I must have been only four years old when I had my first sentient thought. Exactly when an individual becomes self aware and conscious of the role his desires play in his interaction with life is a matter better discussed among psychologists and probably varies a great deal between people. This does not mean I became an intellectually functional human being at the age of four. In fact, despite my first revelation, my mother continued to dress me in pinafores and shiny shoes until I was in the fifth grade. The thought occurred to me while sitting on the orange living room carpet, perfectly true to the period, probably beside the Christmas tree. My mother drew my attention away from whatever I was doing and announced Peggy Ann Fleming was on television. Other than my mother, I have never heard anyone call the 1968 Olympic Ladies Figure Skating champion Peggy Ann Fleming. However, I remember this precisely, though I am not sure whether Ann is her true middle name or not. My eyes locked on the graceful woman dancing on the screen. I watched wordlessly until the coverage switched to something less fascinating. My mother told me she was ice skating.

“I want to be an ice skater like Peggy Ann Fleming,” I said. That was it. I had become sentient. In many ways, I have not changed from that moment. I often sit on orange carpet and I still want to be an ice skater. However, I am over thirty years old and have never done an axel. To be honest, I required several years of lessons before landing a toe loop, but I will save that story for another chapter.

“When can I take lessons?” This was more of a demand than a question.

My assertiveness probably shocked my mother. Without hesitation, she replied I had to be six to take lessons. At only four years old, I did the math. That meant two years. Too young to realize that I could argue and perhaps bargain for a more satisfactory agreement, I waited the two years.

When I was six my family moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to Stockton, California in the San Jouquin Valley. I cannot recall exactly when this move took place, but I was already six. I know this because the address of our new house was 6400 Ridge Court. I memorized the address easily, in case of emergency, because I was six and my sister was four. Adding two zeros was simple enough to remember. It was in Stockton where I first skated.

My first experience with a vast sheet of ice actually had nothing to do with me skating on it. My parents took my sister and me to an ice show. It was probably Ice Capades. There were few ice shows around in the early seventies. I have no idea who skated in the show, and at the time, it did not matter. The most profoundly upsetting part was that they were skating and I was not. My parents practically had to hold me in my seat to keep me away from the ice. I fantasized about lacing up skates and gliding out to the center as though God had given me a gift. I imagined immediately skating with the grace of the performers. I begged and pleaded to skate. My parents told me I was not there to skate but to watch. My mother probably reminded me that I had to be six to skate.

When the show ended, I asked to at least be allowed to touch the ice. My father agreed to this. We waited until the place was almost empty and no one was watching. My father took me to the boards, looked around and lowered me over the barrier. I was hanging by my ankles, upside down facing the ice. Excitedly, I reached down and rubbed the cold surface appreciatively. My sister did not ask for the same opportunity. She had undoubtedly not achieved sentience yet and was unfortunate enough not to realize what a fabulous thing this really was. However, my sister did spend a couple of years of her life obsessed with ice skating. However, it was closely linked to the release of the movie Ice Castles, the 1980 Lake Placid Olympics and the rise to prominence of the American jumping sensation, Elaine Zayak.

My first skating endeavor took place on asphalt rather than ice. Our neighborhood had no sidewalks, but we did live on a cul de sac. I never had a pair of clamp on roller skates, though I sympathized with my friends who did. These skates fell off without warning causing nasty falls. They also loosened enough to slide away from the bottom of the wearer’s sneakers resulting in painful twisted ankles. I had a pair of vinyl (they could not have been leather) boot skates with metal ball bearing wheels. These department store specials made a lot of noise rolling over the stone surface of our driveway. My best friend, Audrey, who lived across the street, had a steep driveway made of smooth concrete. While concrete driveways are not common in winter climates, but they were a blessing in my California childhood. We would negotiate our way up that driveway by turning our toes out and walking duck-fashion with our skates on. I learned to skate at the top of that driveway which consisted of a large flat surface big enough to park two cars. The house next to hers had an even smoother concrete driveway; so smooth that my metal wheels resisted gripping it. As a kid, I thought that family was weird, although they did have a daughter our age. I liked the girl and played at their house occasionally. Now that I have been exposed to more of the world and its various cultural groups, I realize the family belonged to a different religious group than mine, which called for some subtle differences in behavior and customs, which did look weird to a six or seven year old.

