When I was young we had a tradition in our household. The first snowfall of every year, we would run out the door, with our boots half on, coats unzipped, hats lopsided, and we would flop in the snow, flapping our arms furiously.
We made snow angels.
The tradition continued as we grew older, but finally came to a halt around the age of 13, when playing in the snow was no longer fun or exciting, and the first snow fall meant wearing a big puffy jacket that made me look more like the kid on a Christmas Story than Farrah Fawcett.
Looking back now, that is one of the strongest memories I have from when I was younger, aside from the obvious trip to the zoo, or graduation day whether it be kindergarten or high school.
Over the years, my family has become more and more involved in winter sports like hockey, and it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that my dad decided we would all start going out to the local outdoor rink to skate at 35 below c.
The rink was small, and you had to shovel it off before you could even skate on it, but was free and had a bench to tie your skates.
I always remembered my dad as a pro-skater, and looked up to him as a kid, but there were a few times in my teenage years where I began to wonder where this belief came from.
He would be doing just find, skating backwards, and showing off, when suddenly he would slip, fall, and say some words I would rather not share.
We all came home with bruises in one place or another. But some fond memories have been built on simple things involving that skating rink, and I look back and remember them not because I was freezing my butt off, but simply because I was with the people who matter.
