Memories of Skating

Journal On! Grand Prompt to Ask Your Grand

What were your favorite activities during the winter? Who did you play with? What did you look forward to?

Back in the late 60s into the 70s, winter was winter on the south shore of Long Island. Snow, ice, and wind created gray days, making outside play foreboding. I lived in the suburbs in the quaint hamlet of Sayville. Like most quaint little hamlets, kids’ walking distance limited their winter resources. This kept most of us within a block or two of home. School kept kids busy during the week. By the time everyone arrived home, dark streets and homework burdens prevailed over recreation ideas. Kids squeezed as much untethered fun on the weekends. 

My sisters, brother, and I were not scheduled beyond the CYO basketball. Play dates were not yet invented. My mother’s mantra, “Go outside and play, and take your sisters with you.” repeated since there was always something to dust and a closet to clear out. 

Snow days broke up the monotony of the season. We prayed to the five-o’clock news meteorologists when the slightest threat of a storm appeared on the radar weather map. 

Snow, the magical fluff, was a versatile plaything. Snowmen, snow forts, and snowball battles kept a gaggle of kids playing outside all afternoon. Shoveling the driveway became a game. The plastic garbage can covers and the extra galvanized window well tucked in the garage became our sleds. The snow covered dirt mounds on house construction sites were favorite spots to slide.  

My favorite snowy day sport was ice skating. The canals and shallow creeks in the underdeveloped lots and “woods” offered hours of slipping and sliding fun. Bigger boys and dads playing hockey took over the prime frozen canal space. We kids were relegated to corners, practicing skating backward and spinning, pretending we were Peggy Fleming.

Inevitably, a little sister would step through an edge, fill their boots with water, lose a mitten, and jam a zipper they were not supposed to fool with. I would have to take off my skates, walk her home, shove her through the back door and announce, “Ma, Barbara is home!”. I left the pink nose and cheek little girl in her wet boots and frozen hands, then run back to my friends.

My backyard held the best skating rink. The Great South Bay flowed in a three to four-mile stretch between the mainland and Fire Island. When I was a kid, the bay froze hard enough to ice boat, fish, and walk across to the frozen beach. If the ice was too thick for a clam boat to plow through, tenacious clammers pushed their rakes, baskets and saws on sleds to dig their daily wages. 

Dad placed a plank between the bulkhead and firm ice. Neighborhood friends joined us. There was plenty of room for a hockey game, screeching lines of crack the whip  without falling dangerously close to edges, speed skate races, and attempts to spin like Peggy Fleming. The bay never froze smooth, so there were skips to dig into and moguls to jump over.  We skated until we couldn’t feel our hands and feet and the tide changed, making our plank pull away from the bulkhead.

My sisters, friends and I never did walk across the frozen bay to Fire Island. We were “NOT ALLOWED!”, which suited me, since I was not brave enough to challenge the danger and unpredictability of moving ice. 

A frozen bay is a rare sight these past nine, ten years. Even the canals remain open and flow as if it were spring next week. If I want to skate (not really anymore), I have to go to a rink. My remnant of ice skating on the canals and bay is regulated to watching televised figure skating competitions. 

Thank you for reading a Journal On! Grand Prompt to Ask Your Grand. I invite you to exercise your writer’s hand and link your prompt response in the comments below.

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