I never learned how to skate. Growing up in southwest Saskatchewan, land of perpetual Chinooks, “good” ice didn’t last long enough for me to get the hang of it. I’d try, tripping, falling, crawling to the edge of the rink to pull myself up. Some years I’d get the knack of forward, but I never figured out how to stop. I would crash into the boards when I needed a rest. So I grew up not knowing this most basic Canadian skill. It never bothered me, until now.
Now I’m a Canadian mother. And not just a Canadian mother, but a northern Canadian mother. And, while there are some things missing in a community that’s over 350 kilometres from the nearest Tim Hortons, one thing we have plenty of is ice. Six or seven months a year. Acres and acres of lake ice and a big rink that’s always filled with NHL hopefuls.
This year the town cleared the snow from two empty lots, one on either end of town, and flooded them, making two minirinks just for the little kids. No teenagers allowed. Plenty of opportunity to learn to skate.
One sunny Saturday afternoon in mid-January, my husband and I headed down to the rink with our two boys—aged ten and six. We sat on the snowbank and laced up their skates. We checked to make sure they had mitts and toques. The older one stepped out somewhat cautiously, but was soon on his way. The younger one … I don’t know. I couldn’t watch.
I peeked between my fingers as he took one or two faltering steps and crashed to the ice. He bounced back up as if he were on springs.
Another step or two and down again. His dad and I cheered from the banks every time he got back up. The scene repeated itself over and over until, by the end of half an hour, he was making it from one end of the rink to the other in his high-stepping, trotting way.
He cried when we told him it was time to go home, that his feet would be sore and his body would hurt if he kept going. He insisted that we take him back after supper so that he could practise some more. He’s probably skated more in the last month than I have in my entire life.
And that’s when I knew, watching him that night skating in the dark, that there are so many things my boys are going to need to learn that I won’t have a clue how to teach them. I’ll do my best to supply them with the tools and to introduce them to the folks who know the ropes. But then I’ll just have to stand by and watch through my fingers as they fall, pray that they get back up again, and cheer when they do. I’ll have to learn to not interfere when they’re surrounded by those who are bigger, faster, and stronger. And let them go, even when every ounce of my being shouts at me to hold them close. I’ll have to stand by the side of the rink, and watch them skate.
Pinehouse Lake, Saskatchewan