We have just gotten past the Winter Olympics and once again I’d like nothing more than to join a curling club and slide those stones down a bumpy bed of ice at five o’clock in the morning, which is when you usually have to do those sort of things because of scheduling conflicts. The only thing stopping me is an over-indulgence in hobbies and family obligations.
Before I tell you why I can’t join a curling club, think about the pure zen possibilities of making it happen. You’d get up before anyone else in the house, grab a bag of gear, and drive to the ice rink. In the quiet of pre-dawn, the air crisp, the ground frozen, you make your way inside where the other club members are gathering. With little or no discussion, you make your way to the sheet of ice and figure out what practice would be like that morning. Then you wait your turn to take hold of the 40 pound stone. When at last you do, you squat low to the ice, push off in a whisper quiet lunge, take aim, and release the stone.
There are many ways to start each day, but tossing curling stones across the ice has to be one of the best.
Now for the myriad reasons I can’t really do that:
- I’m in a weekly pickleball league
- I play pickleball one or two times more a week
- I play ping pong with friends
- I’m learning guitar
- I build computers and websites
- I have a day job
- I write novels
That’s a busy life right there but I also have an emotionally needy Australian shepherd. There’s really no way.
But that quiet sheet of ice at the rink calls to me in the quiet moments of my day.
Having learned to skate when I was nine years old, I have a fairly deep longing to get on the ice as I watch the speed skaters and hockey games. I truly loved being at the rink, and getting on the ice, and skating as fast as possible. I’m trying to remember why I gave it up a few years ago but I think it came down to carving out time in the busy schedule when the kids were into their own after-school activities (see list of hobbies above).
I think I miss skating so much because I learned so many life lessons figuring it out.
The first lesson was learning to learn something on my own. When the rink first opened, my parents got us all a season pass so I could go as much as I wanted. Every day after school, I’d walk down there, rent skates, and pull myself along the boards.
The first time I fell about 28 times. The next time, 20. And so on, keeping track of my falls, until I could make it all around for a full hour skating session without falling.
In the strange world of a kids’ brain, I imagined that someone was watching me, judging my progress, and that if I became an accomplished skater I’d be elevated to some higher life. Eventually, I realized no one gave two poops about how well I skated.
Another lesson was that ice rink hot chocolate hits harder, and goes down smooth.
My father also wanted to get in on it, and started learning on his own as I had done.
One day, he took off of work, and pulled me out of school, so we could skate during the day when there was hardly anyone there. He had figured out how to get moving and was just then learning the plow stop, which is when you turn the blades 90 degrees, dig into the ice, and stop yourself with a blast of ice spray.
He kind of figured it out but then, around the tenth attempt, he lost his balance, flipped himself 180 degrees vertically, and cracked his skull on the ice. Just from the blood spilled, I assumed he was dead. But he came to, was taken by ambulance to the hospital, and I had a couple of hot chocolates in the lobby before heading back onto the ice for the next skating session. The lesson there being always have enough change in your pocket for a second hot chocolate if the opportunity presents itself.
The life lessons got real when I joined the varsity hockey team as a freshman. Playing against much bigger, older boys, I regularly got slammed into the boards that first year, and learned that I might die if I didn’t get out of their way. Winning those battles for the puck in the corner wasn’t worth a cracked sternum.
I also learned that a “coach’s handkerchief” meant blowing your nose by closing one nostril and launching snot out of the other nostril. With practice, you could keep the snot off of yourself.
A related lesson was to look first before sitting on the bench lest you plant your butt in a pool of snot.
On the bus to an away game, we saw the rink manager from our hometown in a car behind us, accompanied by a girl from our school—a junior, maybe? That’s how we all learned the rink manager was probably going to divorce his wife.
On another bus ride to a different hockey game, a pickup truck pulled up beside us at a red light. The driver was a balding middle-aged man. He had one hand on the wheel and was masturbating with the other hand.
Those of us on the bus who saw it first called to the others. Within a second we were all piled against the window, laughing and shouting at the guy. He casually turned and looked at us but never broke the rhythm of his beating off.
I’m not too clear on the life lesson of that one, but I guess it’d be something like finish what you start, or don’t let the judgment of others stop you from doing what you love. Also, there’s never a cop around when you need one.
I mentioned in the last Picayune how preparing for hockey taught me to be careful when packing for a trip. I also learned that, over the course of a season, sweaty hockey pads build up a stench that is horrible in its own, unique way.
That sweat-stench ranks right up there with vomit, feces, and the fish guts my mother used to fertilize her roses.
Those early childhood lessons mix with early adulthood lessons, and so on, until you start to have something more like wisdom—at least, that is, if you use the lessons to make yourself better equipped to deal with the world.
You learn that some sweat leads to stink, some men masturbate whenever and wherever the opportunity arises, and you can teach yourself how to do things, but getting a proper teacher is probably worth the money.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’m still closing in on completing the fourth revision of my novel. So close now, but also so difficult to be certain it’s better, and that it’s good.
Maybe You’d Like
This week I’m in two different group promos for your free reading material pleasure:
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/mQ8IPkI
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/NjzoRCH
Next Picayune
I think I’ll be coming at you in two weeks to promote another giveaway. Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune!
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. For those of you who picked up a copy of Ashley Undone recently, nothing helps like reviewing the book. It can be anywhere you’re comfortable reviewing books, and here’s a link to the Amazon page where you can do that if you don’t know anything better. (Thanks in advance.)