More on the skating...

I remember how it sounded when we skated over the ripples, a rapid trill of hollow blips, that made our feet vibrate.
About Black river; being a true swamp there were many narrow pools that froze over into paths, usually one being the widest, most solidly frozen and winding. We "brave" girls going down the path through the dark stick-like woods never knew when the boys (the enemy) were going to come swooping in from a side path and try to make us scatter or fall.

"Falling through" pretty much meant your skate time was over because you'd most likely be soaked from your knees down. It was never very deep in any place and I think that's why our folks let us go "un-adulterated".

I think each one of us had the pleasure of that bone-chilling skate-tip prancing walk back to our warm kitchens to divest of our woolen layers, draping them on the rack over the floor register. I can recall the pungent smell of wet wool steaming and slowly drying. I can still see the mittens, hats and scarves with those little "ice-balls" clinging to the fibers. I can still feel the burning sting of our ears and cheeks as they returned to warmth.
I also remember the blanketed hush of a snowy evening when your voice carried easily down the white street. I never knew why that happened but I think we all experienced that.

Maybe because I've spent so much time away, I do not feel the same embrace of the season as expressed by Breck. I may, however be re-awakening my inner New Englander this year. I am making it my goal to enjoy where I am and no longer desire to live elsewhere. It has even crossed my mind to get on one of those "ski trip" bus trips and see how hard it is for an old dog to learn a new trick. I have tried it a few times and actually enjoyed the few successful runs I was able to complete.
Who knows, stranger things have happened.
K8 the sk8