Max’s brother usually vacationed for one week each summer at the cottage with his wife and child. He and Max might converge on winter weekends for skiing, but Mitch used the house less frequently. His son was involved in league hockey, and that consumed many of the family weekends. Mitch also took his wife on romantic faraway vacations, so she could avoid the inherent housekeeping chores that came with ownership of a cabin. This left Max with free run of the place, something I also began to enjoy.
The first time I visited the cottage, Max drove us after work on a Friday evening. Tired from a long week and pleasantly relaxed after stopping for a slob’s dinner of raw clams, burgers and beer; I began to doze in the passenger seat. In the cold darkness, without a visible landmark or previous experience to guide me, I roused from my slumber and looked out the window. As a psychic is drawn to the scene of a crime, my senses alerted me to something wondrous beyond the confines of the automobile, amidst the blackness of night. The vehicle rumbled slowly over railroad tracks, Max taking care not to wake me. My eyes locked onto a structure alone in the wilderness. It was an outdoor ice rink. Somehow, I had detected this rink, even while sleeping, miles from anything familiar. In a moment of supernatural perception, similar to the one that began my adult skating odyssey years before in a reclaimed tire store behind a South Carolina shopping mall, I sensed a rink in rural Vermont.
Max stopped the car and I got out, jogging with renewed energy toward the boards to peer over the side with child-like curiosity. A thick blanket of snow covered the surface, probably concealing a layer of poorly maintained ice below. I longed for a snow shovel to push away the offensive material that had turned crusty and hard through cycles of freezing and thawing.
“Maybe they will clear the ice tomorrow morning,” Max offered. “We’ll come back and check.”
But I held little hope. That snow looked old. It had begun to sublime in the dry winter cold, leaving a lacy crust of frosting atop the static mounds. I got back in the car and watched the rink and its plywood perimeter disappear as we continued through the darkness.
Since my first visit to Maple Terrace, the place had become a haven for me. Max and I went almost every other weekend, which reduced my Sunday lessons with Orville, but still left evenings and one morning per week for practice. In the summertime, Max invited me for a week’s vacation at the cottage, which I gladly accepted. It provided an escape from Orry, axels, the crowd at Hansie’s, and my mundane job with Consumer Solutions. Without Max, my life would have amounted to a predictable routine of work and skating. At least I had time for skating, which offered mental stimulation in addition to exercise and social activity.
The job that originally challenged me with learning about products outside the fashion sphere had become dull and repetitive. Actually, little knowledge of product specifics was required. Aside from general background, which a briefing with the client company usually provided, my preexisting knowledge of focus group management and statistical analysis was most important. I applied the same principles to virtually every situation, reducing my task to a monotonous process of interviews, data processing, and presentation of results and conclusions. Yet, I could do all of this tired and sore from skating the previous night. It was not a bad job or a negative environment, but I certainly was not growing or learning.
But with axels and double salchows to learn and flying camels to master, I did not need to divert excess energy into professional development. Mindful of my boredom, I sought challenge on the ice, a context I found more rewarding anyway. At Consumer Solutions, I had what I supposedly wanted: a job at which I was competent where I could perform to the satisfaction of my supervisor, a job that paid my bills, if not lavishly, then adequately. I never had to cancel a lesson or forego a practice session for lack of funds. I could have afforded competitions and fancy catalogue skating frocks, but remained resolute in my desire to balance my abilities before making another public display. However, jump training consumed so much of my lesson and independent time that I invested little effort in improving my basic skating skills and footwork. I might have landed a strong flying camel most of the time, but I still could not complete simple movements adeptly in the opposite direction. Orville did not hold me accountable for these techniques, nor did I request specific instruction.
