This past weekend I designed a pattern with boys playing hockey on a pond. Winter’s coming, it was never more apparent than yesterday’s lower temperature after we’d been spoiled with an uncommonly mild October. Sunday was brisk, and the first time I dug out a heavier jacket. As I went outside with the pups the cooler temperatures made me clasp the collar tightly with one hand and stuff my other one into a pocket. I’ve been hearing snow has already fallen in other parts of Canada, and today it seemed possible on this coast as well. Snow is coming and snow means ice, and ice means skating and of course, hockey. Not the rink kind, that’s probably been going on with manufactured ice for a while; I mean the backyard fun, the frozen ponds and the hose filled low areas of the lawn.
I coloured in the design using PhotoShop to give it more interest than a flat black and white drawing but hooking this pattern will really bring it to life. The boys can also be made into girls with a bit of hair adjustment. Back in my day boys played hockey and the girls looked pretty doing figure eights, but I guess I'm dating myself. Maybe I was tripping down memory lane as I drew this design, not even considering that girls now play hockey. Silly me. The pattern is 26" x 39". I really like the hockey stick border, a very different way to frame a design. I hope all you hockey moms and grandmas will like it too.
When I was a kid there was a natural pond adjoining our property. At night it was almost deafening with thousands of peeping frogs and during the day It was a great spot for catching pollywogs where I spent many an hour in rubber boots and a pail wading in the water. It just dawned on me that my dad never warned me away from the pond’s edge or perhaps that’s one of the memories that have gone through my mental shredder. He was always beating the danger drum, everything on the other side of our front door was a means to an end, maiming and killing little children. Everything was geared to bludgeon, hang, stab, break-a-neck or drown the youth, making the world a very scary place. I’m surprised the miring mud and weeds that could entangle legs and pull one down into the black depth eluded him. Maybe no child had drowned there marking it a taboo for ever more. Perhaps mom was a bit more relaxed while her paranoid, gate keeper of a husband was at work but I do know she kept a close eye on me from the kitchen window.
In the winter the pond would freeze solid and the bigger kids cleared the snow so they could skate. It was big enough for the boys to play hockey while the girls twirled in the corners doing figure eights. Up until the age of four, I used to watch them skate through the frosted windows of our house. I imagined them to be fairies. Oh, how I dreamed of growing up and joining them with my own pair of skates.
In the Veinotte house, birthdays were always monumental. My mom was a class ‘A’ baker and we loved her desserts, especially her delicious scratch cakes, lavishly decorated to suit various occasions. My all-time favorite was cut pieces of a white sheet cake that were assembled into the shape of a long eared bunny, coated with creamy butter frosting and sprinkled with long, desiccated coconut, a confectionery imitation rabbit’s fur. Before dressing the cake in a coat of sugary goodness, she would wrap coins in waxed paper, burying them deep below the crust’s edge. The walls echoed with squeals of delight, when my wedge of cake produced a nickel or a dime and sometimes even a quarter.
All birthdays were significant and memorable, but my fourth stands out as the pinnacle to which all others paled, for this was the year I received a pair of bob skates. They were double bladed, not the single blade of a figure skate like the older girls enjoyed, for a kid it was like training wheels on a bicycle, allowing easier balance to ensure more skating and less falling. They weren’t as pretty as regular skates with their white leather shapely boot, these had brown straps that buckled over my winter boots, but I didn’t care what they looked like, I now had the blades to glide and dance like the fairies.
Completely awe struck, I used to watch the older children skate on the pond, pretending that their rosy cheeks and happy faces belonged to fairies. I longed to join in their ice dance; the images filled my daydreams and frolicked in my head at night as I slept on my pillow. The delicate movement of the girls in their tights and twirling plaid skirts, their blades glinting in the afternoon sun was music without sound. How I longed to join them, arms stretched out as I pirouetted my way down the length of the pond. I would practice in our living room, the oilcloth flooring my ice, and I would sashay this way and that from one end of the room to the other.
Until I grew older and became proficient on real skates, I would spend a good deal of the time on my rump, my bulky snowsuit and short legs didn’t allow the freedom to fly, but I didn’t care, it was still magical. The crisp cold didn’t bother me, the nose candles and the numb, red cheeks couldn’t take away from the smile frozen on my lips. In my glory and oblivious to the cold, mom had to drag me inside before my toes and fingers froze to solid blocks.
So on my fourth birthday, when I tore at the pretty pink wrapping paper and discovered my dream had come true, I remember hugging mom, telling her over and over how much I loved her, backing up my words with little dewy kisses all over her face. Our mother always chose our gifts thoughtfully. Watching me day after day sitting with my nose pressed up against the partially frozen window glass, she knew the perfect present to make my heart sing and it did, the gift brought feelings of pure joy; a euphoria so overwhelming it almost induced a catatonic rapture. That night I slept with my skates, hugging them tight, knowing that tomorrow I would be out on the pond dancing with all the other fairies.
