Every January, my father would drag out our old stiff garden hose and turn it on until the backyard was flooded, moving the nozzle every so often to ensure the ice formed as evenly as possible. We didn’t have a Zamboni machine so the inevitable bumps and divots would form over tufts of grass and forgotten toys, but as soon as the ice was solid enough, we were hobbling out the door in our ice skates.
Word would spread quickly throughout our West Side neighborhood. Soon our yard was full of kids, some on skates, some just running and sliding over the ice in their rubber boots. A hockey game would start with old brooms and a ball. Mom would make mugs of hot cocoa with a marshmallow floating on top and offer a cup to whoever got cold.
When we were small, we wore double bladed “beginner skates,” lightweight things that would strap onto our boots. When we were good enough to graduate to “real” skates—the leather kind with a single blade—we felt like Hans Brinker, or in my case, his sister Gretel, after she won the famous canal race and the prized “silver skates.” On our homemade ice rink, we taught ourselves how to skate backwards, do a passable twirl, and come to a stop without falling. Later, when we were old enough to walk to the Front Park skating rink, those skills gave us an advantage when we played crack the whip or a cute boy would skate up and grab our mittened hand.
Thinking back, I acquired many useful skills on that childhood skating rink. I learned how to spot and maneuver around hidden obstacles. How to fall flat on my face, pick myself up, and keep on going like it never happened. How to make the most out of winter by thinking creatively and using what was at hand.
Like many writers, I can’t help but think of winter and ice as a metaphor. Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Jack London, and more recently, George R.R. Martin of “Game of Thrones” fame, all wrote about winter from a range of perspectives. Some writers use ice to describe aloof personalities, others to signify the absence of love, still others as a destructive force not conducive to life, and winter as a season of death. A time to be feared.
Buffalonians, however, are a different breed. Wintry conditions comprise a good chunk of life in Buffalo, and I learned to think of winter, and the snow and ice that come with it, another way—as translucent, transforming, purifying, even spiritual. A calm respite before the boisterousness of spring.
I remember those first few steps on the ice, and how all five of my senses would snap awake. The shushing sound of blades on ice. The taste of snowflakes on my tongue. The metallic smell of freezing water and the sight of gorgeous patterns in the snow-rimmed ice. The exhilarating feel of the wind on my face as I rounded a turn and gathered speed. Winter was not “death” to us. It was a glorious time to be alive.
As I near the winter of my life, I try to remember that every season brings pleasure as well as hardship. I would like to embrace this new winter the way I did in my youth—as something with its own special beauty and opportunities for joy.
One of my favorite memories growing up in Buffalo was the annual trip my brothers and I would take each fall to collect chestnuts at the Connecticut Street Armory. At least, we thought they were chestnuts.
Don’t let the name Gardiner fool you—I had a Sicilian grandmother. She and my grandfather lived on the West Side of Buffalo in an upstairs flat with three small bedrooms and one bath. They had eight children (and adopted two more) who were likewise highly accomplished in producing offspring, so I shared my grandparents with 35 other grandchildren. For us, my grandparents were the center of the universe, and Nonni, as we called her, was the sun. 