An Open Letter to 2020: Things I Learned That I Didn't Know I Needed

 

Dear 2020: 

No sense in rehashing what you wrought in this universally challenging year. Volumes will be written by those much better equipped than I. 

However, on my part there have been some personal revelations, life lessons, and some things I needed to be reminded of, that are worth chronicling here. I'll just call them personal observations and lessons learned. Here are a few of the highlights:    

• Having a somewhat perverse sense of humor is a survival skill.
• A commitment to a healthy diet is a survival skill. 
• Pilates classes with my daughter on Zoom are a great idea on so many levels. It's also a survival skill. 
• Housebound exercise on YouTube is...housebound exercise on YouTube, no matter which way you slice it and I'm not sure I'd classify it a survival skill (but you could have done better with some of those videos, really). 
• Outdoor exercise, almost no matter what the weather, is a survival skill.
•  Zoom volunteer committee meetings lasting longer than an hour is a survival skill that requires a strong constitution, something that's occasionally lacking at my age. 
• Zoom family calls are an essential survival skill that can be extremely funny and sometimes incredibly awkward. 
• Memes created in your honor have helped many of us survive, while reassuring me I'm not alone in my twisted sense of humor.
• Working on a new project with my husband without needing bail money (most of the time) is the epitome of survival skills.

In the category of lessons learned, there are these revelations : 

• I have way too many pairs of black leggings.
• I don't have any shoes other than slippers, sneakers, snow and hiking boots, and a single pair of flipflops.
• I need more soft sweaters because I've reached the point where I want to burn the ones I have.
• I hate bras. (I really hate bras.)
• I have socks in my drawer that actually match only because I'm not wearing them.
• I have socks in my drawer that are older than my youngest child - and possibly my oldest.
• I know everywhere that Mike and Frank have visited over the past 17 seasons of "American Pickers," and I can now identify motorcycle parts in a pile of junk buried in my neighbor's backyard (don't ask).
• The people on my mother's side of the family were hoarders, and my mother never threw away anything, including but not limited to: pocket calendar style address books dating back to 1946; bank statements going back to the 1950s, ephemera of all shapes, sizes and unknown origins pertaining to who-knows-what, and old love letters that dated back to before I was born. I'm sure she didn't even remember they still existed, mixed among the aforementioned papers. They definitely fell into the TMI category, and she would have been mortified to know that I had unwittingly perused them.
• I have large plastic containers filled to the brim with several generations of family photos - including unidentified trees, people, flowers and feet.
• There are literally no scrapbooks large enough for 32 years of competitive skating memorabilia.
• Not all old VHS tapes of non-qualifying competitions - currently filling six packing boxes - are "keepers."
  
• Cassette tapes of old programs dating back to the early 1990s do not need to be displayed, played - or kept, for that matter. 
• It's okay to go minimalist. But when in doubt, send a photo to the kids to see if they want it first. I've been out of the mindreading business far too long and I'm woefully out of practice.

However, the most important thing I learned from you, 2020, is to be present. You reminded me to be there for people; to help where I could; to counsel if asked, and to shut up and listen when it was truly needed. You also reminded me the importance of saying "I'm sorry," and "thank you," because both are worth their weight in gold.

As I get ready to fling open our windows and doors to guide you "gently" out and cautiously welcome 2021, I really need to prepare. There is so much ahead; so much to do. 

I'm stronger, and hopefully wiser, because of you, 2020. Your lessons were not wasted on me, and you will not be forgotten. I have a very long memory.

Yours Truly.

What Matters Most - Life In The Time of COVID-19

Photo courtesy US Figure Skating.
Purchase of masks helps support Memorial Fund.

It's been more than a year since I did a blog. I thought I was done, but apparently I can't escape - particularly when life has dealt us challenges unlike we've ever experienced before. If we survive this, let's hope none of us - in whatever time we have left on this "mortal coil" - will ever have to experience anything like it again. 

Which brings me to this new musing.

There's a new "normal" now that's a bit different than the one I talked about in 2009 when I first started sharing my thoughts about life on the edge of skating, though some things seem to never change. Like the mysteries of giving birth for the first time, this chapter that's unfolding before us does not come with a set of clear instructions. We read, watch and listen to experts, but then we are pretty much left to figure it out for ourselves. The phrase, "We're all in this together," while true in the universal sense, sometimes seems awkward and discomforting during a pandemic. 

