The Ice Age
My Father just turned 60. He is not a sentimental man. He is, in some ways, so unlike a “traditional” man that it’s absurd. He is incredibly generous and the best political thinker I know. He is further left than most of my peers.
But in other ways, he is such a dude. He is not a fan of displays or celebrations. He refused to let my mother do anything for his birthday. But he shocked us when he played hooky the following Monday to go skate Great Pond. He is a workaholic. I don’t remember the last time he took a day off.
Ice has captured him, enthralled him. Encased him.
We went ice fishing when we were kids with this old ex-con. I don’t remember more than the memory of a collage of images. I imagine myself in the furry coat I wore to the Bronx Zoo, stern and stoic. I imagine my brother, his hair like it was at Jinny and George’s wedding. I remember the automatic recording informing us we had a call from Cumberland County Jail when the ex-con became, once again, just a con.
I remember sitting in freezing cold ice rinks, being confused as to why it was so cold inside, watching my older brother play hockey. I remember a weekend of tournaments in 2008 when I begged my parents to buy me fried dough, and my brother got a color-changing cup with a Huskey on it that we still have, but which long ago picked one color to stay. I remember never being able to tell which one was my brother. I remember unthinkable boredom. I remember playing with other little sisters. I remember watching him do crossovers effortlessly, carving the ice into crescents, skating backward without even looking behind.
I remember trying to imitate him, crashing to the ice when it still wasn’t all that far away. Then I remember getting it and the split second of thrill, the near fall, with every step. I remember my brother and father playing pond hockey and being frustrated by my lack of size, speed and skill. I remember giving up, huffing off in frustration or boredom.
I remember the quick passing of long adventures unsupervised, exploring paths through the reeds, making forts in the ice, putting my face to the ice to see the fish I was sure were still down there. I remember, too, the shore excursions, hurrying back to the milk crate to have my dad tighten my skates and pour me hot chocolate, to eat an apple, pet the dog, take off my coat, lose my mittens, greet my friends, abandon my stick, pick up my stick to go beat a hole into the ice. I remember slamming my stick down over and over to no avail. I remember tiring and climbing into my dad’s truck, the tiny red one with the yellow decal and the gray-rainbow seat covers.
Dad still keeps a milk crate in his car in the winter, but we don’t go with him anymore. My brother has become reclusive, and I a weeny. My feet ache, and so does my mind. The stretching ice doesn’t interest me, nor do the reeds loom over my head.
My mother never skated much, even though she bought a pair of cushy, plush figure skates. My second-hand hockey skates haven’t seen much use. They may never have adjusted to my feet. I remember wearing them for the first time. I was 13, maybe. When we bought them earlier that day, my dad brought his along and got them sharpened for the first time in a decade. He was so unused to properly sharp skates that he ate so much shit I briefly thought he was dead. He flew backward and hit his round, thinly covered head, like a tomato on the pavement. He didn’t move for a minute, giving me plenty of time to imagine his brains splattering out beneath him, still hidden from our view.
What would I tell my mother?
I prefer summer, it’s true. I prefer water, the blinding summer sun in the sky, not the glint of far-off warmth the winter one provides. Hard surfaces are not my friend; quite the opposite.
And in some ways, I’m getting my wish. There’s been no good ice these past few years. No snow. No winter.
