Blue Ice

Same Walk, Different Shoes.

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that

Ben Wakeman

organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

Pennsylvania, 1983.

Standing in the fields of freshly cut hay, the rubied sun still visible in its hazy horizon, I watched the hurried routine around me, and my heart was ready to burst. It had been another day of busied love, between my parents and I, between our horses and I, and the flavour of life on the ranch had a pace that suited my fresh energy.

I was just 12, back at school after a summer spent devouring books and riding my new horse, Picasso. I chose that name because he was so black he was nearly blue, and I only liked Picasso’s blue series, and it just made me smile.

Life was soft, my world was gentle, and although I enjoyed school, I was cocooned in the tender breeze of warmth my parents had created for us three. Days at home were my favourite; after a routine breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, we started the ritual feeding of chickens, geese, dogs and horses. We named every single one of them depending on their personalities, and I often thought I would end up working with animals if I couldn’t earn a crust as a writer.

My parents were teenage sweethearts, still so in love and tactile it was really embarrassing… They worked together all day long, and then they still wanted to go to the pictures and out for dinner together at least once a week, leaving me home with my grandpa, Hector. Grandma died before I was born, and Hector’s world dimmed out for a while.  Mama was dedicated to her parents and it made sense to have her dad move in on the farm so he would nestle in the annex next door to the main house.  He brought all his tools from his time as a woodturner, and made bird houses, salt and pepper mills, egg cups and a wooden rocking horse for me which I still have to this day. 

Grandpa also made the best pancakes, and we’d have a stack of them with zigzags of sticky maple syrup, a handful of crushed raspberries, and “a dusting of confectioner's sugar”, he always insisted. Grandpa shook a little more every summer, and any dusting turned into a puffed explosion that made me sneeze.

“ Bless you, Sissi…mm, are you sure you are well enough for pancakes…?!”

-”Yes, grandpa, always!”

I invariably felt a bit queasy afterwards, full of sugar and lulled in grandpa’s gentle attention. We’d then tidy the kitchen, “we always redecorate when you cook, grandpa…!” Snuggled with a book and a sleepy dog each, we then read until my eyelids burnt and I‘d give in. I would have to wait till morning to hear what mom and dad had for dinner, how they shared each other’s food, and the complicated desserts they discovered.

As soon as they got home, however late, they both creeped in quietly to whisper “Goodnight, Sissi, love you so much.”

Towards the end of summer, dad exceptionally went on a hunting trip without mama. It was just a long weekend away and he returned as promptly as he could to tell us all about what he ate, the colour of the sky, who he met.  Inside his battered old suitcase, he dug out ”something just for you, Sissi!”  I looked on excitedly at the indigo silk paper laced with a wide velvet ribbon loosely tied.  I carefully untied and revealed the most beautiful suede vest, adorned with delicate fringes, in a sunny tan tone that fitted me like a glove!  It contrasted with my long dark locks, and I felt so grown up wearing it, feminine in a bohemian way that fitted with my still tomboyish spirit. I loved the gentle swaying of the fringes against my blue jeans, tickling each step I took.  I hugged him  “thank you dad!”, so excited and overwhelmed that dad chose it for me on his own, and it was so perfect.  I decided to wear it to school too as the weather was ripe for it.  I worried I might outgrow it too soon, and mama agreed: “You mustn't keep growing any more, Sissi, or it won’t fit you by Christmas!”

And so I wore it to school, elated by this one item of clothing that swelled up with the love that we carefully concocted between us. I was excited as I could feel myself walking taller, catching my reflection I could see I almost looked grown-up as I made my way to school that morning.  When inner joy makes you grin almost uncontrollably, and nothing can touch you, or so it seems.  That’s how I felt that morning, until I walked past Tony and his friends, loitering outside the school’s entrance. Tony was the golden boy, a charmer who could bend the rules, push the boundaries and somehow find his way back on his feet, every single time.  He was a couple of years older than me, we didn’t hang out at all but I knew he was popular with all the girls; not with me though, I much preferred books and horses. 

As I walked past him, still grinning as the soft fringes swayed back and forth, he whistled mockingly and started chanting at the top of his voice:

”Horse woman!...Horse woman!” in what seemed like an endless loop, interrupted only by the loud cackles of his friends pointing at me as I walked away furtively, by that point no longer walking tall. Tears in my eyes, I rushed into my classroom, shocked by how quickly Tony’s nastiness had destroyed my joy. I had to dig deep to stop myself from crying, so angry at myself for not having kept my new vest for home; what possessed me to think it was a good idea to wear it for school? I looked around and noticed everyone else wearing the usual combo of jeans and t-shirts, the odd sweatshirt but no one else had anything remotely similar to a grown-up garment. I started to feel like such a fool, sitting alone with my unease. It felt like the longest school day ever, as I kept dipping in and out of focus, struggling to stay on task as I replayed Tony’s taunts, his friends' sniggers, over and over. I kept  wishing I could rewind to the morning and take off the stupid vest. I found myself striving to avoid bumping into Tony all day long. A couple of teachers asked if all was ok, I seemed miles away apparently. I lied it was nothing, and tried harder to conceal how upset I really was. I couldn’t wait to get home and take off this dreaded vest and never wear it again.  

At long last, the school day ended, I took my time to gather my stuff, knowing Tony usually couldn’t wait to leave so the slower I was, the better.  Stood by the school gate, dad waited for me, checking his watch and waved a huge grin when he saw me. A hug later, as we drove off home, dad asked me his favourite question: “What made you smile today?” frowning and disconcerted, I told him nothing, not today. A puzzled glance at his rear-view mirror, he  sighed: ”Oh, Poppet, why nothing?”

