The Hill Man’s Blogspot

Warrington

I was only six years old, way too young to be roller skating by myself… or so my young mind constantly insisted. Despite my serious fear of the rink, my family still thought Saturday night pizza and roller skating at the Warrington Skating Rink was a perfect way to spend the evening. Although I knew my family loved spending time with me, after two years of babying they began to get a little annoyed at having to rotate who held my hand around the rink. I couldn’t help it; I was scared to death to skate alone.

As much as I dreaded having to skate solo, nights at the skating rink were never dull. Walking in the building the smell of rubber and pizza was almost overwhelming. It is an odd combination of aromas that seems to have developed a unique tie only to skating rinks. At the rink, everyone is always happy. From the energetic staff skaters in their bright orange polo’s, to the old man renting skates at the counter. The flashing disco lights only add to this aura of happiness as they reflect of the smiling skaters while they glide round and round. And oh, how can one forget the soundtrack. From the Macarena to the Chicken Dance, these corny tunes always seemed to fit with my 6 year old minds idea of a hopping dance party. In order to avoid deprivation from this fun filled night at the rink, I felt one fateful night it was time to at least attempt to skate by myself.            

“Just take it slow” I told myself. I inched along the rink as the other skaters whizzed past me on either side. My sister waved at me enthusiastically and she skated by with her friends. My parents had already been sucked into the “Parents Room” where all of the old people sat and talked watching their children skate around. I tried desperately to make eye contact with my mom, but she was purposely avoiding my gaze. I couldn’t stare very much longer because turning around was enough to make me loose my balance. As tears welled up in my eyes I tried to match the pace of everyone around me. Fall after fall, I eventually just sat down right in the middle of the rink frustrated and upset. I was crying hysterically but neither of my parents could see me so there I sat, all alone, with tears and snot running down my face. It was an attractive site I am sure. After a few minutes a nice blonde lady came to me and offered to help me up. I recognized she was one of the mothers who sat and talked to my parents in the “Parent Room” so I decided it was okay to let her help me up. I had always been told not to receive help from strangers. But the pretty blonde lady seemed friendly enough, so I wiped my nose with my sleeve and let her pull me up.

“You look like you could use a hand. What happened to you dear?” she asked seeming genuinely concerned. I proceeded to spill out my sob story from the entire evening and started to cry once again, perhaps just for effect. It worked, as the blonde lady then offered to skate around with me a couple of times until I got back on my feet. I gleefully accepted her proposal and grabbed onto her hand tightly as she led me around the rink. She had probably intended on letting my hand go and being able to skate without me after a few laps around the rink, but I had no intentions of letting go. I seemed to have glued my hand to hers and with a cheesy smile I’d plea “Just one more time around with me?”

Eventually I caught the eye of my mom who was sitting at the edge of the rink watching me in awe. Her face kind of gave off the “I can’t believe she found some random lady to skate around with her because the rest of us wouldn’t.” I have to admit I was proud of myself too. The rest of the night was spent with the pretty blonde lady skating round and round until my feet hurt too much to continue. When we exited the rink I ran over to my parents and enthusiastically asked if they had seen me skating. My mom rolled her eyes and my dad just laughed. “Next weekend, we’ll make sure to have someone skate with you dear.” I sat smiling the entire ride home. All it took was a few falls and a little bit of tears to get my way.

Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 27th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections