‘Tis The Season

Chilled, ice shavings, swirling. . .

No, I’m not talking about making a drink, but about ice skating. Hat-topped people bundled in scarves and gloves, twirling and gliding, slipping and tumbling against a backdrop of pine trees and snowy hills is a magnificent scene to imagine. It is often portrayed in movies, books, or those miniature winter scenery figurines. It’s one of those scenes, though usually snowy and cold, that gives a person the warm fuzzies.

I have no great memories of ice skating on a pond or a local lake growing up, nor did I ever own a pair of ice skates. My only encounter with ice skating was when I was about eight years old and stayed with cousins in Kansas City. We all went to Crown Center where they had an outdoor rink. I remember there being a lot of people, most of them much bigger than myself, and my cousins leaving me in the middle of the rink amid the chaos of holiday skaters and atop the giant penguin painted under the ice. As an eight year old, this was very traumatizing. (Thanks a lot, cousins. You know who you are.) Somehow, I did make it back to safety.

Despite all of the above, my idyllic visions of ice skating were never stolen from me. Wanting to feel my nose and cheeks turning red from frosty air and light snowflakes while having enough skills to stay upright and have at least some movement over the ice. Passing other skaters while laughter and conversation filled the air. And somewhere nearby there would be a statuesque snowman decked out in winter attire.

It wasn’t until a few years ago, after having lived in California for a few years (of all places), that I found an outlet for my ice skating fantasy. Granted, no snowman, no snowy hills or pine trees, and no red-nosed skaters. Instead a backdrop of the beach, ocean, and palm trees set the scene for ice skating.

The rink is to the right.

Hotel del Coronado constructs an outdoor ice skating rink every year for the holidays, starting at Thanksgiving and going through New Years. There are skate times during the day, with a close and clear view of the ocean, as well as nighttime skating. I’ve been to both, and both are spectacular, but I think I prefer the nighttime. The ocean doesn’t show up in photos, but the Christmas lights are all aglow and there’s a different and more special feeling to it.

          I conquered the ice! Bwhahaha!                  A snippet of the lobby of the hotel.

The hotel is gorgeous and their decorations are incredible. Holiday music floats above the slash of skates on ice. Some people are fluent on the ice, others stumble, but everyone enjoys feeling giddy and young again, as only an activity like ice skating can do.

I haven’t found anyone willing to go with me yet this year, but hope to make it back again. To conquer the ice once more.

And yes, all without falling.

Put The Top Down: 1950s

My ultimate dream car is a 1955 Chevy convertible in two-tone, preferably green and white (but who am I kidding, any color would do) with white wall tires. The big, yet skinny steering wheel, the push button radio, the hood ornament, the headlights, the tail fins, the cavernous front seat. . . I’m getting misty-eyed just thinking about it. Yes, I know, they’re not exactly “road friendly” but I suppose some updates to it would do the trick, because I would drive this – everywhere. I would eagerly take this car over any other car that could be offered to me. Of course, I just have to dream about, and drool at seeing, classic cars when I get the chance, because I think the chance of me ever having one is slight to non-existent.

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Sealed With A . . .Digital Signature?

I have loved writing letters, real letters, ever since I can remember. I used to send away for multiple pen pals and relished in each letter I received, and in return, could write. When I was away at college, working at summer camps, and for a bit after I moved to California, my aunt and I would write letters to each other. For some reason or another, we don’t do this so much anymore.

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Break Out The Chip ‘n Dip!

Anyone who knows me, knows I love a good happy hour. Giant margaritas and cheap tacos? Yes, please. But what about cocktail hour in the home done with a little more sophistication?

The cocktail hour (which is essentially moved to a restaurant and called happy hour) was a staple of life beginning in the 1920s, and probably best recognized in the 1950s and 60s. You can always have your own private cocktail hour. You come home from work, a glass full of goody liquid, and a relaxing chair, perhaps some music in the background. Think:

“Honey, I’m hoooome.”

“Oh, dear, how was your day? Here’s your scotch on the rocks. I think I’ll have a Tom Collins.”

The above scenario could be envisioned either the man is coming home or the woman, and is greeted by their significant other at the door with a drink. How come people don’t do this anymore? (Not as many alcoholics?)

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