We skated a few times a week on Audrey’s driveway. The most any of us managed to accomplish in terms of figure skating was a two-foot spin. We didn’t skate backwards or jump. We performed sloppy "shoot the duck" maneuvers and did forward crossovers. To no one’s amazement, none of us had had a single lesson. Being natural talents, we choreographed little routines and put on shows for the neighborhood. One morning I came out of the house to meet Audrey so we could walk to school together. She had the same emerald green jumper on that I was wearing. We wore these jumpers in our skating reviews. Somewhere my father has a picture of Audrey and I holding hands on skates wearing those silly jumpers.

Audrey walked to public elementary school with me for a year then she started Catholic school. We remained friends for most of the time my family lived in Stockton. There were peaks and valleys in our friendship, as children tend to fight over ridiculous things and hold grudges. My mother actually didn’t like Audrey, though I don’t know why. Maybe she blamed the fights on her. The most likely explanation was that I most often preferred to be out playing in the street or at Audrey’s house than staying at home, and my mother resented this. As I said earlier, I was sentient and knew what I wanted to do.

I was probably closer to seven when I actually took ice skating lessons. That made my sister five, which turned out to be old enough to take lessons too. I pestered my mother and reminded her on several occasions that she had promised that I could take lessons when I was six. She did not exactly promise, but I interpreted it that way and made her keep her word. So she signed us up for a several week beginners’ program at the local rink. The rink was on a long street outside of town that had nothing bordering it but farmland. Like a diamond, the rink stood alone against that featureless backdrop. Inside it was drab, shabby and dark. The skate rental counter was covered with black rubber sheeting, supposedly to protect the blades. There were several rummy tables to have lunch from the greasy snack bar and lace up skates. Plexiglas windows looked out to the ice and two metal doors swung open invitingly. Aluminum bleachers lined the right side of the rink, and the floors were covered with mats to protect skate blades. Nets hung from the ceiling awaiting the next hockey game when they would be lowered to protect spectators from stray pucks. It was a far cry from the glamorous ice show and the beauty of Peggy Ann Fleming.

Inside people skated. Most of them were older than I was but many of them were my age or younger. For my first lessons, I wore rental skates. Fortunately, I did not have to endure the awkward period of stumbling along the edge of the arena clinging pitifully to the barrier wall. The blades glided easily under me. It was so much more pleasant that bumping over asphalt avoiding stones and other hazards. Within a few minutes I was skating happily around the rink. It may not have been a dazzling display, but I moved freely around the ice as though I had been skating several times before. There may be no proof that ice skating helps one to learn to roller skate or that experience roller skating makes the transition to ice more natural, but the rhythm of stroking and gliding was somewhat familiar to me and this seemed to be a better way to do it.

My teacher’s name was Beth Van Buren. She appeared very mature and wise in the ways of skating. However, she was probably only in her early to mid-twenties and had gone as far as she could in competitive skating and decided to earn a living teaching kids to skate while supporting her still active habit. She had the best job in the world.

Beth showed us how to do a two-foot spin. “Try to make a full revolution,” she encouraged.

Anxious to impress my new teacher, I pushed myself around as hard as I could. When my momentum began to wane, which was after about one revolution, I pumped my legs furiously forcing myself to continue to turn. “Look, I’m still spinning!” I announced after the other students had come to rest or fallen.

Beth pointed out that I had to spin from the initial push. I was not to be discouraged. “How do you spin on your toe pick?” I asked suddenly. It was obvious that she did not know exactly what I meant. “On one foot,” I clarified.

“Oh...You don’t spin on the toe pick. You spin on the blade. Look at what happens if you spin on the toe pick.” She attempted to twirl on the rake that stuck out of the front of her blade. She spun sloppily and dropped off her toe. Then she demonstrated a proper spin on the rocker of the blade. I watched in utter fascination.

“I want to do that too.” And after seventeen years, I would.