When I was older the town built a proper rink with a cement footing, a fence around the parameter, pole lighting and a building to warm yourself while you put on and took off your skates. Back then I was like most teenage girls, pining for a boyfriend, fantasizing about holding hands while circling the rink as music blasted through the loud speakers. There’s a memory trying to come through, of me skating with a boy, but for the life of me I can’t give birth to it. How wonderful it would be to revisit that time to see what a little imp I was and who I might have had a crush on. I’m not even sure it’s true, as a young girl, my imagination was so overripe perhaps dreaming about it so much forged a fake memory.
I would like to try skating again, although now it would be more awkward than fluid, with the accompanying worry of a fall and hip replacement. It would be so much fun to glide down the ice holding hands with my fella, the frosty air stealing my breath, a pleated skirt for twirling, attempting a circle, well, these days perhaps something more akin to a vacillating oval, but oh what joy it would be.
I don’t own a pair of skates anymore; the last pair turned mouldy from being forgotten in the basement, the age cracked leather boot turned an ugly grey, the blades brown with rust. I don’t recall ever having a new pair of skates of my very own, although a lot of my memories have been eaten like moths in a trunk ful of wool, so Santa could have brought a pair at some point. Usually my skates were hand-me-downs; the last pair came from my mother who also loved to be out on the ice. Dad always filed off her toe picks; apparently they made her stumble and fall as they caught in the ice. He called them killers anyway; they tripped a person up, causing spills where the blades could slice a throat. Not sure what field that one came out of, but someone must have had a nasty mishap because our worrywart dad had it in his memory file of fun spoilers and childhood dream crushers.
I’m no longer willing to invest money for a new pair of skates for the few times I might get out on the ice and it wouldn’t be pretty because I’d need extra padding to prevent all the bruising. I’m not as flexible as I used to be and the fear of falling would stiffen my frame even more. Why couldn’t skating be like the bowling alleys, where I could rent the appropriate footwear, do it and get it out of my system without the bite of the cost buying new, on top of the cold. Ah well.....maybe I’ll have to pencil it in on my bucket list....
I used to be a hockey mom. From awkward beginnings as Shane struggled to stay up on his feet, to watching him proficiently cover one end of the rink to the other with the speed of skilled confidence, I was there. It was a thrill to watch my beautiful boy out there on the ice. Professional hockey has never interested me but watching my son playing offence while we froze in the bleachers sipping hot chocolate and screaming encouragement with all the other parents, well, it was as exciting as it gets.
My boy turned 38 last week. I can hardly believe time has slipped by so quickly. Shane is now a man and a very fine one, but as a mom I still see the little boy, maybe I always will.
I coloured in the design using PhotoShop to give it more interest than a flat black and white drawing but hooking this pattern will really bring it to life. The boys can also be made into girls with a bit of hair adjustment. Back in my day boys played hockey and the girls looked pretty doing figure eights, but I guess I'm dating myself. Maybe I was tripping down memory lane as I drew this design, not even considering that girls now play hockey. Silly me. The pattern is 26" x 39". I really like the hockey stick border, a very different way to frame a design. I hope all you hockey moms and grandmas will like it too.
When I was a kid there was a natural pond adjoining our property. At night it was almost deafening with thousands of peeping frogs and during the day It was a great spot for catching pollywogs where I spent many an hour in rubber boots and a pail wading in the water. It just dawned on me that my dad never warned me away from the pond’s edge or perhaps that’s one of the memories that have gone through my mental shredder. He was always beating the danger drum, everything on the other side of our front door was a means to an end, maiming and killing little children. Everything was geared to bludgeon, hang, stab, break-a-neck or drown the youth, making the world a very scary place. I’m surprised the miring mud and weeds that could entangle legs and pull one down into the black depth eluded him. Maybe no child had drowned there marking it a taboo for ever more. Perhaps mom was a bit more relaxed while her paranoid, gate keeper of a husband was at work but I do know she kept a close eye on me from the kitchen window.
In the winter the pond would freeze solid and the bigger kids cleared the snow so they could skate. It was big enough for the boys to play hockey while the girls twirled in the corners doing figure eights. Up until the age of four, I used to watch them skate through the frosted windows of our house. I imagined them to be fairies. Oh, how I dreamed of growing up and joining them with my own pair of skates.
In the Veinotte house, birthdays were always monumental. My mom was a class ‘A’ baker and we loved her desserts, especially her delicious scratch cakes, lavishly decorated to suit various occasions. My all-time favorite was cut pieces of a white sheet cake that were assembled into the shape of a long eared bunny, coated with creamy butter frosting and sprinkled with long, desiccated coconut, a confectionery imitation rabbit’s fur. Before dressing the cake in a coat of sugary goodness, she would wrap coins in waxed paper, burying them deep below the crust’s edge. The walls echoed with squeals of delight, when my wedge of cake produced a nickel or a dime and sometimes even a quarter.