I could go on with a diatribe, but we're all doing that in our own personal-planet lives. This is meant to be an observation of what seems to be happening in our molecular world of ice, and how we might be able to apply it to the bigger picture of life on a decidedly different edge. 

Like virtually everything, skating came to a hard stop in late February or early March, depending on where you live on this planet. What was promising to be an exciting third year of the quadrennial cycle leading up to the 2022 Olympics evaporated in a nanosecond. The ice was figuratively, and literally, pulled out from under us, leaving  nowhere to turn. People were frozen in strange places, many far away from home. Some found solace through sheltering in place with friends, becoming unwitting roommates for more than three months. Most found themselves alone with their thoughts and fears; forced to examine themselves in a way they may never have done before. 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,”

~ Charles Dickens.  Tale of Two Cities  

Winter of despair? Definitely. 
Spring of hope? Nope. 
Summer of enlightenment? Stay tuned.

The encouraging thing is that we're a resilient lot. Brilliant and resourceful, coaches, clubs, skaters, choreographers, contemporary and ballet dancers, and personal trainers discovered Zoom as a way to further development, and to keep enthusiasm from waning in the face of - well - no faces or places to train. 

A massive disadvantage suddenly became an unexpected boon to learn from people they would rarely, if ever, have a chance to access during day-to-day training preparation. Those who had the resources and willingness to take a new path, found a brave new world - and a way to stay connected.

Now, with rinks in our 50 seemingly different and individual country-states here in the U.S. starting to sputter to a start - and with the future of a season still uncharted but most likely unexplored territory - it is incumbent on all of us to step up, and back, to take a bird's eye look at the horizon. 

As a parent of a now-professional skater and choreographer, my goal is laser focused: to love unconditionally and non-judgmentally; to be there to bolster and encourage. By truly listening, we came to the realization that our bottom line hasn't changed; the love of what's been our lives for more than 32 years is still there. 

But like all love, it's challenging us to find new paths. Being able to navigate the changes, being flexible, encouraging and supportive is the foundation of the "emotional home," the safe place we spent years constructing in this sport. Sharing that has been the greatest gift.

Life in the time of COVID-19 is allowing all of us to continue to build to our strengths,  and make sure we supply a solid foundation. Our greatest challenge isn't having to  wear masks - or possibly not having a "normal" skating season. Frankly, that's the least important out of all this. What's important is staying on firm, supportive ground and not sinking into a mire of mental quicksand. That's our newest test. That's how we'll survive, and thrive until we find our footing again. Just being there and present is truly what matters most.     

WHAT'S IN A NAME: Revisiting that Question 10 Years Later

Ten years ago, I wrote this blog about my alter-ego, my other persona; what was - and still is - my other name in the skating world. I had cause to revisit this last week at the US National Figure Skating Championships in Detroit. It got me thinking.

Skate to Eliminate Cancer at
Campus Martius Park, Detroit

As you know, my son is no longer competing. However, he had a lot to do, both on and off the ice, since Detroit has been his home-away-from-home for 10 years now. When I couldn't be with him, I found myself watching him on the Jumbotron, at the Ice Desk, and also on the ice during Opening and Closing Ceremonies, as well as at a Scott Hamilton "Skate to Eliminate Cancer" event held outdoors at Campus Martius park in the heart of downtown. I went to Nationals, not only to spend a little bit of time with him, but to be with my skating friends for our annual "family reunion." 

So, after all these years, and all but one Nationals since 2003, I'm fairly well-known around the concourse, in restaurants, and sometimes in the ladies room lines. However in our skating world, I'm not always known as Allison Scott, the now-retired PR professional, blogger, US Figure Skating volunteer for Friends of Figure Skating and Memorial Fund events and 29 year skate parent. In this circle of friends and fans, I still take on my other identity. Like Clark Kent goes into a phone booth, turns around twice and comes out dressed as Superman ready to take on the world, I walk into an arena, turn around twice(usually because I've immediately lost the people I came in with) and become "Jeremy's mom." People I've known for years often times can't remember my given name. I get hugs and the first question is "How's your son? Is he here?" The second thing is usually an enthusiastic - and occasionally awkward - introduction to friends. "I'd like you to meet my friend Jeremy's mom." 
No joke. 
I then have to say something like, "Hi, I'm Allison Scott. So nice to meet you." 

