While I was in no danger of contending for any prestigious titles, I suffered from the opposite affliction. All spins and no jumps made Kate a very lopsided skater. Orville included a few token jump trials in my lessons, but quickly proceeded to my area of expertise where obtainable results made me happy and assured Orry of future pay checks. By the end of the year, after about four months together, I had a strong backward camel and was working on an illusion exit. My best backward camels occurred from a forward inside three-turn entrance, but I had also achieved respectable results with the standard camel-change-camel combination, a must-have in every intermediate skater’s bag of tricks.
Orry did not actually demonstrate a flying camel for me but walked through the steps. I would not expect a flying camel from a person Orville’s age, though he was only about ten years older than Randall Blanchard, who was still pummeling his over-fifty body in a double axel quest when I moved away from South Carolina. Actually, many coaches half Orry’s age rarely perform any real stunts as visual aides for their students. Coaches often quit skating for themselves, and although they understand the skills from years of training and competition, they no longer preserve their ability to perform them at will.
As a strong forward spinner, I innately understood how to launch a flying camel. I approached my scratches, camels, and laybacks with such vigor that if I allowed the free leg to lead into a jump rather than arc into position, a flying camel would occur naturally. However, true to the cautious adult skating stereotype, my first exploratory attempts were tentative and resulted in insecure backward spirals, resembling confused waltz jumps. The next Sunday, Orville revisited the flying camel, and this time my body was ready. During the week, I had experimented with the spin and landed a few slow backward camels from small hops.
A couple of nervous warm-ups dissolved into legitimate efforts, jumping with the power and elevation of a genuine flying spin. The curious adult crowd had collectively paused, gathering into small groups at the walls to witness my plight. A few of the more advanced skaters either practiced flying camels or owned rough unpredictable versions. My fully committed leaps crashed to the ice, sliding on my side or rolling until wild legs slammed down to terminate longitudinal travel. A couple of times, I skidded into the boards, a grown-up rag doll on a self-destructive mission.
This was a far more dramatic display than the axel falls that had become commonplace among Zach, Alex, and the other skaters. They watched with almost morbid fascination, gasping occasionally and exchanging disturbed glances, as I repeatedly tumbled while Orville, outwardly unconcerned, looked on. Orville had worked with children and had witnessed many amazing falls. Obviously, he viewed my trauma as typical and necessary. If a skater expects to learn anything truly difficult she must be willing to fall without fear. Since I was not getting hurt, I continued to try, almost as unbothered by the wipeouts as my nonchalant instructor.
Just as the rest of the adult contingent prepared to declare me insane and call social services to haul Orville out of the rink, I began to land credible flying camels.
“Push the free leg back!” the coach shouted. And I did, improving my position while gaining speed.
Although I continued to splay my carcass across Hansie’s ice, I also completed several good flying camels, some of them meeting the minimum number of revolutions required for the senior freestyle test. Afterward, an adult skater approached me. “Those flying camels were great,” he declared.
“Thank you,” I returned politely.
“The falls were pretty outrageous too. I don’t think I could survive that.”
Actually, I had never repeated brutalized myself to that degree for the sake of an ice skating element. I had done it willingly and was summarily rewarded with a decent flying camel. That courage and determination elevated my confidence. If I could dedicate myself to the flying camel, which is considered a fairly advanced move, I could certainly learn a few easy jumps and maybe even a couple that are not so easy.
I returned to my apartment one Sunday afternoon following a particularly productive flying camel session. While I only had about a fifty percent success rate, those flying camels that touched down without incident were quite good. They may not have been as fast as a more advanced skater’s, but they achieved respectable height and nice positions. I felt especially pleased with myself and encouraged about my progress.
Across the room, I noticed the message indicator blinking on my answering machine. Expecting a call from Maxwell Svenssen, I happily pushed the playback button. Instead of Max’s masculine voice, my mother’s annoying demeanor greeted me. Even in a recording, she sounded disgusted that I could not be home to take her call, though she rarely bothered to telephone and I had already received her Christmas card. I picked up the phone and dialed my mother’s number.
To my tremendous surprise, my mother announced that she was remarrying. We enjoyed such a close relationship that I did not even realize she had a significant other in her life. Otthilde and her intended set their wedding date for early February, and Carole and I would serve as her bridesmaids.
The prospect of attending my mother’s wedding did not excite me, but that was only because we were not exactly friendly. I had spent little time with her since she tactlessly left our family home when I was completing my final semester as an undergraduate student. Perhaps now that she had supposedly found happiness with the type of man she sought, she might be receptive to a mother-daughter connection. I expected Otthilde would be a more content person with her new mate and had had ample time to contemplate her behavior as a mother. Maybe her new outlook would make her a more likeable individual, a woman with whom I could share an adult friendship.