The rigors of work and skating did not follow me to Maple Terrace, Vermont. Max and I took the motorboat out to explore the bird sanctuary islands in Lake Champlain. We cruised the coastline of both states admiring the beautiful cabins and their waterfront backyards. Walls of glass faced the lake from the most luxurious houses offering the occupants a dynamic view of the lake. We swam from the right-of-way beach lot near the cottage and canoed down the shore. Although we could have easily driven, we took the boat to Burlington and docked at the marina. Exploring this charming college town, I bought a few decorative items for my apartment and a souvenir t-shirt to send home to my father. Max knew the best places to eat, and I treated him to one of my famous treats, homemade onion rings, the very dish that instigated a romance with an old high school acquaintance three summers before.
But the objective of this holiday was not to burn fuel in the motorboat or buy goodies in Burlington boutiques. Quietly and without fanfare, Max asked me to marry him. He had prepared no silly hide-and-seek diamond games or elaborate ruses to capture my fancy. He had not even purchased a dazzling ring to persuade me to accept his proposal, which was not a formal proposal at all. Personally, I did not want to witness another “will you marry me” spectacle. I desired an honest exchange with a man I loved and trusted, a man with whom the concept of marriage seemed natural rather than overwhelming. Max and I had talked about commitment before, and we understood our relationship had become serious. So, casually, Max asked if I wanted to plan a wedding and get married that fall or winter, right there in Maple Terrace, Vermont.
Just as easily, I agreed. There were no chivalrous one-knee poses or sparkling rocks nesting in straw or tucked inside a Trojan horse gift item. Max did not need to impress me with a painstakingly rehearsed dog and pony show. I already knew, respected, and loved him. I was ready to share my life with someone, and Maxwell Svenssen was the right person. And even more importantly, I had become the right person. I knew who I was and (more or less) controlled my own life. Attending my mother’s wedding ceremony earlier that year unburdened me of any remaining childhood baggage. While I may have been bored at work, I was not unhappy or impoverished. I could continue to work for Consumer Solutions indefinitely. I had grown into an independent, emotionally and financially stable young woman who in a couple of months would turn thirty years old.
On a Saturday morning when Max did not have duties at the veterinary hospital, he took me shopping for an engagement ring. This time I did not feel faint and have to leave the store. I was excited and happy. Max’s brother had suggested a reputable jeweler where he had bought his own wife’s wedding rings and several other presents. The sales consultant showed us diamonds of every possible shape and presented us with educational information so we could make an informed decision. I selected a diamond of attractive, but not excessive, size and tried dozens of mountings until I isolated two favorites, finally choosing the style Max preferred. Upon returning from lunch at the Cantonese restaurant that had been the site of our first date, the jeweler presented Max with the completed ring, which he unceremoniously slipped on my finger. We were already engaged, and this symbol was only a formality.
And that is how I became engaged to Maxwell Svenssen, DVM. No pageantry, no silliness; just a conversation and a trip to a good jeweler. Shopping for my wedding dress proceeded similarly. With a fulltime job, a move to a small condominium, and a busy skating schedule; I did not have the time or the physical space to design and create my own gown. However, I could afford to have this task completed for me by a professional. Max accompanied me to a few bridal salons for a preliminary weeding-out, then I went with his sister-in-law for the momentous decision.
Felicia Svenssen and I had become quite friendly since we first met early in my relationship with Max. As we came to know each other, we discovered many commonalities. Like me, she held a graduate degree, but Felicia no longer worked; she stayed home to raise their twelve-year-old son. Felicia also used to skate, not during childhood, as I initially presumed, but as an adult. She became interested in the sport after enrolling her son in a group learn-to-skate class. Felicia signed up for an adult class and later took private lessons. However, she plateaued early primarily because she practiced so little, often skating only a couple of hours per week. Felicia became frustrated and bored, eventually canceling lesson appointments until she finally gave up ice skating for more conventional exercise alternatives including aerobics, walking, and tennis.
My future sister-in-law threatened to join me someday at Hansie’s, but she had never even seen me skate. On some level, Felicia still loved ice skating but was too dissatisfied with her self-perceived limitations to recommit to a sport dominated by children. Her role now centered on motherhood, driving her son to rinks for hockey games and practice rather than indulging in her own foolish whims. Felicia may not have been in a hurry to accompany me to an ice rink, but she gladly accepted an invitation to participate in the feminine ritual of ordering a wedding costume.
