On one fine day, the skating was simply perfect

Do you ever wonder if your childhood memories are as idyllic as you remember them?

For some reason a particular ice-skating outing as a child has been replaying in my mind lately, maybe because it likely happened around this time of year when the weather was cold enough but the snow hadn’t piled up yet.

Ice skating was our sport of choice growing up in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Just about every weekend during the winter months, my brothers and I would head to Rushveldt Lake on our farm, really just a glorified slough about a mile down the road.

If there was too much snow, Dad would take the tractor with the front loader ahead of us and clear off enough space to accommodate our impromptu hockey matches and let us perfect our pirouettes and figure-eights. Usually the wind swept the snow into drifts far enough apart for us to maneuver between them.

One year the conditions apparently were just right for us to skate on Hay Creek, a shallow stream in a swampy area that’s now a protected wetlands area. At that time, in the early 1960s, there was only a farm machinery trail leading to an old bridge over the creek, so I’m guessing it hadn’t snowed enough to prevent our car from getting through.

It was the only time I remember Dad skating with us. We were surprised when he strapped on a pair of old metal skates that fit over his shoes. I have no idea where he got the skates (which my quick research indicates they were an early 1900s model) or where they ever went to.

We were flabbergasted when Dad struck off on the ice, gliding with ease. Clearly he had picked up some skills as a kid. We followed him back and forth, forming a single-file conga line and mimicking his every move.

I don’t remember Dad ever skating with us on Rushveldt Lake, though perhaps he did when we were just learning how.

In my mind that scene at Hay Creek is so wonderful it rivals the most picturesque Currier and Ives winterscape lithograph. Whether or not it was exactly as I recall, I don’t know. Perhaps our minds embellish those favorite memories.

I have lots of other memories of being out in the cold, though, that aren’t as pleasurable. Most of them involve being cold — very, very cold. Mom would tie wool scarves around our heads (one over the forehead and one over our chin) before we headed out to the school bus each winter morning, typically running the scant quarter-mile driveway because we were late, bucking the north wind more often than not.

We actually got pretty good at running backwards because it was warmer to have our backs to the wind.

We sledded without the warmth of snowpants. Maybe they hadn’t been invented yet, but long underwear didn’t cut it if we were out any length of time. I can still feel how the cold stung my thighs and turned them bright red when we came in to warm up.

I imagine I whined about being cold. And I suppose I scrapped with my brothers about who would sit where on the toboggan. Those things I don’t recall.

During life’s toughest moments we’re encouraged to go to our “happy place,” that state of mind where peace and tranquility reside. My happy place is down at Hay Creek, the ice so smooth it glistens in the sunlight. Dad is there, gliding so confidently alongside us. I look up at his kind face and all is right with the world.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.