One of my earliest memories that I have of my father is a time when we went ice skating on a local creek. Nothing atypical about this story, but if I add some context about my father, then maybe it would seem surreal to you, or at least noteworthy.
My father was a very stoic man, quiet most of the time, but full of profound wisdom and concern when prompted. I have very few recollections of him ever being angry, sad, frustrated, afraid, stressed or any other emotion that we feel and display every day. Not saying that he did not feel these emotions, nor was he lacking in his love for his kids, he just seemed capable of not expressing everyday emotions to us. Because of this constant “test pattern” that we saw every day as kids, it was somewhat shocking to me when he announced that he wanted to go ice skating at the local park with my mother, three sisters and me on a cold winter day. We all crammed in the Bronco, and drove through the snow, the 5 miles or so to a place we knew as Franconia Park, where there was a reservoir created by an old mill dam that was about 100 yards long and 10 feet deep. When we got there the ice was thick enough for skating the entire length of the pond. Packs of Mennonite kids dressed in their plain clothes and hats were buzzing up and down the pond playing crack the whip. My father drove the Bronco down to the creek side along a short dirt path. There was several inches of snow and ice that the vehicle handled easily. I still remember piling out of the Bronco, and running down to the ice covered creek.
Camp Road Bridge – Franconia Park
Still not quite comprehending what I was seeing, I watched diligently as my father laced up a pair of black figure skates that he had acquired from somewhere. My sisters and mother did the same. I was too young to skate, but I did like to play on the ice.
My father hopped up on the ice and went speed skating like Hans Brinker out on to the pond. His balance was not quite that of the other skaters, but he seemed to be able to get going and stay on two blades…Errr, so I thought. Somewhere in his first or second pass down the pond, he face planted on the ice and ended up lacerating his forehead near his eye. Of course with any head cut there is an inordinate amount of blood compared to the size of the wound. He probably cursed to himself (as I was too far away to hear) and I watched him skate back over to where I was. He sat out the rest of the day (or at least I don’t recall him skating thereafter), while everyone else had fun.
To this day my most vivid recollection is of that day is upon leaving, I was in the back of the Bronco with my sisters and my father who was driving looked back at us as we backed up the snowy trial. His face cut, and blood on his jacket. He looked at me as he scanned the trail while backing up, and he must have realized that I was startled by his appearance, so he just smiled and let out an honest laugh. I was relieved to see his expression, and thought it funny too.
I still remember that day all these years later, and I am not sure that my father ever ice skated again after that.
