Roses and Roller Rinks

I read a blog today about my friend taking her daughter to a skating rink. Roller rinks are smelly, loud, and really boring for anyone not in skates. I opined that I just might not love my kids enough to take them to go skating-- the two hours of watching a child go round and round the floor it more than I could bear. I then suddenly teleported back in time to the many Saturdays I spent at Washington Skateland. It had a portrait of our first President on the outside, and carpeted benches and neon lights inside. The "pro shop" would sell you fluorescent laces and fuzzy pom poms for the skates. The disco music was loud and tinny. And of course there was a mirrored ball in the center.

And who took me? My Grandma Bug. My sister and I spent lots of weekends with them. So many fond memories of those weekends; Grandpa would pick us up after work on Friday afternoon, and drive us to their farm in his big red Chevrolet, no air conditioning, Cubs game on the AM radio. If we were really lucky, he'd stop by the KFC on the way home. Grandma worked for the Red Cross, and wouldn't usually be home until late that night. Then Saturday, we'd do farm stuff, that is, until I turned about 10, when I learned to roller skate.

So Grandma would drive me there Saturday morning, and sit for two hours straight (sometimes more), in the noisy stinky blinky rink, watching me roll around in circles. I don't remember her bringing a book, but I certainly hope she did. I still don't think I love my children enough to routinely take them to a place like that (I've already vetoed the chance of ever taking the kids to Chuck E Cheese again), but I hope that when I'm a Grandmother, I'll have such a close relationship with my grandkids. I'm truly grateful that I knew them so well for so long.

Speaking of Grandma, I recently took this picture of an afghan she crocheted back when she was a home-duty nurse, and have been meaning to post it. I love this throw. It proudly sits on the back of the sofa she gave to me last year. I love the sofa too-- it has become known around here as Mommy's Special Couch.

"Don't climb on the back of Mommy's Special Couch."
"Put the cushions back on Mommy's Special Couch."
"No markers within 10 feet of Mommy's Special Couch!"

Anyway, enough of the reminiscing. Here's the throw, and the couch. I'll get back to yarnier content tomorrow. I hope. ;)