Happy Halloween
October 28, 2008
Yup, I love Halloween. It’s silly, it’s goofy, it’s creative. It involves devilish amounts of candy. What’s better than that?
This past weekend, lots of kiddies in my neighborhood (socialites that they are) were making their rounds to Halloween pre-parties. I spotted a bumblebee, a tiny Sponge Bob, and a few impressive action heroes I wasn’t up-to-date enough on my cartoons to identify. I saw a father dressed as a king and a mom dressed as a cat. This, in my opinion, is a beautiful thing.
I have some big costume plans for Friday…I just have to work out a few kinks. Okay, I still have to work out all the kinks. First, it was essential that I carved my joc-o-lantern (see above).
Of course, this time of year, I’m forced to think about Halloweens gone by. A skating friend and I were talking over the phone about what costumes her three kids are going to wear - Peter Pan, Hello Kitty, and a Pirate. This led us to the topic of Halloween-past and she revealed that in 4th Grade, she dressed up as a Skating Instructor. She carried a clipboard and wore her skates (with guards) around school all day! Now that’s an homage.
One of my fondest (and maybe funniest) Halloween memories took place at the Madison Ice Arena when I was little. The Figure Skating Club of Madison’s Halloween party that year was going to be a club fundraiser, a Skate-a-Thon for which we were supposed to get sponsors to donate something like 10 cents for every lap we could skate around the rink.
I was personally thrilled with this idea, since we would be doing our laps in costume. My older brother was pleased as well, albeit for different reasons. In several ways, he had already proven himself to be quite a businessman, so he threw himself wholeheartedly into raising money.
Sure enough, he got tons of sponsors. With his help, I also got a few, though my primary focus was really on the costumes. We were going to be Popeye and Olive Oyl. This was mostly our mother’s idea (and it was/is important to ignore the fact that they were a romantic “couple”), but I was delighted and my brother went along with it, probably figuring there were worse get-ups we could foist on him. (And, wow, was he right…oh the skating outfits I would end up forcing him to wear.)
In order to make Brad’s arms look cartoonishly muscular, our mom cut up a pair of my old ballet tights and stuffed them with mounds of cotton for him to wear like sleeves. She then embroidered an anchor tattoo on one arm with yarn. She found him a pipe and a sailor hat.
I wore my hair in a low bun and Olive Oyl’s iconic black and white striped tights with a red sweater and a black skirt. Even though my mother’s big red, clip-on earrings pinched my ears numb, I loved them.
When we arrived at the party, I remember that everybody had a good chuckle over our costumes. My brother immediately sat down to lace up his skates and I bee-lined for a table displaying an assortment of orange and black cupcakes.
Though my brother was not necessarily the fastest skater in the club at that point, he was determined to do more laps than anyone else. While the rest of us skated around at a medium clip, blabbing about nothing in particular, he leaned forward like a speedskater, in order to make himself more aerodynamic. With a grin on his face, he of course skated circles around the rest of us, literally, and raised lots of money, all the while holding a can of spinach.
***
How about you? Any good Halloween memories? What are you going to “be” (such an existential question) this weekend? Click on “comment” below. I promise I won’t steal your idea. Then again…if you’re in a different state, or on a different continent, or even in a different borough, would it really matter? Come on…
And if you want to see some fab Manhattan decorations as identified by The Informer (me), Click here.
Hello Facebook
October 7, 2008
So I finally gave in to something I’ve been resisting for a long time. I’d been getting these e-mail invitations from friends to join that social networking site Facebook. No offense, guys, but I deleted them. I mean, I already have about 502 separate e-mail accounts and at least 75,000 websites I need to check in with on a daily basis. How much more can a girl do?
And I know myself: I’m a social creature. I’m prone to blabbing on the phone for hours on end, going out to dinner with friends eight nights a week, and writing jokey e-mails all day long. Besides, I am an avid and (despite what my teenage cousins think) speedy texter.
Outwardly, I played it like I just couldn’t be bothered with one of these online social networks - “Look, I’m already in touch with everyone I want to be in touch with!” - but secretly I knew I could become an addict.
And that’s exactly what’s happened. I joined up about two weeks ago in response to some particularly enthusiastic peer pressure. It’s a good thing I don’t have a Blackberry or a fancy iPhone - otherwise I might be logged onto Facebook every waking moment. What’s remarkable is that I’m not on it right now. Wait, let me just check to see if I have any new Facebook messages….okay, I’m back.
So, other than wasting gobs of precious time and serving as a procrastinatory crutch, what is the point of all these sites, like Facebook, Friendster, and MySpace? I suppose, like the internet as a whole, they make the world a smaller, cozier place by connecting you to others…instantaneously. Feeling lonely? Facebook. Feeling friendless? Log onto Facebook. Questioning whether or not you exist? There you are onscreen, smiling from the picture on your “profile page”. And there you are typing a quippy little note on your “wall” for all to see.
In some ways, it’s the new address book. If you manage your “Friends” page meticulously enough, you can put together a pretty thorough list of just about everyone you’ve ever known (and some you never knew, or maybe you did, but it’s getting a little fuzzy…).
Granted, Facebook fulfills different purposes depending on your age. I can’t speak for other age groups, but for those of us who are over the age of say, 20 or 25, this site is a slick way of traveling backwards through time. Very few of us stick around our hometowns, anymore: I myself have moved six times since leaving Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin at age 14. I have attended several different schools and have had lots of different jobs. Try as I have, it has been nearly impossible to stay in touch with everyone who I have genuinely enjoyed being acquainted with over the years.
And skaters of the world are an especially amorphous group. I have been associated with several different ice rinks and skating clubs. From both competing and training, I know skaters from all over the country and I’ve never had any organized way of keeping up with them…until now. It’s not like there are reunions or a directory of “past skaters.” In the last two weeks, I have contacted and been contacted by all kinds of flashes from my skating past: people I’ve often wondered about. It’s great to have them on my so-called radar, now, and vice versa. And we didn’t have to hire private detectives to track each other down.
Of course, it’s still not possible to be in really close, meaningful contact with everyone you’ve ever known, even with the help of a conduit as smooth as this. I have to resist the urge to individually e-mail all the people who have “friended” me or vice versa: I’d enjoy doing so, but I’d never have time to leave my house again. On that note, I have to wonder when I see that some Facebookers (mostly those under the age of 25) have more than 500 friends - do they really know all these people or are they just amassing friends of friends of friends? What percentage of these people are they managing to be in contact with?
If you can keep control of your Facebook experience (or maybe just accept that control isn’t really possible), it’s a hoot. If you’re like me, you’ll find yourself chuckling a lot. Like, “Oh, yeah, her. Wow, she lives in Seattle, now. Who knew?” You might also find yourself going to dinner with two long lost friends from high school on Thursday night.
If you haven’t joined Facebook yet, then I think you’re time has come. You’re not the last person on earth who hasn’t done so, but I have a feeling you will be, soon. So here’s what you do:
First, go to the Facebook Website by clicking here. Signing up is free - while it will probably end up costing you many many valuable work hours, they never ask you for your credit card number, an admirable and rare thing.
Upload a picture of yourself looking fabulous. (Or, in my case, the best one you can find…and then get a friend to de- redeye it in Photoshop so you no longer look like the devil.) Try to not cringe too visibly when one of your skating students remarks how dorky you look in it and suggests you switch it out for something a little “sexier” i.e. without the glasses.
From there, you just fill out a few general details about yourself, like where you went to high school and college and where you live and what websites you may be associated with that you want to shamelessly promote, wink wink.
This next part is when it starts to get interesting: you start to amass “friends.” The first step is allowing Facebook to rifle through your e-mail address book to identify all the people you know who are already in the so-called club. By simply checking their boxes, you will be requesting their Facebook friendship and, unless they still owe you money, the chances are very high that they’ll accept.
Once you start collecting Facebook friends, you can go through their personal lists to see who you know, and contact those individuals as well, forging more and more paths in this gigantic online maze. Along the way, over in the right hand column of your “home page,” Facebook will be constantly suggesting people you might know, based on their association with someone you already have on your list…and, as a matter of fact, you will know lots of them. Lo and behold, some of them have just sent you a request to be their friend. Receiving such requests might give you a nice tingly feeling: it’s like getting a “Will you be my friend?” note passed to you across a few desks in the second grade.
Finally, using the Facebook “search” function, you can also look up individuals one by one, but just make sure you know the exact spelling of his or her name…and also hope that they have a unique spelling because, according to Wikipedia, there are over 100 million Facebook users worldwide…and, I’ve found, for example, that many of them seem to have the exact same name as that one guy I dated for 10 minutes in high school.
But, in this way, I successfully found a friend from grade school in Wisconsin who I haven’t seen in more than…well, let’s just say many many years. Turns out that, though she now lives in Minneapolis, she often comes to visit my exact neighborhood in New York City. We’re going to meet up next time she comes through town - and I am thrilled about this prospect.
I will also be thrilled to stumble upon your lovely mugshot on Facebook, whether you’ve already jumped on the bandwagon or this CSOM installment is inspiring you to join up. Either way, I cordially invite you to be-”friend” me, Facebook style, by clicking here.
***
What do you think? Is Facebook a waste of time, or the perfect conduit, or both? Leave a comment below.
Congratulations Graduates
June 16, 2008
Dear 2008 Graduates (and, retroactively, graduates from years gone by),
We have been skating together for a long time, now. Okay, really, you were skating and I was yelling, but nice-yelling just so that you could hear me over the music. The point is that we’ve laughed, we’ve learned things, and even shed a few tears. And now, I am truly upset.
How dare you graduate! The nerve of you to now go off into the world to have adventures so far away. This will be difficult for me to forgive. The worst part is that I have had to suffer this same affront many times and you have already witnessed, first hand, what this has done to me.
The fact is I have enjoyed our time together, however fleeting. It has been cool to watch you become more of yourself. Like skull cartilage gradually becomes bone, all of your traits that were a bit hazy and inconsistent when you were younger have solidified, somehow. I’d like to think that all your hours in the rink have contributed to this steady transformation. Just look at how well you skate! And how nicely you present yourself both on and off the ice! Those stories you tell: so truly eloquent!
In the last year or so, you have reported on your college visits. Amid skating technique, we have bemoaned the application process and debated school characteristics such as near vs. far, small vs. large, urban vs. country. You have shared your uncertainties and in response I have bestowed wisdumb as if my own experience is infinite when in fact it is only a slice.
Of course I am proud of all your skating and academic accomplishments but what I’m really leading up to here is that I have a rather large and scandalous confession to make:
I have been secretly hoping that you wouldn’t graduate, and as a result you wouldn’t get into college.
While I know that this would be devastating for you and your family, just think how great it would be for me! We could continue to share ice time…into eternity. We could keep everything exactly the same and, together, pretend that time isn’t marching forward, that no one - not me, not you, not your parents or mine - are growing older. I kind of thought you understood this unspoken agreement, but apparently not.
And now, here you are going off to lands only partly known where the pizza and bagels may or may not be inferior, where the living space will definitely be miniscule, the adventures limitless, and the opportunities (educational and otherwise) will be laid out for you like a buffet.
I know that you will pack your skates. I know that you will lace them up anywhere from four times to a few hundred times. But I also know that your priorities will reconfigure and that everything you are doing now (including our lessons) will in three month’s time start to seem distant, and gradually become more a part of your history than your reality.
Okay, wait a second - I have to admit something else, and I suppose this cancels out that previous confession. It isn’t really that I hoped you wouldn’t graduate, what I’ve actually been experiencing is envy. For when I hear you tell about your prom, and your graduation ceremony, and the last summer job you’ve wrangled before you leave home, I am reminded of my own excitement at your age: all the possibility and the sparkling unknowns. I remember the specific giddiness I felt while shopping for a new duvet, my very own mug, and who could forget that all-important shower caddy. It was all going to be so incredible. And, in fact, it was.
In the end, what I mainly want to say is, Bravo. Have fun. And try to appreciate every single millisecond. This latter edict, like three patterns of the Starlight Waltz or a double run through of the Senior Moves test, or 50,000 axels in a row, is of course far easier said than done. But I trust that all of your experiences thus far, the ups and downs (literally and figuratively) have rendered you a very real and thoughtful person, and that you will be able to process the upcoming experiences with a dose of perspective.
