At the corner of Sheridan Road and Sheridan Place, right across from East Elementary and Lake Bluff Junior High School sits Artesian Park, two blocks of village green where I suffered through the early tortures of Physical Education with activities such as softball (it was here I caught my first fly ball… with my nose) and the annually humiliating 400 yard dash - or in my case, quarter-mile-of-side-cramps-and-red-faced-misery. Nauseous and breathless and always one of the last to stumble over the finish line.
“Walk it off!” Mr. Dieden would call to us stragglers, scattered and collapsing at the side of the coned-in track circling the corner patch of park grass.
Mr. Dieden, with his crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt and bald head; with an ever-present whistle around his neck and clipboard in his hand.
Mr. Dieden, who made me write: “I will never say ‘Shut Up’ again in Mr. Dieden’s 6th period gym class.” 1,975 times.
One sentence for each year.
When all I really said was “Shu-“ before Mr. Dieden (three volleyball courts away, but apparently still within hearing range) said, “Miss Celano. I’ll see you after class.”
Like he’d been waiting for it.
Never said a word about Jeff’s “gold bricks and rich brats” remark.
Hoping for it.
Destined, in Mr. Dieden’s eyes, to be stuck at the bottom of life’s climbing rope forever, Artesian Park held little joy for me - except during the Fourth of July when the field turned to festival and carnival and fun; and when winter came and the village flooded the sunken baseball diamond across from the Junior High for an ice-skating rink.
As soon as the temperatures dipped and the rink froze solid, villagers would swarm to the park, packing the small patch of ice with skaters of all ages, sizes and skills; with races of speed and Crack-the-Whip, with hockey sticks and half-attempted “Hamill Camels”.
With huge smiles crowding pink cheeks.
The park’s field house was also opened, where a crackling fire, hot cider and hot chocolate, long rubber mats and long, wooden benches welcomed skaters looking for secure footing and temporary reprieve from the nippy wonders of winter.
Such happiness in hot cocoa and heated shelters.
In being a part of village life, instead of apart from it.
Layered, bundled, skated and packed in the station wagon, anxious to get to the rink - and our friends - we watched Dad re-shovel the shoveled walkway as we waited for Mom, whose pace was her own and not to be hurried.
For anyone.
When she finally stepped through the back door, all heads swiveled toward the flashes of Candy Apple red which had newly invaded the icy, grey scenery.
There Mom stood, in an outfit the likes of which Lake Bluff villagers had never-nor would likely ever see again: a red and white checkered snow suit: a fitted jacket with matching knickers (Yes, that’s right, I said knickers.), red, cable knit stockings, white knit gloves, and a matching, white knit, helmet-shaped cap with ear flaps and a large, snowball-sized pom-pom on top.
It was something to be seen (and near impossible to miss).
She was something to be seen.
But that was usually Mom.
Statuesque, blonde, beautiful.
Incomparable.
Ever the model.
Not afraid to be individual.
Always, always fashionable.
Even when that fashion might have been questionable.
At least from the viewpoint of her five, young impressionables.
But Mom was glowing.
Excited for the family outing. Eager to put her weatherproof, yet fashion savvy snow suit to the test.
BUT, Mom was glowing!
Like a giant, checkered barber pole.
And everyone from Dad - whose raised eyebrows on first catching sight of his fashion forward wife were a dead giveaway; to Mark, who strained his bundled body to stare at the walking tablecloth - were stunned silent by the new outfit that spoke volumes.
Exchanging glances and whispers around the rear seats as the wagon wound past the golf course, then south to town and the park, it was agreed that the best course of action was evasive. Once parked, a rapid, rear door exit would surely guarantee reaching the rink quickly and losing ourselves in the nameless, motherless crowd in moments.
As luck would have it (but whose luck was the question), a parking space - one actually big enough to accommodate our huge, creamy yellow station wagon - opened up right in front and above the bustling, sunken rink. There was no more delaying the inevitable fashion statement that was about to be thrust upon the unsuspecting citizens of Lake Bluff. As soon as Dad docked the Grand Safari and shifted into park, Jim and Chris leapt from the center seat and never looked back.
In the very rear of the wagon, however, Mia and I were at the mercy of Dad who needed to open our escape hatch from the outside (a major miscalculation) and who was leisurely lacing his own skates, while Mom struggled to wriggle a wiggly four-year-old into a pair of hand-me-down, oversized skates.
Eventually, Dad released us and leaving Mia to fend for herself, I made fast, teetering tracks to the ice, losing myself in a swarm of bladed, unbounded activity. From the crowd below, I watched, mortified, as Mom’s checkered ensemble appeared around the rear of our ship-sized Grand Safari, moving very, very slowly toward the rink, over ice and snow.
Giving everyone within a three mile radius ample time to take it all in.
Radiating red against the endless, ashen clouds.
Unabashed.
Unaffected.
Unbelievable.
Forcing me deeper into the throng of villagers.
Into the sea of somber, winter gear - commonsensical clothes in practical colors - blending together like the dark waters of a deep, churning lake.
Disorienting me.
Unsteadying me.
Suddenly drowning me in denim and down.
In unfamiliar faces.
Until a beacon - a sudden flash of bright - shone through the drab-colored chaos and restless crowd.
The most wonderful beacon I’d ever seen.
Giving me instant comfort.
Guiding me home.
To the arms of Mom.
To the warmth of her hug.
Wrapped tight in all her red and white checkered, glory.