My sister and I went faithfully to the skating lessons and to a practice session or two per week. We completed a series of basic skills tests demonstrating that we could skate forward, stop, turn, skate backward, etc. For each test we passed, we earned the right to purchase a colorful badge with the name of the test and a blade embroidered on it. These sold for no more than fifty cents each, and my mother bought them for us as a reward for good work. My sister hand stitched hers onto a piece of forest green craft felt. They were intended to be sewn to a club jacket or equipment bag but neither of us had one of these. I do not know what became of those badges. I last saw my sister’s probably ten years ago before I left home and while she was still in college. They were still steadfastly affixed to that same old piece of felt. Those patches are the type of sentimental memorabilia I should have kept and am surprised that I did not rat-hole them somewhere at my father’s house. But they are gone and their fate, entirely unknown.

Between the two of us, we had one pair of skates. They were mine first and Carole wore them occasionally later. They were also the department store variety, but I did not know the difference at first. The boot was pure white and delicate. Of course it was constructed of vinyl, but there were hooks around the top that looked very professional to me. The sole and heal were hard black plastic, unlike the wood of better quality boots designed for figure skating rather than recreational piddling. The blade was not a separate entity from the boot, as is the case with most skates including rentals. The supports disappeared into the plastic leaving no clue of how they really were attached to the boot. To this day, I cannot explain the mechanism that held those blades to the boots. The obvious shortcomings of the boot construction aside, I would never want to attempt a jump in those things. The skates kicked around our various houses for years. They were displayed in garage sales and finally disappeared; though I do not know when or how.

Few other highlights of those skating lessons are left in my memory. Somehow I learned to perform attractive forward spirals. During one afternoon public session, which was not particularly crowded (for that matter, I cannot recall that rink ever being crowded, maybe because I skated during working hours on weekdays) the song “Mrs. Robinson” by Simon and Garfunkel came over the speakers. I liked this tune and it motivated me to skate a little faster and hold my head a little higher. With a pleasant smile pasted to my face, I leaned forward allowing my free leg to extend behind me in an arabesque position. Overzealous, I lost my balance, caught my toe pick and landed on my chest. This was a remarkably painful fall. The wind knocked out of me, I was horribly embarrassed. Other kids fell miserably on double jumps, not spirals. Unwilling to show pain of any degree, I got up and skated around the rink a couple of times so no one thought I was hurt. Once the incident was forgotten, I left the ice. Another fall forced the air out of my lungs and hurt my back rather badly. I fell hard on my butt, slamming my tailbone onto the ice. This was not the type of fall that occurred on an angle causing the friction free surface of the ice to minimize the impact by allowing the victim to slide. I dropped on the perpendicular and ached for days.

My mother constantly worried about the falls. To this day, she tells me to be careful and not to fall. In retrospect, I think this was a mistake. Her fear of falls naturally transferred to me. Years later, fear of falling stunted my development as a skater. Yes, falling can be dangerous. Skating is a dangerous sport. Anyone who watches enough coverage of skating events knows that there is always at least one competitor skating with an injury, another out healing and occasionally one will get hurt on live television. If everyone were in perfect health, the winners roster may actually come out differently. But falling is also part of skating. Skating is difficult. Even moves which are barely visible on television like a basic bracket turn, hardly an event to be announced, requires practice and mastery. The skaters who contend for amateur and professional titles skate far beyond the level of bracket turns, but they had to learn even these basic maneuvers and probably found them challenging at the time.

While occasionally waiting in the rink while we took our lessons, my mother chatted with a young woman who skated at the double jump level. I cannot remember truly grasping the concept of jumps at that time. I knew they were difficult and not in my immediate future. I certainly did not comprehend multiple rotations nor was I aware of the subtleties that differentiate the jumps. I did observe girls skating very fast and taking off into quick rotations. More often I saw them collapse in heaps on the ice. The young woman was probably between sixteen and twenty years old and was quite serious about her skating. My mother reported that she had said her legs looked like chopped meat from those jumps. Obviously, this implied that she could not land them regularly.

I watched another younger girl practicing spins in a corner of the rink that was sectioned off for her with orange traffic cones. The girl repeatedly skated backward and wound up to enter a spin. She practiced several spins. Her movements were slow and guarded, but the spins looked easy enough though I could not follow step by step exactly what she was doing. I thought if I had a small private area like that, I could fool around until I happened upon the right combination of movements to perform those spins. Private ice still seems to be the solution to all of my problems.