I also trust that if you have your own skating students along the way (and after all, shouldn’t you try to earn back some of that money your parents spent?), that you will please teach them to bend their knees, not push with their toes, and look up instead of constantly searching for that dollar bill they apparently dropped on the ice. Last of all, I trust that you will keep in touch. For you realize that if you go off into that future of yours and never come back to visit, I will be shattered. No pressure, though.
Seriously? This goes straight from me to you: Woo Hoo!
Are you worried that you might be drinking too much coffee? Determine whether or not you are addict by clicking on Cusp of Greatness in the column over to the right.
Careers not Chosen
May 20, 2008
This week, I’m flying to Chicago for the Professional Skaters Association Conference. While there, I’ll be attending all kinds of seminars and seeing coach-friends (including former competitors and mentors) from around the country. Amid packing for this event and canceling my lessons, I have been thinking about career paths. Mine has been somewhat circuitous.
I’ve mentioned in previous installments that I didn’t know I was going to become a figure skating coach. Not that I didn’t admire my own coaches growing up; becoming one just didn’t occur to me, for some reason. I am certainly glad I chose this particular path but sometimes I just have to chuckle at where I thought I’d end up instead.
For example, when I was very young, it was clear to me that I was going to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. Through watching football (and rooting for the Packers) with my dad, it was pretty obvious that the cheerleaders for the Dallas team had the best sense of style. Their outfits were a little more glamorous (covered in silver stars!), their Keds (and smiles) were a little whiter, and their cheers a little more convincing. Of course, I suppose they had a few other famous “attributes” I didn’t even notice. Perhaps my own pom poms were the wrong color scheme (red and white for the Wisconsin Badgers) and the bleachers on our front lawn were empty (okay, not even set up), but I put in some long hours honing my high kick and my woo hoo! on our driveway.
Someone, probably after asking me, the What do you want to be when you grow up? question, convinced me that becoming a Dallas Cheerleader was extremely difficult, so I decided to reconsider this path and move on to something more realistic. I figured it would be a lot easier to become a…Supermodel. After all, all you had to do was look good. You didn’t even have to do any cheers. As soon as I heard that in order to excel in this vocation you had to basically stop eating, it started to lose its appeal. I figured I’d just hold this idea in reserve as something to fall back on, just in case.
From there, I took a slight left turn toward the sister industry of Fashion Design. I pored over the beloved “Fashion Plates” set I received for my 10th birthday. With these stencil-like panels, I created thousands of different wardrobe combinations and committed them to paper with the help of colored pencils. I’d later go on to design my skating costumes by sketching them out first on typing paper. I’d fold the sheet in half and draw my dress on one half and my brother’s costume on the other. I colored them in, down to the last detail, with that same trusty set of colored pencils.
I eventually discovered that, in order to be a Fashion Designer, you had to know how to sew. It was one thing sewing by hand and quite another when you got a sewing machine involved. In 7th grade Home-Economics class, I discovered that threading a sewing machine was the domestic version of Rocket Science. The few times I attempted to use my mother’s sewing machine on my own, it made a scary whirring noise. The thread flew off the spool and into a terrifying knot in the shape of a skull-and-crossbones. (Of course, now that would be a trendy fashion statement, so I was clearly way ahead of my time.)
For a while there at the beginning of college, I thought I’d be a Lawyer, wearing slick skirt-suits and winning cases like the heroine in a girl-Grisham novel. The problem with this is that I wasn’t exactly one to speak up, either in class or in almost any group scenario. And I certainly wasn’t one to debate things.
From there, illogically, I decided that I was destined to become a Professor. I suppose the distinction for me was that, in a classroom, I could “share” my ideas rather than “argue” them like I’d have to in a courtroom. I was starting to become an avid reader and I had this image of wearing eyeglasses and my hair in a bun. (Okay, well… for those of you who know me, please stop laughing, and for those of you who don’t, I guess I should admit that I usually wear glasses and my hair pulled back in a bun.) I envisioned leading my eager pupils to the shade of a campus tree, where we could gather ‘round and dissect poetry.
In fact, I did eventually go on to teach a college course, Composition 101. It happened to be a night class for adults and I was the youngest person in the classroom. When I walked in on the first night and I put my satchel on the desk (a bag I thought seemed very academic), one of the students said, “You’re our teacher?” She loaded that you’re with disdain. She felt insulted by being taught by someone younger and her attitude was contagious: when I had the nerve to assign reading and essays, I was hit and wounded by many dagger glares over the course of those three months. Right around the time that I had to determine final grades (they weren’t all that great) that would have a ripple effect on GPAs and transcripts of people 5, 10, 20 years older than me, I decided that this was probably something I’d be better suited for once I had some more life under my belt. (Oh…to be too young for something, what a hardship.) So, just like my Supermodeling, I put this on the back burner.
There was also a brief stint as an Advertising Copywriter, enjoyable enough that it created a dilemma. Around the time I started teaching group and private lessons at the rink where I am currently on staff, I was offered a position at a firm on Madison Avenue in Manhattan. I could see it: the water cooler, the Happy Hours, all that hip, creative synergy. And of course the fashion component: the high heels, the slacks, the green leather briefcase purchased at a downtown boutique. But I also envisioned something else that compelled me to turn down the offer: I could see myself coming home at night and not wanting to write my own stuff after sitting at a computer all day writing brochures and radio ads.
Of course, this leads me to the other thing I thought I’d become. A Writer. This fantasy predated (and coincided with) all else, the Cheerleading included. In boxes at my mother’s house, there are laminated “books” I penned and illustrated. One details the adventures of a thumb (my thumbprint included.) Another is about a wounded bird my brother and I found in our backyard. Another is called “A Day in the Life of a Skater.” The protagonist, as you might imagine, is me.
Becoming a writer was probably the craziest idea of all, and, it turned out, impossible to let go of. When I flip through that ancient masterpiece about skating, it seems so obvious that I’d become a Skating Writer or a Writing Skater, but I’m glad I tried out some other vocations along the way, even if only in my mind. Besides, it occurs to me that, as a coach, you have to be a little bit of a cheerleader, a bit of a professor, and sometimes, if meeting with resistance, a bit litigious. Sometimes you have to give input on costume choices or designs, and sometimes, as an ice dance coach, you have to try and get your skaters to strut around the rink with the confidence of runway models. In this job, you get to wear many hats. Literally and figuratively.
