When Ice Was King Anna Headley with iceboat at Union Lake. Photo: Wettstein collection. Until I was 10 years old we lived in northern New Jersey where we got more cold weather and snow than here in “the south.” As ponds showed signs of icing over my father would get out our skates and sharpen the blades. His were big hockey skates while my sister’s and mine were figure skates. My parents would layer our clothing so much that my arms could not be lowered to my sides: I looked like the Michelin Man on blades. You would think with so much padding that falling wouldn’t hurt. I guess my father was optimistic that I’d be able to skate crossing foot over foot like him. He would hold my hands locked across his body, gliding me across the ice. But when left to my own devices my feet would slip out from under me in rather spectacular fashion, especially considering I was primarily standing still. Stranded, I would beg him to rescue me as I stood like a popsicle in need of propulsion. Sadly I never became a skater; I was more of an ice walker and hot chocolate drinker.