Often my father picked us up at the rink after work. One afternoon I was there by myself. When the session ended, I took off my skates and waited for my father. I waited a very long time. He was at least an hour late. The people who worked in the rink wondered why I was still hanging around. I was much too young to be loitering at an ice rink by myself. Someone suggested I call home and find out what had happened. My father arrived at the house while I talked to my mother on the phone. I heard her exclaim “You forgot Katie at the rink”. My father drove right over to bring me home. If there were ever an appropriate place for me to be abandoned it would be at an ice arena.

That is where my memories end. Those are the only traces left of the lessons I had to wait until I was six to get. Somehow I did not continue to ice skate. I do not know and cannot imagine how this happened. While I remember the details of wanting to skate as clearly as if they had happened a couple of months ago rather than in the earliest stages of my life, I am uncertain why the lessons stopped so abruptly. I assume the class concluded and my mother decided that I officially knew how to ice skate. That was it. It was over. There was nothing to be taken seriously in the combination of her kids and figure skating. We would not jump; we would not compete. These possibilities probably never crossed my mother’s mind. She probably did not even consider both alternatives before making a decision. We were able to mechanically skate around a frozen surface, and that was the end of her commitment and interest. We would not be skaters. Years later after my sister and I had moved away from home, I asked her why we stopped skating. She did not know either. “I never wanted to quit,” I said, “I never wanted to quit”.

My mother was a practical, pessimistic individual when it came to making an investment, even in her children. She was not the type of woman who thought her offspring would succeed above all others. Instead she realized the incredible odds against us. However, my mother grew up in a family of immigrants who barely had enough money for the basic necessities in life. Her value system was different. While we always had many more comforts than she did as a child did, children were not viewed as sentient beings with personal interests that required recognition and indulgence. Again, I think this is a mistake. Participation in some sort of extracurricular activity (it does not have to be ice skating) can be a positive influence on a child. Working toward a goal requires development of skills that are valuable throughout life including discipline, commitment and perseverance. Following one’s own ambitions can build self-worth and confidence. Obviously, if a young person focuses on a productive activity, he or she will avoid the trouble that befalls many juveniles. Overall, I think there is more to life for children than going to school, reporting home promptly and fooling around with friends in the street. Growing up on the ice could have made me a more complete well-adjusted person.

Skating was the first of a long line of lessons that led us nowhere. We took tumbling, swimming, musical instruments, sewing, etc. I hated tumbling. The teacher was a nasty old bird that slapped the kids on the backside to get them to do somersaults. Swimming taught me to swim much like my few weeks of ice skating taught me how to stroke around a rink. I never fantasized about becoming a great swimmer. We had a built-in pool, the nice gunite kind, in the backyard in Stockton. I liked to frolic in that pool with my sister and Audrey. We went down the slide on our bellies and did cannon balls off the edge. However, I never looked at a swimmer on television and dreamed of being just like her. This included the glamorous Esther Williams, whom my mother thought was fabulous. I despised playing the flute, and my parents had no plans to buy a piano or organ. My sister played flute with the band through high school and became quite proficient. I doubt she has picked up that flute in fifteen years and probably does not know where it is. Sewing is another story entirely. I became a competent seamstress, though it is one more thing I no longer have much time to do.

I like to think if given the opportunity, I would have become a champion, or at least a reasonably good skater with competitive experience capable of pursuing a career as a coach or choreographer. Truthfully, I cannot know what might have happened. My body type may have gone against me. I was a tall kid, but that was an era when skaters did primarily double jumps and maybe one or two triples. Perhaps I would have lacked focus; maybe my coordination would have been insufficient. Certainly the odds are against any given individual possessing the rare combination of traits to make him or her a champion at anything. From my perspective, a successful amateur skater results from the culmination of a series of unlikely events. These are as diverse as family involvement, age at onset of puberty, athletic ability and self-determination. My family could have been completely supportive and I might have blown it for myself. I struggle with this occasionally. Not whether I could have learned triple jumps, but that I was never given the chance to try.

Of course, when my skating lessons ended I was not mentally mature enough to rationalize the potential consequences of skating or not skating on the rest of my life. I did not know that kids training to be serious competitors get out of bed at four in the morning, eat only healthy foods and do not play with friends like Audrey. I can give myself credit for my ingenuity and steadfastness to my dream of being a skater. Those lessons were not the end of my skating.

The content of this site is copyright by K. J. N., 1999 - 2001