The Sociologist in me (yes, I toyed with that for about 10 minutes in college as well) wonders how many people actually end up in the careers they youthfully identified when asked the, What do you want to be when you grow up question. Probably a handful, but it would be interesting to have some statistics…
I posed this question to some of my students today and their answers ranged from Engineer to Orthodontist to Veterinarian to Lawyer. One student, a 9 year-old blushed and answered, “Figure Skater” shyly, as if I might not think she’d qualify. Of course, I was flattered, though it should be noted that she did not say “Coach” - I suspect that her current idea of growing up doesn’t go too far beyond the age of 18. Over the next 10, 15, 20 years, I’ll have to keep track of how many of these abstract plans come to fruition.
I also asked a few coach-friends (all of whom obviously love what they do) to share three careers they thought they were aiming for, once upon a time.
One friend answered:
- Prima Ballerina
- Trial Lawyer
- Boutique Owner
Another:
- Journalist
- School Psychologist
- Sports Psychologist
And a third:
- Flight Attendant
- Scientist
- House Wife
And you? Whether you are skating coach or not, please share three “Careers not Chosen” by clicking on “Comment” below.
***
I anticipate that in next week’s installment I’ll be regaling you with my Chicago adventures. But then again, we’ll see, life doesn’t always turn out as expected….
Thanks, Mom
May 6, 2008
Mother’s Day is around the corner. ‘Tis the season to count her blessings. Or try to.
I don’t think there is quite enough space on the internet to list the number of generous, selfless acts my own mother has committed on my behalf, both recently and not-as-recently, so I have decided instead to focus on something very specific. Her devotion is perfectly encapsulated in the following image (and also in the picture above, which will seem less abstract when you read the next paragraph)…
She is perched on the edge of a hotel bed leaning toward the light on the nightstand. The rest of the room is dark so that my brother and I can sleep. She has just driven several hours toward this destination, or perhaps navigated us here from an airport. She squints through her reading glasses to coax the end of a thread through the eye of a needle and then the needle through the eye of a sequin. And then another. And another.
Just as it’s difficult to guess exactly how many candies are in a glass jar, it’s impossible to say how many beads she has already sewn on this costume (or on all the ones that have come before). But she wants to finish up that last row, even though, were it missing, only she and I would know.
Through this and many other examples she has demonstrated that, where kindness is concerned, many small things add up to something far bigger.
Thank you, Mom, for making me sparkle, one bead at a time.
***
What about you? We’ve already addressed the legendary amounts of chauffeuring skating mamas undertake on a daily basis (see Skating Mom Shuffle/Shuttle), but what else stands out for you? Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there.
Also, an update: I’m probably not going to open that restaurant, after all. Check out my piece on this topic posted today on one of my favorite humor webzines, by clicking on: http://www.yankeepotroast.org/archives/2008/05/eggs_on_the_bru.html
Finally: Do your moods seem almost entirely dependent on the weather? There is a type of depression called Seasonal Affective Disorder, the acronym of which is, appropriately, S.A.D. But I have my own theory…click on Cusp of Greatness over to the right.
Dear Adults,
April 8, 2008
A Letter of Appreciation To my Adult Students and To the Adult Skaters of the World…
This week, while many adults are converging in Lake Placid for the 2008 U.S. Adult Championships, I would like to take the opportunity to express my sincere appreciation and admiration for your skating endeavors. For though, by definition, you are a bit “longer in the tooth” than other skaters and with that comes a whole host of challenges (including sometimes, tripping over your teeth), your excitement is evident, your enjoyment contagious, and your improvement impressive. Whether you are competing this week or not, your specific efforts in this sport (and contributions to my own enjoyment of it) deserve to be documented.
First there is your wacky schedule. Thank you for getting up when it is dark and coming to the rink while saner people still slumber so that you can squeeze in your skating before commuting to work. Thank you for arriving with a spring in your step and a smile on your face, and carrying your nicely-pressed work clothes on a hanger you hook on the ledge by the front desk. Thank you for coming to your lesson even though you were awake all night worrying about the fate of the planet or riding in an ambulance on your way to volunteer EMT calls. Thank you for scheduling your conference calls around our lesson and running over on your lunch break. Thank you for unloading your pockets and piling your cell phone, keys, blackberry, coins, and work ID on the barriers so that you are not weighed down by them while you skate. Thank you for driving to a rink that is far away from your home on your only day off. Thank you, by the way, for e-mailing me the notes you typed up after our lesson.
Then there is the issue of practice and your genuine understanding of its importance. Thank you for practicing with such earnestness and diligence of your own accord, without me having to nag you. Thank you for bounding over tall buildings and solving all kinds of logistical algorithms in order to get on the ice for even a half hour of 3 turns. Thank you for offering detailed reports (complete with spreadsheets and graphs) of your practice week including, with no small amount of guilt, the fact that you had to miss one day for a perfectly legitimate reason like assisting an aging parent, traveling to Chicago for work, or taking your dog to the vet so he could have that cyst removed from his nether regions. Though I’m not sure it was entirely wise, thank you also for coming to the rink even when you had a herniated disc in your neck, a mysterious golfball-sized bump on your knee, and even after you dropped a chair on your toe.
I have noticed that you are very good sports. Thank you for gamely re-taking tests when a panel of judges has suggested that you “Retry” them. Thank you for tracking down a skating skirt then debuting this strange garment the day before the test, as a dress rehearsal. Thank you for letting your eyes well with tears and hugging me in celebration of passing your first test. Thank you for persevering to get your Gold medal though the path to get those last four dances was seven years long and riddled with injuries (both mine and yours), necessitated several pairs of new skates (both mine and yours), and was interrupted by all kinds of a life obligations (again, both mine and yours.)
Thank you for asking me to explain the same element in 450 different ways so that you may analyze it from just as many angles. Thank you for forcing me to call upon the Laws of Physics, though I never officially learned them in a classroom and have only loosely picked them up as a skater. Thank for helping me to expand my arsenal of analogies. Thank you for understanding my sometimes odd vocabulary and also for, very appropriately, making fun of it “with vigor.” Most of all, thank you for laughing at my jokes (which I know has not been an easy feat.)