During my undergraduate years as a bridal consultant, I was rather slim. I did not skate seriously at that time and had not developed the musculature that enabled me to propel my large frame into the air. Although my current work and skating schedule kept me very busy, I could afford food even if I did not have time to prepare meals for myself. As a student, I often fell into bed tired and hungry. I skipped meals and rushed from campus, to the bridal salon, then on to a social occasion before commuting home. Now, that hurried sense of desperation no longer permeated my existence. I always had time for lunch or dinner and earned enough money to buy whatever my hectic agenda would allow. No longer skinny from lack of nourishment, my body had filled out and matured. At nearly thirty years old, I physically could not miss meals anymore without feeling light-headed and losing concentration, a condition that prevented me from doing my job and enjoying an evening skate a couple of times each week.
As a result, I no longer looked as good in a wedding gown as I did ten years before. My former figure had been tall and thin, almost statuesque. I could have passed for a runway model and might have earned a better part-time living modeling if I had been more shrewd and aggressive, but that brand of glamour did not attract me. I also lacked the self-confidence to parade a body my mother always claimed was too big, around in front of gawking spectators. However, my employer often asked me to try on sample gowns when sales representatives came to the boutique. Almost every gown looked beautiful on me. Unfortunately, this had changed by the time I became engaged to Maxwell Svenssen.
My fully endowed adult body no longer supported any fashion statement. Most wedding dresses were too ornate for me. Their glitz and shimmer accentuated my bustline undesirably, while off-the-shoulder necklines made me look like a football player. The bouffant skirt of my childhood dreams stood away from my well-muscled body shortening and widening my silhouette to emulate the proportions of a brick shithouse. Yet, I was not fat. I was not even overweight. I had become athletic and mature. I should have chosen my wedding dress more carefully, a style that drew attention to my height and minimized bulk with vertical lines and minimal frou-frou. What I ultimately selected was definitely not my best look.
Rather than signing another lease, I packed my belongings and hired a moving company to transport my furniture to Maxwell Svenssen’s condominium. In the process of packing, I found a box on my closet shelf, buried under sweaters for work and warm clothes for skating. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I lifted the lid off the container and examined its contents. Folded carefully between sheets of acid-free tissue paper, I found a treasure chest of ivory textiles: silk satin and re-embroidered alençon lace. I could barely afford these fabrics when I bought them on the way home from a professional conference I attended with my good friend and fellow graduate student, Chen Xue. I had to charge the fabrics on my credit card and pay for them over a couple of months, but they were perhaps one of the best investments I had ever made. Though I never cut a single medallion out of the lace and did not plan to recycle these fine yard goods from my upcoming marriage to Dr. Svenssen, they coaxed the truth out of my falsely betrothed boyfriend, Neil Fitch. Disclosure of Neil’s feelings allowed me to leave a futile situation and discover new friendships with wonderful people like Gwen, my last college roommate. For that reason alone, these fabrics would always be precious to me. They had served their purpose and did not need to be sewn into anything. Someday, for an innocuous occasion, I might dye the silk satin black and sew it into a pair of evening slacks to be worn with a funky jacket trimmed in alençon lace. I smiled as an outfit began to form in my long forgotten designer’s imagination. Lovingly, I shrouded the materials again in the tissue and recovered the box, placing it in a pile of other boxes, all ready for a new home.
Maxwell Svenssen and I had only been dating for a few months when he invited me for a weekend at his family’s cottage in Vermont the previous winter. This place had been part of Max’s life since boyhood. It was near enough to the ski areas and very close to Lake Champlain, the large body of water separating New York State and Vermont into which the Saint Lawrence River flows from the north and the site of Revolutionary War battles. From the front windows, one could view the majestic Adirondack Mountains across the lake. Behind the house, the Green Mountains of Vermont created a lush panorama. It was a prime piece of real estate and continued to provide an excellent escape for Max and his brother, Mitchell, years after the deaths of their parents.
Chapter 69 posted 3/18/03
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