In a tremendous leap of hope that defied all prior knowledge of Otthilde’s character, I imagined a conversation between us where she confessed the wrongdoings of her parenthood and apologized for her unkind treatment of my sister, Carole, and me. She never seemed quite satisfied with anything I, in particular, did or accomplished. A couple of Christmases before, my father had acknowledged certain misjudgments he felt he had made during my upbringing. That afternoon united my father and I in a bond of love and respect, as imperfect but sensitive human beings who could forge a healthy future together. I wished for such a revelation with Otthilde. If the wedding weekend was too hectic, we might be able to lay the groundwork for an honest exchange of feelings at a later date.
After the New Year, I received a telephone call from Carole.
“Did you get yours yet?” she asked immediately.
My sister did not need to supply clarifying details. I knew exactly what she meant. “Yes, it came yesterday,” I replied.
“Mine is petal pink. What color is yours?”
“Mint green,” I returned flatly.
“Mom says her dress is ivory,” Carole added.
“Terrific,” I sighed. “In the family pictures the Northcott women will look like a dish of taffeta spumoni.”
Our mother was never known for her good taste, especially where dressing her daughters was concerned. She seemed trapped in an old fashioned paradigm, wanting to dress us like little girls even after we had matured. As children of the seventies, we may not have looked out of place in pigtails, maryjanes and pinafores; but as adult women we both regarded the taffeta frocks with ruffled hemlines and puff sleeves with disdain. Otthilde had undoubtedly selected something glamorous for herself, but probably more risqué than I would have preferred. As a senior citizen, Otthilde still had an attractive figure, and she liked to show it off. Maybe she feared we would upstage her, or she thought the girlish ruffles would make us seem younger, consequently making her look less old. My mother had always worried about appearances, and orchestrating a remarriage ceremony as an older adult probably made her crazy with concern.
Yet, I tried on the gown and measured the hemline, making adjustments for myself. Not expecting an outfit I could wear again for a fashionable evening, I had simply relayed my credit card number over the telephone to the bridal boutique in Florida that later shipped the dress to my apartment. After years as a bridal consultant, I knew the customs and realized an ideal bridesmaid cooperates with the bride-to-be and does not argue about the hideousness or expense of the wedding party garb.
Regardless of tradition, that frilly pastel green dress symbolized my mother’s continued perception of her daughters. While most parents always view their offspring as children in some respects, even long after they have grown, selecting these silly frocks signified her chronic desire to control and manipulate us. Dressing us as little girls for her remarriage ceremony shouted: “I’m still the boss!” As a mother, Otthilde was famous for insulting declarations such as “Because, I’m the parent, that’s why!” Such responses may have been effective on very young naughty children but not on developing adolescents. These answers to our sincere questions and disagreements did little to promote understanding in the household and often resulted in rebellion and animosity, some of which I still harbored. Otthilde lacked parenting skills and often invoked the “Because I said so” rationale instead of trying to communicate with her children. She either did not did not care to formulate a thoughtful explanation or believed we did not deserve one. Young people are not stupid. They may not have the all of the answers, but they know when boundaries are being set out of love and concern rather than pettiness and personal insecurity.
That silly bridesmaid gown should have clearly indicated that no change had occurred in my mother’s personality, character, or way of dealing with others. She probably still saw me as a child, a composition doll that she could clothe in ruffles and bows while fulfilling a noncommittal maternal fantasy. Yet, I slipped the plastic bag back over the taffeta costume and hung it in my closet hopeful that Otthilde and I might reconcile and that this wedding would be the catalyst.
Skaters usually do not learn flying spins before they master the entire battery of single jumps. Probably a lot of youngsters can land the notorious axel before they face the flying camel. Surprisingly, I have seen many young athletes who own impressive jumps, some of them working on triples, but can barely complete a flying camel, at least not one that an audience would admire. While some of this may be due to an inherent aptitude for jumping, as opposed to spinning, once a skater achieves the level of expertise where he or she can perform quality doubles and has moved on to triples, there is simply no excuse for shabby spins. However, a few ugly squatting sit spins and bad camel positions are almost guaranteed even during televised eligible competition. Skating pundits often cite the demise of compulsory school figures and over-emphasis on aerial gymnastics for the poor form and sloppy skating skills of certain national and international competitors. If this problem is apparent at the highest levels of the sport, it festers like an open wound in the developmental categories. Of course, plenty of skaters have pretty bodyline and lovely spins, but without the triples, their ability to climb the ranks is severely curtailed.
Chapter 65 posted 12/20/02
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