Thank you for subscribing to the adage that we should all try things that terrify us once in a while and for wearing your wrist guards along the way. Thank you for trying to conceal the look of abject terror in your eyes and attempting to appear relaxed by increasing the space between your shoulders and your ears (though I suspect you are still clenching your toes like little fists inside your skates.) Thank you for taking up a new activity in the search for personal fulfillment and, through your example, reminding me that I want to become fluent in French, learn how to paint something slightly more complicated than polka-dots, and maybe even try something like…clogging or…power-knitting.
Thank you for so openly envying the way I demonstrate a line of outside edges because, later in the day, my students may not even notice what I just demonstrated, let alone be impressed with it. Thank you for showing interest in my skating background and for believing me when I tell you that all the videotapes of my performances were destroyed in a bizarre, tragic fire.
Thank you for sharing with me your skating mantras, skating revelations, and introducing me to the rather kooky, yet also rather comforting concept of prayer skating. Thank you for helping me to appreciate the adventure that is skating and all the ways it instructs, informs, mimics, and affects other areas of our lives. Thank you for helping to provide Perspective, a commodity we can never have enough of, no matter our profession.
Oh, yeah, and thank you for confirming your lesson! I’ll see you tomorrow.
Best, Jocelyn
***
Check out my icenetwork articles featuring competitors at Adult Nationals this week: http://web.icenetwork.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080409&content_id=47184&vkey=ice_news
http://web.icenetwork.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080410&content_id=47308&vkey=ice_news
And something quite upsetting happened to me last week here in New York City, prompting me to write a letter of a very different nature. Check it out by clicking on “Cusp of Greatness” over in the column to the right.
Skating Mom Shuffle / Shuttle
April 1, 2008
Skating moms. There wouldn’t be any skaters without them. (This is of course true of fathers as well, but for different, generally more background reasons.)
Skating rinks differ from baseball fields, basketball courts, and tracks in that there usually isn’t one located right in your neighborhood. They also cost just “a bit” more to use and require equipment of a “slightly” more specific nature. But mainly, to get started with skating, you need a ride to get to an ice rink. As you become a better skater, the quest to get more ice time takes you to the rink more often (sometimes twice per day) and sometimes takes you further and further from your house. And who gets you there?
Most often, Mom.
My own mother drove my brother and I to all ends of the earth to help us expand our skating horizons. This started with 20-minute trips from our small farm town in Wisconsin to a rink in Madison. Because this rink was mostly dedicated to hockey, we started to go to Janesville Ice Arena 90 minutes away, where there were lots of freestyle sessions after school. Along the way, our mother contended with flat tires, dead batteries, blinding rain, snowdrifts, sheets of black ice and an occasional deer prancing across or standing on the highway. Eventually, on Fridays, we’d even trek all the way to Chicago, three hours away, for ice dance lessons. One summer, we packed our white station wagon to the gills and our mother drove us from Wisconsin all the way to Colorado Springs to skate at the Broadmoor. Another summer, she took us to Lake Placid, New York and eventually to Delaware where we ended up staying.
This was before Mapquest, or GPS navigation systems. To prepare for those cross-country trips, our mother would go to the local AAA office and pick up a pile of maps. Late at night, on our kitchen table, she’d use a marker to highlight the route the AAA agent had recommended and try to memorize the highway names and exit numbers. My brother was an expert co-pilot, helping her navigate from the passenger seat. In the backseat, I’d inexpertly try to re-fold the maps once we were done with them.
She also catered every single one of these trips, both long and short, with a smörgasbord of snacks including most often: carrots and celery, cheese sandwiches, and a whole orchard of fruit. My brother could peel an orange so that the rind came away in one piece and I spent many trips either copying him or carving out smiley faces in their sides as if they were jack-o-lanterns. On rare but splendid occasions, our mother would pick up fresh donuts from the Gobles, a bakery on Main Street. Every time I came to the car after school, I’d anxiously scan for that distinctive white bag containing the best donuts in the universe (well, they were the only donuts I’d ever had - I just knew they were far more exciting than celery.)
Of course chauffeur-ing is just one of the many duties of a skating mom but it’s arguably the most time-consuming and definitely important. Woody Allen said that, “Ninety percent of life is just showing up” and this is certainly true of skating. At home, skaters can study lots of skating videos, stretch their muscles on the livingroom floor, and guide themselves through as many visualization exercises as they want (not that any of these things happen very much), but the most essential thing is lacing up and getting on the ice.
To this end, I see my students getting dropped off at the rink’s front entrance with their skates already laced, their guards on, and snacks in hand. Their mothers wave to me as they peel out of the lot, many of them on their way to run errands, or to head back to work, or pick up another child from school in order to shuttle him or her to soccer, religious studies, or even ice hockey at another rink.
A few months ago, I had the opportunity to interview Bonnie Gilles about what it’s like to have three rising skating stars in their family in addition to two children pursuing other goals. Years ago, they relocated from Rockford, Illinois to Colorado Springs in order to train. At Nationals this year, Todd, who skates with Jane Summersett, placed 6th in Senior Dance. Alexe won Junior Ladies and her twin sister, Piper, who skates with Tim McKernan, got 2nd in Junior Dance. Kemper, a junior in high school, is active in an educational program mentoring students with learning disabilities. Finally, Shelby, an 8th grader, is a budding tennis player, who is also involved with school plays and musicals.
When I asked her to share A Day in the Life of Bonnie Gilles, what she provided (included below) reminds me of those silent movies where the characters are moving at double-speed, accompanied by frantic music, like Flight of the Bumblebee. I have a feeling that, while her story is on the extreme end of the hectic spectrum, lots of mothers have endured days of a similarly dizzying nature.
In order to fully appreciate the following excerpt, it’s important to realize that, at the time, Bonnie was on crutches due to a broken leg, an injury sustained from shoveling her driveway. During the week, her husband works in Oklahoma and comes home on the weekend. She has had her car for about six months and already has 15,000 miles on it.
