Icecapades

   I broke my mother's butt. Not just anyone can say that. This little tidbit of personal history sets me apart from those who never fractured the delicate mother/daughter relationship quite so literally.

   At eight, I had only recently mastered the single blade ice skate, advancing from the kiddie-fied double bladed skates of my early childhood. The kind of skates my kid sister, two years younger than me – and still such a baby – continued to use. My proficiency at this new skill was only surpassed by my added ability to skate with my hands in the back pockets of my corduroy pants. Keith Partridge would often keep his hands in his pockets, thus setting the coolness bar pretty high. Never was there an eight-year-old more cool in her own mind than me with my red, unruly curls shoved inside a stocking cap, my knuckles flush against my buns, and my lopsided cockiness balancing on quarter inch steel atop a slippery floor.

   It was a nighttime skate on the thick ice of the cul-de-sac'd end of the lake canal. One of our shrewd lake neighbors had had the slick-witted idea to shovel a basketball-court-sized, rectangular rink out of the many inches of blanketing snow cover.

   Side note: There was a mallard duck entrapped several inches under the ice, a perplexing discovery for my refrigerated, eight-year-old brain. What in the world, ducks can fly? Why would it just sit there becoming a duck-cicle instead of hightailing away to freedom? But I digress...

   Cheeks flushed with cold night air, I glided round and round the crowded, make-shift rink, ice crackling under the scrich, scrich, scrich of the skates. On the next pass, I spotted my mother, wearing her blue parka and crocheted, white beret with a puffy ball on top, stepping into the rink. Arms spread wide to my sides, picking up speed, I raced toward her, eager to welcome her to the arctic arena. “Mommyyyyyyyyyy!”

   My mother was a pretty good skater, but she was unequal to the brunt of an eight-year-old with a head full of steam. She landed with a thud. The ice didn't crack, but her pelvis did.

   Turns out there's no good way to heal a busted behind. Can't put a cast on it. Can't put it in a sling. My mother endured a lot of pain and a lot of butt crack jokes. It's a wonder she's not more frosty toward me to this day.

1973 skating with my hands in my pockets