighten, the weathered grey lace would snap and then would have to be pulled back until there was enough length to tie a bow – all done with thoroughly chilled fingers and it meant that the skates were not usually laced all the way to the top. (another factor I suppose in my poor skating ability) Someone would help me over the edge of the ice and steady me and then I was on my own, half-panicked as the older kids whizzed past and around me. It wasn’t safe anywhere the middle once the boys set up rocks for goal posts and played hockey, so I would shuffle about the fringes of the pond, wondering at the wavy patterns and frost trails, and the flecks of bark and leaves embedded in the ice. Much of the outing would be spent back sitting on the rock or a log, waiting for my sister to take me home for I would never find the way on my own. One time the laces became wet and froze solid and the knots impenetrable so I walked all the way home still wearing my skates, clutching my boots in my hands. Oh the misery, scrambling along the path, the light dimming to almost black, my ankles screaming from the rolling back and forth, tripping over roots and wondering how much further could it possibly be to home. It was usually my sister June who led the way and she would slow down and wait up for me and yell encouragement but for ambulation I was on my own, panting and grunting and stumbling over the sides of my skates; my greatest fear not of falling, but of being left behind in the dark for, as the sky got darker, I swore the forest got larger and the path smaller. I could hear the boys shouting and laughing further on ahead and some kid’s mother calling out. I didn’t know these trails to the ponds and it was heaven to suddenly get the scent of someone’s supper cooking and realize that we were close and shortly I would see the inviting yellow glow of light in our kitchen window and I knew I could hold my pee for another ten minutes until we were home. I remember my mother cutting the laces to the skates and sitting me on a wooden chair in the kitchen, with my feet on the open oven-door of the oil range. I cried and cried from the pain of my thawing fingers and toes which were, for the past couple of hours, as numb as plasticine. My legs ached and my nose and lip were raw from being wiped with the side of a snow-crusted mitten. “Can we go up to Riff’s tomorrow and buy some skate laces” I sobbed as Mom helped me into my flannel pajamas. Then, overnight there would be a couple of feet of wet snow, rendering the ice unusable for the remainder of the season. No matter, now it was time for sledding.

So if anyone is interested, I have a lovely pair of used skates for sale. Used by how many people I don’t know but this I know, and know full well, they will not be used by me again this season at least and, depending on how well my memory works, not likely ever again.

Ass over tea-kettle.

(c) Judy Parsons 2012