So…On your marks, get set, go!:
Get up in the morning, get dressed, and get the kids and the dogs out. Todd goes to his car, which decides not to work. Several calls to dad and a rush to get everyone into my car …call Tim, Jane, Tim’s mom trying to get to Tim, and their coach Patti telling everyone we are going to be a little late. Drop my car off because it needs an oil change and the head beam light button is going off. Fortunately they give me a loaner. Go back to the rink, pick up the girls to get some essentials at Target. Run home to drop off some groceries. Jane has thankfully brought Todd home to pick up his books for his class later in the day. Try to start Todd’s car again. No luck. Bring Piper back to the rink. Watch a little while and then bring Piper to the tutor. The car dealership calls that my car is ready. Pick up my car, go back to the rink. Headlight beam light goes off again. Call the dealership and they will bring me the loaner back. Orthodontist calls and tells me Kemper has an appointment the next day, which I promptly forget to tell him. Fortunately, the tutor brings Piper home. I pick up Alexe at 5 and proceed to go home and try to make dinner. The kids check the weather channel and it looks like snow for tomorrow. They are always hoping for a two hour delay…
And that is exactly what happens: several inches of snow and a two hour delay but the dogs haven’t gotten that memo… they’re barking at the usual time to go out. Kemper is trying to shovel the driveway a little to get the cars out. This is the driveway I broke my leg on shoveling. Everyone is running late again. Todd’s car still won’t start, so we pile in my car. Shelby calls on the way to school with Kemper to see if I scheduled a haircut for her then Shelby calls again because she remembers she needs a protractor and can Kemper please take her to Office Depot…thank goodness for Kemper driving. They have time because of the school delay. Piper just figures out that when I switched cars with the dealership that we didn’t transfer her skates or her laptop. Call the dealership and they are willing to drive to the rink and bring her stuff. DEEP BREATH! Finally remember that Kemper has the orthodontist appointment so call him at school and he makes it in time. It is now 9 AM. The sun is shining now though and the snow is beginning to melt so I can buzz around a little faster. The girls and Todd have decided to throw a going away party for a friend, so it is off to the grocery store. I hobble in on crutches, get a battery-operated cart, and away Piper and I go through the store. Run home, drop off groceries, check emails quick, and back to the rink. It is 12 noon…
***
Ha! Thanks to Bonnie Gilles, for taking time out of her action-packed schedule to share that.
So, where did your mom drive you? (Other than crazy, that is…)
And for those of you wondering how ”The Fate of Compulsory Dance” discussions went at Worlds (see installment entitled, Ice Dance: Crisis or Opportunity?), it sounds like the ISU is going to very likely downsize the dance to two events BUT so far, they have approved the idea of combining the Compulsory Dance and Original Dance into one. This has to go through a few more rounds of approval within the ISU, but tentatively, it is good news. Thanks to everyone who has written comments on Current Skate of Mind on this topic.
Wollman Rink, Part 2
March 11, 2008
I recently had the audacity (or good sense, take your pick) to compare Wollman Rink in Central Park to a slice of pizza, thereby further validating my theory that all roads lead back to New York’s favorite food-on-the-go. But, truthfully, when I have the opportunity to skate at Wollman these days, I am reminded of more than just dinner.
I have had the honor of sharing the majority of my Wollman experience with ice dance team, Isabel Elliman and Dmitriy Serebrenik, pictured above, who started and finished their seven-year competitive career together at this rink. To my knowledge, they are the only national competitors in recent history to train mostly outdoors. This is impressive for several reasons, and from a coaching perspective, it is unique indeed.
For one thing, Isabel and Dmitriy skated before school, which meant that their training days commenced before dawn, at 5:30 AM, and therefore literally in the dark. Because I was afraid to trek into the park at this eerie hour on the mornings when I coached them to fill in for my brother, I would meet Isabel and her father beforehand so I could tag along with them. Rarely, in our 5-10 minute walk would we see anyone, let alone anyone threatening, but while we were chatting I was alert nonetheless, certain that we were going to get pounced upon by bears, or bandits, or the boogeyman himself.
Once safely delivered to the rink’s lobby, Isabel’s father wished us well then turned around back toward home where Isabel’s younger siblings would soon be starting their own days. Dmitriy was already in the lobby, stretching out his legs. He had gotten up at some ungodly hour, something like 3:45 AM in order to ride the subway in from Brooklyn.
Once they were on the ice and were starting to warm up, and I glided around willy-nilly, assessing their knee bend, their posture, and commented accordingly. But I couldn’t help also taking in the scene.
There is something cozy about the fact that the Wollman ice surface is situated slightly lower than the grounds around it, kind of like a sunken living room. On one side sits the rink lobby, the roof of which serves as a public platform, so that, during more humane hours, passersby can watch from above. The embankments on the other two sides of the rink are lush with landscaping. When it’s dark, the trees and shrubbery along the barriers are lit from below, which creates a sort of mood-lighting, the equivalent, almost, of candlelight.
There are also the buildings of Midtown Manhattan just beyond the trees - The Plaza Hotel, The Trump Building, the Time Warner Building - all of which contributed to my sense of being surrounded and practically “hugged” by the city. Before 6 AM, these buildings had only a smattering of lights on in their grid of windows, a ratio that changed as morning progressed.
But for that first half hour or so, before morning broke, it seemed that the three of us were the only souls awake, and, in fact, maybe the only people in the universe. It was the good type of solitude, not lonely but peaceful, the kind you wish could last.
It was also extremely productive, however fleeting. I especially appreciated the chance to use the setting as a coaching tool. In my quest to get skaters to “project” to the audience (real or imagined) I often ask them why they would want to stare down at the ice when there are so many other interesting things to look at. The problem is that, in most other rinks, I have to sound excited and flourish my arm Vanna White-style toward a scenery that includes, for example… “The Home sign!…the Away sign!…those beautiful red lockers!…and how about that large beam!…and just look at those fascinating copper pipes!…” At Wollman, I could make this argument far less facetiously and pick out spotting points that really were of interest. For example, on the first side of the Golden Waltz, I could call out the words “Pierre Hotel!” and they’d both gaze up and out in its direction. Once indoors, at a competition, I’d say the same two words and get the same result, with a chuckle.