All birthdays were significant and memorable, but my fourth stands out as the pinnacle to which all others paled, for this was the year I received a pair of bob skates. They were double bladed, not the single blade of a figure skate like the older girls enjoyed, for a kid it was like training wheels on a bicycle, allowing easier balance to ensure more skating and less falling. They weren’t as pretty as regular skates with their white leather shapely boot, these had brown straps that buckled over my winter boots, but I didn’t care what they looked like, I now had the blades to glide and dance like the fairies.
Completely awe struck, I used to watch the older children skate on the pond, pretending that their rosy cheeks and happy faces belonged to fairies. I longed to join in their ice dance; the images filled my daydreams and frolicked in my head at night as I slept on my pillow. The delicate movement of the girls in their tights and twirling plaid skirts, their blades glinting in the afternoon sun was music without sound. How I longed to join them, arms stretched out as I pirouetted my way down the length of the pond. I would practice in our living room, the oilcloth flooring my ice, and I would sashay this way and that from one end of the room to the other.
Until I grew older and became proficient on real skates, I would spend a good deal of the time on my rump, my bulky snowsuit and short legs didn’t allow the freedom to fly, but I didn’t care, it was still magical. The crisp cold didn’t bother me, the nose candles and the numb, red cheeks couldn’t take away from the smile frozen on my lips. In my glory and oblivious to the cold, mom had to drag me inside before my toes and fingers froze to solid blocks.
So on my fourth birthday, when I tore at the pretty pink wrapping paper and discovered my dream had come true, I remember hugging mom, telling her over and over how much I loved her, backing up my words with little dewy kisses all over her face. Our mother always chose our gifts thoughtfully. Watching me day after day sitting with my nose pressed up against the partially frozen window glass, she knew the perfect present to make my heart sing and it did, the gift brought feelings of pure joy; a euphoria so overwhelming it almost induced a catatonic rapture. That night I slept with my skates, hugging them tight, knowing that tomorrow I would be out on the pond dancing with all the other fairies.
When I was older the town built a proper rink with a cement footing, a fence around the parameter, pole lighting and a building to warm yourself while you put on and took off your skates. Back then I was like most teenage girls, pining for a boyfriend, fantasizing about holding hands while circling the rink as music blasted through the loud speakers. There’s a memory trying to come through, of me skating with a boy, but for the life of me I can’t give birth to it. How wonderful it would be to revisit that time to see what a little imp I was and who I might have had a crush on. I’m not even sure it’s true, as a young girl, my imagination was so overripe perhaps dreaming about it so much forged a fake memory.
I would like to try skating again, although now it would be more awkward than fluid, with the accompanying worry of a fall and hip replacement. It would be so much fun to glide down the ice holding hands with my fella, the frosty air stealing my breath, a pleated skirt for twirling, attempting a circle, well, these days perhaps something more akin to a vacillating oval, but oh what joy it would be.
I don’t own a pair of skates anymore; the last pair turned mouldy from being forgotten in the basement, the age cracked leather boot turned an ugly grey, the blades brown with rust. I don’t recall ever having a new pair of skates of my very own, although a lot of my memories have been eaten like moths in a trunk ful of wool, so Santa could have brought a pair at some point. Usually my skates were hand-me-downs; the last pair came from my mother who also loved to be out on the ice. Dad always filed off her toe picks; apparently they made her stumble and fall as they caught in the ice. He called them killers anyway; they tripped a person up, causing spills where the blades could slice a throat. Not sure what field that one came out of, but someone must have had a nasty mishap because our worrywart dad had it in his memory file of fun spoilers and childhood dream crushers.
I’m no longer willing to invest money for a new pair of skates for the few times I might get out on the ice and it wouldn’t be pretty because I’d need extra padding to prevent all the bruising. I’m not as flexible as I used to be and the fear of falling would stiffen my frame even more. Why couldn’t skating be like the bowling alleys, where I could rent the appropriate footwear, do it and get it out of my system without the bite of the cost buying new, on top of the cold. Ah well.....maybe I’ll have to pencil it in on my bucket list....
I used to be a hockey mom. From awkward beginnings as Shane struggled to stay up on his feet, to watching him proficiently cover one end of the rink to the other with the speed of skilled confidence, I was there. It was a thrill to watch my beautiful boy out there on the ice. Professional hockey has never interested me but watching my son playing offence while we froze in the bleachers sipping hot chocolate and screaming encouragement with all the other parents, well, it was as exciting as it gets.
My boy turned 38 last week. I can hardly believe time has slipped by so quickly. Shane is now a man and a very fine one, but as a mom I still see the little boy, maybe I always will.
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