No ice skating rink with pros's and wannabes stuffed in the corner of a shopping mall. No, it was a real live POND. Central Iowa in the winter time has many places one could slide across ice on blades. I did it as a child but the adventures were not limited to the ice.
From where I lived in a newly established mobile home park. Notably different than a trailer park, mind you. In those days (early 50's) trailers were the cutting edge alternative homes. That was before the term "trailer trash" came to be. Anyway, from our home I walked about a half mile before the first adventure and then another mile or so to the second one. It was a mile or so beyond that to the Skating Pond.
Adventure one: It was about 2 acres of partially fenced junk yard with a house, of sorts, in the middle. I knew that it was partially fenced because of the quadruped leakage. I was 7 or 8 years old when I first learned about "meaner than a junk yard dog". About a gazillion angry, barking, slathering, demon-possessed, part wolf dogs came running at me like a hairy freight train. I was frozen in place and about to be transformed into kibbles and bits, when fear turned into desperation and I began to swing my ice skates around in an arch. I held the blade of one and the other swung out about 3 feet creating a 6' circle of silver dog death. I learned that day that dogs don't like the sound of "swishing" things. All the dogs screeched to a halt just out of reach of the screaming blade.
I pulled the roots of my fearful feet up and began to walk on. I was careful to keep the 6' arch around me, hoping that the shoe strings would not come un-tied. A couple hundred yards later I remembered to start breathing again. I was tired from fear and survival exertion, but had to keep going to the Pond cuz I didn't want to do the dogs again.
Adventure two: In a desire to save energy to skate, I decided to cut through the cemetery. A beautifully landscaped and rolling hill area. Nice enough to be dead in. Along the way my mind began to think in black & white horror movies. I could see the grass on graves start to mound up and knew bony hands wanted to break the surface. I picked up the pace and decreased my breathing again. Why do we stop breathing when fear assails? That cemetery went on for about 200 miles.
By the time I got to the POND, I was a couple years older and wondered of the purpose of my trip. Out of near duty, I laced up my skates. I got on the ice with a sigh and thoughts pounding me about the trek home. Within 20' of gliding on that ice, the previous adventures were swallowed up in the joy and freedom of movement.
Energy owned only by those in decade one flowed through my limbs and when I went home I was walking with a spring in my step. The dead were all sleeping and the dogs must have been too, because no one assailed me on my return trip. Other adventures, on and off the ice, were experienced, but the thrill of the movement still fills the lanes of my memory.
From where I lived in a newly established mobile home park. Notably different than a trailer park, mind you. In those days (early 50's) trailers were the cutting edge alternative homes. That was before the term "trailer trash" came to be. Anyway, from our home I walked about a half mile before the first adventure and then another mile or so to the second one. It was a mile or so beyond that to the Skating Pond.
Adventure one: It was about 2 acres of partially fenced junk yard with a house, of sorts, in the middle. I knew that it was partially fenced because of the quadruped leakage. I was 7 or 8 years old when I first learned about "meaner than a junk yard dog". About a gazillion angry, barking, slathering, demon-possessed, part wolf dogs came running at me like a hairy freight train. I was frozen in place and about to be transformed into kibbles and bits, when fear turned into desperation and I began to swing my ice skates around in an arch. I held the blade of one and the other swung out about 3 feet creating a 6' circle of silver dog death. I learned that day that dogs don't like the sound of "swishing" things. All the dogs screeched to a halt just out of reach of the screaming blade.
I pulled the roots of my fearful feet up and began to walk on. I was careful to keep the 6' arch around me, hoping that the shoe strings would not come un-tied. A couple hundred yards later I remembered to start breathing again. I was tired from fear and survival exertion, but had to keep going to the Pond cuz I didn't want to do the dogs again.
Adventure two: In a desire to save energy to skate, I decided to cut through the cemetery. A beautifully landscaped and rolling hill area. Nice enough to be dead in. Along the way my mind began to think in black & white horror movies. I could see the grass on graves start to mound up and knew bony hands wanted to break the surface. I picked up the pace and decreased my breathing again. Why do we stop breathing when fear assails? That cemetery went on for about 200 miles.
By the time I got to the POND, I was a couple years older and wondered of the purpose of my trip. Out of near duty, I laced up my skates. I got on the ice with a sigh and thoughts pounding me about the trek home. Within 20' of gliding on that ice, the previous adventures were swallowed up in the joy and freedom of movement.
Energy owned only by those in decade one flowed through my limbs and when I went home I was walking with a spring in my step. The dead were all sleeping and the dogs must have been too, because no one assailed me on my return trip. Other adventures, on and off the ice, were experienced, but the thrill of the movement still fills the lanes of my memory.