What was even more pronounced than the visuals of that majestic setting at that hour were the sounds, or lack thereof. No horns yet honking. No brakes yet screeching. No cabbies yelling. No cell phones ringing. No trucks yet delivering ingredients to the pizza shops on every block. And relative to an indoor rink: no dehumidifiers blowing, no fluorescent lights a-buzzing, no motors churning. Just stillness, over-layed with the sacred sound of edges. That crunch, that bite, that rip we’re always talking about and aiming for.
This sound alone was enough to make me a purist. It was admittedly difficult and rare for me, as a competitive skater, to experience that simple satisfaction of skate against ice. I experienced it as a coach, several times, through the blades of these two skaters on those mornings.
Of course, from a training perspective, it wasn’t always nirvana. All skaters deal with a set of struggles and ever-changing variables: muscle cramps, blisters, cold, fatigue, the pressure of homework, growth spurts, inadequate equipment, crowded sessions, and the list goes on. For Isabel and Dmitriy, one of the most constant challenges was The Weather.
In fact, the first day they ever skated together, it was pouring rain. They skated through three inches of water. But they, like many skaters at Wollman, had a postal service mentality: they’d skate through rain, sleet, or snow (within reason, of course.) Sometimes, it was a matter of peering through the lobby windows, wondering if the conditions were going to improve or if we should just unlace and finish the lesson on the floor. Or it was a matter of taking breaks every 30 minutes in order to warm up, or to dry off in the shelter of the lobby. Sometimes, while watching them do a Freedance run-through, I’d brace myself against gusts of wind, get hit in the face with a leaf, and wonder how they were staying on their feet. It was an unusual sensation to see snow accumulating on my students as I was talking to them.
Of course, this made them, like most New Yorkers, very adaptable. At competitions, for example, they could roll with almost anything. Is the ice soft, hard, bumpy, filled with ruts? At least its not covered in leaves! Is the rink large, small, or shaped like a rectangle instead of a slice of pizza? They’d quickly acclimate. Is the rink freezing cold? Seemed like a sauna to them. I started to think you could throw almost anything their way - turn off the lights, turn on a wind machine, scatter pebbles on the ice - and they’d be unfazed. As a matter of fact, they’d probably manage to enjoy it.
And this leads me to the most lasting impression I have of their partnership: that their mutual desire to skate came very obviously from within. After all, nobody would wake up that early to skate through the elements all winter, then travel over hill and vale to find clear freestyle ice to train on in the summer months, then push through the usual setbacks such as injuries and disappointments…nobody does all this, and so good-naturedly, unless they really love it. As a coach, dedication of this magnitude is something special to witness and to participate in. I consider myself fortunate, along with my brother, to have shared in such a unique partnership, fostered in no small part, by the unique setting.
Those mornings at Wollman would start off in darkness, but, on the clearest days, the atmosphere would gradually shift through gray to an icy blue, until the sun rose pink onto the buildings, accompanied by the sounds of the city. Next would come a burst of orange, shards of yellow, and an almost blinding white. Through all these shades of sunrise, Isabel and Dmitriy practiced a progression of Compulsory Dances, Original Dances, and Freedances - Intermediate level, then eventually Senior - before rushing off to school. While they enjoyed many triumphant moments at rinks around the country, and their lives will lead them to many distant corners of the world, I have little doubt they’ll always carry around with them that particular slice of ice.
The last time Isabel and Dmitriy performed together at Wollman, in January of last year for an exhibition, it started to rain. This couldn’t have been more appropriate. This time, it was dusk. While the audience pulled their hoods over their foreheads and reached for their umbrellas, Isabel and Dmitriy were characteristically undeterred. They not only skated, but they smiled and performed their way through the drizzle, even as it gradually started to soak their costumes and their hair. As I was forced to do many times in their presence, I struggled to hold back tears of pride and admiration.
While Isabel and Dmitriy took their bow for friends, family, and fans, a surreal mist rose off the ice all around them. Or, if you subscribe to the pizza theory, you could say it was steam.
***
Thank you for reading.
Wollman Rink, Part 1
March 4, 2008
There are many different types of people on this planet and many ways of viewing the world around us. There are liberals, conservatives, Buddhists, Darwinists, etc. Most people try to make sense of the larger picture by looking at life through a particular lens, say, for example, through feminism, or environmentalism, or even, in many cases, consumerism.
Then there are a select few of us who have an exceptionally sophisticated worldview. People like us have a highly evolved philosophy that can be used to explain just about anything. We believe that pretty much everything in life comes back to one important thing. And that, of course, is…pizza.
Pizza is everywhere and its attributes are infinite. For example, here in New York City, there is at least one pizza shop on every block where people of all kinds can come together peacefully and pay their respects almost 24 hours a day. It is impressive how, when ordered correctly, one simple slice represents all four food groups. Notice how pizza transports seamlessly from hand to mouth without any need for those complicating factors called utensils. It also travels around town easily in those nifty flat boxes. And the way the dough so gracefully changes shape when repeatedly tossed into the air is pure, edible poetry.
I’ve known all these facts for years, but lately, I have been reminded that all roads lead back to this savory treat. For example, just this weekend, at a wine tasting, a friend described one mediocre but inoffensive selection as a good “pizza wine,” a term I’d never heard before, despite my “extensive” tours of vineyards. Recently, on this very website (see Boots and Blades, Part 2), figure skating boot specialist Mark Magliola underscored the challenge of fitting skaters with narrow heels and wider toes, which, to the delight of many, he referred to as “pizza feet.” And last, but certainly not least since it brings me to the topic at hand, I taught at Wollman Rink last Friday, an ice surface shaped exactly like…you got it, a slice of pizza.
Some try to contend that Wollman Rink, located in the southeastern part of Central Park, is shaped like a triangle, but I know better. It was designed and constructed in about 1950 with funds donated by Kate Wollman. It’s fairly evident what her favorite food was.
This shape makes such perfect sense, seeing as how New York is the pizza capitol of the world. Sorry Chicago. And I mean no disrespect, Sicily. The way I see it, this slice-y slab is the pulsing, extra-large heart of this pizza-loving city.
What is it like to skate on a rink configured like a slice of pizza? It can be anywhere from disorienting to liberating, depending on your ability to think, or skate, I should say, outside the box. Literally.