Silent tears rolling down my frowning face, dad knew something bad had occurred. “We’ll talk about it with mama, we’ll sort it, sweetheart.”  His right hand sought mine and he gently tapped it three times, quick taps so he could return to driving with both hands.

After a long hug with mama, another one with dad, and one from grandpa, we sat on the veranda and I told them what happened. I sobbed all my hurt and anger. How I was never going to be able to wear what I liked, how I hated school, and boys, all of them. Eventually, no more tears to shed, I heard a few words of reassurance as I went on my way to groom Picasso. Nuzzling into his softness, I quietly watched the earth swallow the giant yolk the sun had turn into. A pinch of fear as I thought of the next morning, how I dreaded walking into school. Would Tony be there again, what would he say this time? I suspected he would comment on my not wearing the vest this time, having finally seen sense or some other rubbish; I didn't know what to expect, what to say, how to behave. All these things I never had to worry about before, had suddenly morphed into my new reality: an anxious replay and then roleplaying ways to expect and prepare for everything. If only I could, I would never return to school. Could I be home-schooled? I started to imagine all kinds of ways to avoid having to relive the experience of the morning. My usually free and open mind suddenly preoccupied with all the hostile possibilities of my life now changed forever.

My parents were setting off for dinner out in town that evening, so grandad tried his best to cheer me up; alongside baking, his tried and tested method was to recite every single dad joke he could remember. I too knew them by heart, and they really were lame, but watching his delivery as his overgrown eyebrows seemed suddenly demented moving to punctuate important details and the punchline, I still laughed, that delicious laugh that follows tears. 

The following morning, my parents slept-in but I found a note on the breakfast table addressed to me. I unfolded it and in my father’s tidy handwriting stood this enigmatic message:

“If you think it is right, think of Blue Ice. We have it. It will be the answer." 

I had never heard of Blue Ice; what could it be, and, more pressingly, how on earth could it help me stop Tony being so mean? Grandpa didn’t know either, he said he would help me look for it but would need to talk to my dad first to understand where we stored it and how I could make use of it.

I thought about it all day long at school; Tony was loitering again when I first arrived at school, and feigning surprise, looked me up and down and asked :” What’s happened to horse woman…gone already?!” I ignored him and his stupid friends giggling their heads off, thinking well, at least I might be able to do something to stop them now.

But what exactly? I wished the day away, impatiently waiting for some good news and a bundle of instructions. I was so excited to get back home, hoping my favourite accomplice Hector might have gathered sufficient intel so we could locate the famous Blue Ice.

“Well?..” I asked optimistically.

“Nope, no joy my darling, mama and dad wouldn’t tell me anything. But they said we’ll talk it through over a glass of lemonade.”

In the warm afternoon sun, we settled on the patio, iced lemonade and my dad started to explain to me.

“When we grow in a loving place, with loving parents and grandparents, even siblings as I did, we don’t really know how to deal with other places and people who don’t know that very love and happiness.  They see what we have, and maybe they get jealous, maybe they're just clumsy, don’t know what to do with things you can’t see, can’t destroy. Instead they try to make you feel rubbish so they’re not alone anymore. They curse at you, they poke fun at you, they want to hurt you real bad, and it works because you’re not prepared for it. You are lucky you’re not used to it, but with that luck comes your vulnerable side. You cry, you hurt, maybe you even want to hurt them back, so they suffer as much as you do. But if that’s what you do, are you really any better than them? And it’ll leave you feeling wrong, like you’re mean and where does it all end? From what I’ve seen of the world, we can all become the one thing we hate the most. The thing is to know that danger, and to not get hooked into it.

But we have a secret weapon, our Blue Ice…you know the way ice is solid once it sets, how slowly it melts? Imagine being surrounded by the toughest ice sheet, as blue as the bluest sky of summer so you feel the warmth despite the ice? Picture yourself dipping into our never-ending ramparts of Blue Ice every time you step outside home, no longer alone, no longer fragile, yet still you. Whatever the Tony’s of this world try to throw at you to hurt you won’t get to you anymore, that inner protection will deflect the stuff that would usually hurt you and damage you. It may not be the only answer, but perhaps it is, it’s for you to decide, Sissi.”

There was a small part of me slightly disappointed that Blue ice wasn’t hiding in a secret compartment on the shelves of dad’s bureau. I had wondered how it might feel to the touch, how I might enjoy throwing it at those mean enough to mock me. And yet, I felt myself imperceptibly sitting taller as I received my dad’s vote of confidence that I too had been gifted the inner strength he gratified with getting our entire family through the ebbs and flows of life.  All the things I had been told through family anecdotes, the quiet, kind steel that armoured us enough to survive and thrive despite adversities, I had it too?  Did that mean I shouldn’t worry about being prepared with repartee, about being witty enough or tough enough: it was already in me! 

My father’s conviction that I too had my own precious bucketful of Blue ice was to prove life-affirming, as from then on I learnt to hold my nerve in times of uncertainty, in the face of aggression. I no longer felt alone and broken open by external aggressions.  The gift of confidence was a most transformative experience for me, and the emotional astuteness of my parents morphed into the backbone I needed.

In time, I shared it with close friends, and our precious Blue Ice became the gift that best defined my childhood. It travelled well through the younger generations too as I delighted in passing it on to my own children, who embraced the tradition and gifted it to their own.