Following the path that wound its way through trees gnarled and misshaped by decades of Minnesota snowstorms and spring floods... passing by bramble-filled snow drifts laced with seeds and grains dropped by winter birds... I walked to the clearing. A boot stomped walkway led to the river's edge where a crown of snow circled the skating rink carefully made by my neighbor, Mr. Johnson. Summer's beach was masked by crusty layers of broken snow. Sheltered from the wind was a bright fire, fed by decaying trees which had rested in the woods, waiting for such a moment, and fallen branches pulled from beneath clumps of snow.

Sparks flew, floating through the air and landing on snow drifts made by winds coming off the eastern shore. The crackling sound of dry branches breaking, with pieces falling to create a bed of glowing embers, could be heard beneath the laughter of children skating, playing crack-the-whip, and racing to see who could make it first across the rink. The fire was tended by Mr. Johnson and, under his watchful eyes, fed wood scraps by boys eager to get too close to the fire and hoping for a bright shower of sparks to startle the girls and make them shriek.

There were logs to sit on as we changed from boot to skate, worn railroad ties dragged down the hill from where tracks once held railway cars filled with coal and grain... old stumps carried through the woods, dusted off, sharp edges softened with the blade of a battered old pocket knife. By the time I sat near the fire to put on my skates, after the long walk to the river, my hands were cold and my toes had begun to tingle. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, bent over to lace my skates, and periodically brushed my face against my shoulder to keep my hat from sliding down over my eyes. And I muttered, quiet imprecations about how I didn't like skating all that much anyway... how stupid it was to be cold... how it was my great misfortune to be born to parents living in frigid Minnesota rather than California or Hawaii where normal folk lived. I struggled as I tried to tighten frayed laces, with fingers that fumbled and a grip too weak to prevent my ankles from bowing when I stood.

Then I heard the voice of Mr. Johnson saying, "Here, sweetie, let me help you with that!" and he knelt in front of me, taking the laces from my hands. Elderly fingers, twisted by arthritis and decades of honest labor, still retained the suppleness and strength needed to tighten a child's skates. So he pulled firmly on the laces...made sure each skate fit snugly... wrapped the laces around my ankles...neatly tucked in the ends so I wouldn't trip. Then he folded the tops of my wool socks over the edge of each skate's boot, gave my knee a gentle pat, said, "There you go, kiddo!" and stood. He took my hands to hold me steady while I pulled myself upright. With ankles wobbling as my feet adjusted to narrow blades, I looked up at him, wearing an uncertain grin, and made my first tentative steps. "Atta girl, you can do it!", he said with a kind smile. Then he skated away, with smooth, strong glides.

I stood there, for a minute or two, watching Mr. Johnson as he skated the rink he'd shoveled for the children of the village. Hands clasped behind his back, head cocked as if he were listening to sounds from another time and place. And oh, how that old man could skate! He'd skate and skate... moving with a grace that was wonderful to behold... floating effortlessly on the ice...making crazy eights and loop-d-loops... skating backwards than forwards... a look of sweet contentment on his face.

Then I too began to skate, with jerky strides and slips, trying to keep my balance, and ignoring the taunts of those more confident (and coordinated) than I. And during a few precious moments, when I could feel the glide of my skates across the smooth ice, I pretended I could skate with the same ease Mr. Johnson had shown. So I skated and fell, got up to skate again and fall again, until an hour or two had passed and my ankles became quite sore. Then I sat down by the fire... unlaced my skates with fingers grown warm by my exertions...put cold boots back on my feet...grabbed my skates... tied the frayed laces into a bow... slung them over my shoulder ...began the long walk home.

That walk home seemed to take forever with sore ankles, legs grown heavy, and toes starting to burn from being too cold. And as warm breath snuck up beneath the scarf that covered my mouth and bright red cheeks, my eye lashes stuck together with icy crystals, warm tears leaked from my eyes and my nose dripped. But as I trudged home, I thought about Mr. Johnson and how he skated... with a smooth strong glide... hands clasped behind his back...a smile of sweet contentment on his face.

And oh, how that old man could skate!

About Nancy J. Clemens

During the 50s and 60s, being the middle child of a large family and growing up in a small river village where everybody was your neighbor—story telling was nothing more than a survival mechanism for staying out of trouble. Although much of Nancy J. Clemens' professional career was spent as an independent consultant, public speaker and writer for the corporate arena—the gift of story telling remained a fixture in her life. To celebrate her recent 50th birthday, she decided to turn her writing talents to other areas. "Oh, How That Old Man Could Skate!" is her third published piece. Nancy resides in Minnesota, with her teenage son, neurotic Shih Tzu and leaky roof. Please contact her at nclemens@skatefic.com.