If you’re trying to do a program, a moves-in-the-field pattern, or an ice dance, it might end up being a little more “interpretive” (insert: bulbous, lopsided, or straight-out wacky) than usual. If you are determined to obey The Rulebook, you have to immediately stop using the barriers as reference points. You have to imagine a rectangle then hem yourself in. You have to guestimate. This could be a challenge for those skaters who, for example, have trouble finding their way across a rink without hockey lines as landmarks (and I include myself in that category.)
But, skating at Wollman is an adventure for many reasons even beyond its unique shape, including the weather, the location, the immediate surroundings, and did I mention the weather? I have visited this rink intermittently over the last few years as a substitute teacher for my brother, and, every time, I go through the same spectrum of emotions, starting with dread, only because I loathe early mornings, and ending with elation, because it is just such a cool atmosphere.
Last Friday, it was 16 degrees out when I entered the park at the 5th Avenue and 60th street around 6:30 AM. I had of course cloaked myself in a ridiculous number of layers, an amount of clothing that caused me to waddle across a stretch of cobblestones rather than walk. It’s a circuitous route you take through the park toward the rink from this entrance, a winding path I could only explain as heading generally in a northwest direction.
The fact that I hadn’t yet opened my eyes made my trip further challenging. As I crossed over East Drive, one of the streets the horse-drawn carriages use to trot tourists around the park, I was met with the smell of manure. I opened my eyes slightly so as to not step in anything unpleasant, then waddled down some stairs, and eventually heard music in the distance. I tried to lift my heavy eyelids a little more, accepting that I was getting closer, and would soon be expected to behave like a professional, an act that usually involves being awake.
I have discovered that all skating music, no matter the song, actually sounds like circus music when heard from afar, outside. As you approach, you almost think that you are nearing Central Park’s famous carousel, but that’s located beyond Wollman, a little further west. Gradually, the music clarified itself and I forced myself to open my eyes all the way.
That’s when I saw it, from above, through a line of trees: a gleaming slice of ice. I stopped in my tracks to take it in. The sun was ricocheting off the surface, causing it to actually glow. Bundled-up children and adults were already gliding around out there, in patterns of their own choosing. In this moment, just how, when you open the lid of a pizza box to a piping hot pie smothered with the perfect amounts of cheese and sauce and fresh basil, the angels began to sing. Chuckling, I waddled the rest of the way toward work.
To be continued, next week.
***
Needless to say, I highly recommend that you visit Wollman Rink. If you live nearby and you’ve never been, you should go immediately. If you live far away, you should make a weekend of it, and combine it with a pizza tour.
If you are aware of any rinks of unusual shape (A donut? A pear? A candy cane?), or rinks that are unique for any other reason, please enlighten the rest of us by clicking on “comment.”
To read Wollman Rink, Part 2, Click here.
To see Wollman in all its glory, click on “Central Park” at the following site: Click here.
Skating Friend-o-Mine
February 17, 2008
Well, I’m heading to Puerto Rico this week in order to thaw out and catch up with my dear skating friend who now lives there. She also happens to be my “oldest” friend; we’ve known each other for approximately 22 years.
It seems to me that “skating friends” are a breed unto themselves. After all, your school buddies could never really understand your skating craziness: the weird schedule, the numerous absences, or the extra stress (okay, and also fun) in your life created by those demanding little things called goals. Your skating friends…well, they understood both school and skating, and the particular challenge of balancing the two.
And they didn’t have to be your exact same age. Contrary to the sometimes rigid separation between you and people in other school grades, skating connected you with kids both older and younger, and the age-difference didn’t matter. In our case, the difference was (is) two years.
I don’t remember the exact moment when we first met, but it would have been some time during summer skating in Wilmington, Delaware. I do clearly recollect the first time we chummed around outside the rink. My mother drove my brother and I down to Washington D.C. from Delaware one Saturday to visit the National Air and Space Museum and we picked her and her brother up in Maryland on the way. As my mother remembers, my new friend and I didn’t stop chattering for the entire afternoon. And I doubt we were talking about aircraft.
We had a lot in common even beyond just general skating. We both skated pair…with our older brothers. And if this isn’t a powerful bond, I don’t know what is. In the years that we trained alongside each other (and competed against each other), we cried together, sympathized, compared bruises, and fastidiously attended to our fingernails.
Mainly, we laughed. I can easily picture us back then as teenagers, goofing off in locker rooms, while unlacing our skates on what seemed like hundreds of rink benches, and in the stands at Nationals. Most of the occurrences and observations we thought were so hilarious at the time probably wouldn’t translate in the re-telling. Suffice it to say, she is a huge source of my sense of humor.
In fact, she is a huge part of who I am.
In the time since those short but intensive skating years, we’ve lived very far away from each other, yet we’ve been able to stay in close contact. On both our parts, this has taken considerable effort, all of it well worth it.
For example, we visited each other’s freshman dorm rooms, both celebrating the new independence they represented and commiserating in their meagerness. On the day of my college graduation in Philadelphia, she unexpectedly showed up on my front stoop and knocked on the door. When I looked through the peephole, I could not believe my eyes: she’d flown halfway across the country to surprise me and secretly planned the whole thing with my mom! When she got married, I was there alongside her sisters, wearing a hot pink bridesmaid dress. At my 30th birthday party, she was sitting right there at the long table, again having flown in. This time, in her handbag she had a sonogram picture depicting twins, which she shared with me during dinner.
Our daily lives are now very different from each other’s. Of course, a lot has changed and a lot has also stayed exactly the same. I trust that when she picks me up from the airport, it will be like it always is when we reunite: as if no time has passed. And though this tropical setting - the palm trees, the sand, the sound of the ocean combined with the tiny voices of her three adorable kids - is about as far as you can get from our cold, icy origins, we probably would never have met or gotten to that sunny place if weren’t for the activity we shared so intensely, so many years ago.
As I tried to dig out some summer clothes in order to start packing my suitcase, something occurred to me. I never thought of this before, and little did we know it at the time, but the fact that she and I first really got know each other in a museum dedicated to airplanes would end up having quite a bit of meaning.
***
Thank you for reading.
I know you had/have some good skating friends, as well. Please share a memory or two.
***
To read an article called “International Judging System Basics” I wrote this week for icenetwork, click: http://web.icenetwork.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080216&content_id=44011&vkey=ice_news
