Figure Eights

by Kit Poole

When Dad went out to skate, we were embarrassed. Then discomfort became amazement.

The pair of old skates had hung on the basement wall for as long as I could remember. When my brother Duncan told me they were Dad’s, I couldn’t believe him.

“You mean Dad?” I asked. “Our father. He skates?” Duncan nodded.

Dad just wasn’t the athletic type. On Saturdays, while the other kids’ fathers played ball or dressed in Argyle sweaters and went off to golf, my dad returned his overdue library books. Most fathers went fishing or dug in a garden in their spare hours; my dad read about the Roman Empire and the last days of Pompeii.

He loved books. He knew the date of every battle in British history. He knew how to conjugate French verbs and could mentally add up my math problems in seconds. He was a hero to the neighborhood kids when they needed help with their Latin or physics, but all his gray matter did little good when we needed an outfielder on Saturday mornings.

When the first signs of winter came to Ottawa, Canada, I waited anxiously for Dow’s Lake to freeze over. My brothers, sisters, and I would go down into the basement and drag out skates, scarves, and gloves in anticipation of the first skate of the season.

When I awoke one winter morning there were frosty patterns on the windowpane and a tingle in the air. I knew instinctively that the first day of skating had arrived. But I was not at all prepared for the announcement made at the breakfast table.

“I’m going skating with you kids this morning,” my father said.

“But Dad,” said my sister Eleanor, thinking quickly, “I thought you had to return library books. You have an overdue notice on your desk.”

“Figure eights,” he said, ignoring her remark. “I’m going to show you kids how to do the best figure eights this side of Lake Placid.” With that he stood up and headed for the basement.

We all looked at one another nervously. I thought of our friends and what they would say when they saw Dad dressed in a dark business suit out there on the ice. Dad always wore a suit and tie even on picnics.

When he appeared with his tube skates polished and thrown jauntily over his shoulder, I breathed a little easier. He had found an old rain coat that covered his suit. He did, however, have on ugly red ear muffs and a bowler hat.

We met Duncan’s friend Arnie halfway there. Arnie’s favorite subject was his father’s great athletic prowess. To hear him talk, you’d think his dad was Joe Montana, Michael Jordan, and Arnold Schwarzenegger rolled up into one man. He was telling us how his father had played for the Montreal Canadians (a claim never proven), when he caught sight of my dad’s skates. “You mean your dad’s going skating?” he snickered to Duncan.

“Yeah,” Dunc nervously answered. “Going to show us some figure eights.”

“Hope you brought along a stretcher,” Arnie needled.

Dad was walking several paces ahead of us, whistling nonchalantly. Dunc, loyal but worried, just stared straight ahead.

When we arrived at the lake most of our friends were already there. While Arnie spread the news of my father’s intentions, Dad quietly put on his skates, leaning on one of the high snow banks around the edge of the ice. Within a minute he was ready.

Dunc diverted the attention of his friends so they wouldn’t see the disaster about to happen. My ankles were always a little weak so I wobbled as I started out on the ice. Just then a figure glided by me, taking long smooth strides. I admired the ease and grace with which he moved. With shock I recognized the rain coat and red ear muffs. It was Dad! His hands were clasped tightly behind him, head down in top Olympic racing style. He glided over the ice so smoothly you could hardly hear the cut of his skates on the ice.

Dunc was racing behind him, trying to keep up. My sisters were screaming from the sidelines, “Look at Dad! Look at Dad!”

We all held our breath as suddenly he began to go into the long, graceful circles of a figure eight. Our friends applauded as Dad modestly demonstrated his technique.

Later, when we walked home, a soft snow began to fall. Our friends were trailing behind. One yelled at Dad, “Hey, Mr. Johnson, you want to play for our hockey team?”

Dunc walked beside him, trying to keep up. “Hey Dad,” he said hesitatingly. “Do you want to try the ski jump tomorrow?”

Arnie came up to Dunc, panting from the exertion of the skate. Arnie nudged my brother and chortled, “You should have seen my dad skate at the Olympics.”

Dunc rolled his eyes.

I forgot that winter day, until years later, after Dad had passed away. I had joined the Church, and my husband and I were completing his temple work. As I sat in the Lord’s house, suddenly I could see my dad’s graceful figure on the ice that cold morning. He was smiling at me, coming toward me. Now it was my turn to lead the way, and I could feel my father’s joy.

Photography by Welden Andersen

Lettering by James Fedor