I bring this up because I have been around a long time, and I have had a fulfilling professional career in public relations. But  what concerns me is that I see so many parents, whether they work outside or as a stay-at-home parent, lose their own identity along the way in this sport. It's always wonderful to be identified with your child, and that recognition as a parent of your skater is -hopefully - positive. But don't let it be the only thing that defines you. 

There is a saying by Horace Greeley that goes, "Fame is a vapor, popularity is an accident, riches take wings. Only one thing endures and that is character."  

Make sure you remember who you are. Your kids will always remember who you are.

FACING YOUR FEARS

 

 

Recently, I got back on skates again. It had been nearly four years since I was on the ice. Arthritis and bunions made it difficult to find comfortable shoes, and impossible for me to get my foot into my old skates, let alone my work shoes. Finally, the pain got so bad that I opted for surgery on my left foot to relieve the pressure. Seven screws, a pin and a plate later, I found myself on a long road to recovery, still with pain and now with toes that didn't bend. First there was the scooter, then crutches and finally a walking boot for eight weeks. After that, there was the issue of finding shoes that I could wear, getting rid of a closet full that had outlived any semblance of usefulness, and experimenting with varying pads, splints and all manner of contraptions on my feet in order to find the combination that would allow me to walk again pain free. That took nearly two years.

Me at Rockefeller Center 1952.

One of the driving forces behind succeeding was to actually get back on the ice. I love skating outdoors. I do not like skating in circles around a rink since I spent a better portion of 29 years sitting and watching those infinitely more talented than I transform those surfaces into magical places of athleticism and wonder. I simply wanted to be on a frozen pond, surrounded by nature and thankful for the absolute joy that feeling brings.

I found a pair of skates called SofTech by Jackson Ultima. They are purely recreational by design. They are functional, but the most important thing about them is that I could get my non-bending toes into the boots. After a conversation with my Jackson rep, the same one who takes care of my son's skates, we concluded that I would 1) not be doing triple axels, and 2) probably not be attempting death spirals (at least not on purpose - or with a partner). This made my choice the best one for what I did want to accomplish: Getting back on the ice just after my 70th birthday.

The skates came in. They fit like a glove. Now, all I had to do was get back to a safe place to test them out.

Nothing outside was open - or even frozen - when my skates were delivered. However, I knew I had to get back on the ice. I had to face my fears of being out of shape, feeling my age and, frankly, being afraid of falling and breaking something. All the "What If's" flooded my brain like a Zamboni laying down a new surface after a particularly rough elite practice session.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed my skates, looked up a public session time at a local municipal rink, dragged my husband along "just in case" something happened, put on my warm socks, my turtleneck, jeans and a fleece jacket, and off we went. My blood pressure was probably through the roof, but I was going to get on the ice, even if I had to hug the boards. Which is exactly what I did.

That first step back was anything but secure. My mind was saying, "Come on. You've skated all your life. You were pretty good for a recreational skater. You passed basic Moves. You passed preliminary dance tests. You did figures for years. You've GOT this." My body was like. "WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING??!!! ARE YOU NUTS??? This is NOT like riding a bicycle. Remember the last time you did that? You hit a curb and fell off, bashed your elbow and cut your knees open. This is NOT a good idea! You're out of shape after your surgery. You fell cross-country skiing in Idaho with your daughter last November and twisted your back. You just turned SEVENTY! Go home, have a glass of wine."

Mind over matter - mind over body mass - prevailed. I hugged the boards the first time

around while my husband did some video which, thankfully, did not go viral. Second time around, I felt a bit more brave. I let go, but I stayed within reach of my safety net. By the third time, I was actually doing some stroking. Not stoking like a pro, but at least I wasn't walking. Stopping safely was still eluding me so I coasted into the boards by the door, walked onto the mats, put on my guards and considered it a win. I lasted about 30 minutes total, but the point is that I did it. I felt okay. I didn't fall. I was tired but I was grateful that I didn't take the easy way out.

I bring this up now because I'm facing retirement at the end of December. While my body is saying it's the right decision, this time my mind is like, "WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING??!!! ARE YOU NUTS??? This is not like riding a bicycle..." and you know the rest. So, I'm taking on retirement the same way I took on skating. Mind over matter. Because now time matters, and I have a lot of things I want to do with my life - including skating outside in nature, unafraid and in awe. That's how life should be lived.

A Short Note to Those Journalists Covering The Olympics -

I don't normally step away from my admittedly self-ordained role as one who attempts to chronicle parental skating life with a sense of humor, but I need to take a moment to speak to media covering the Olympics - some, perhaps, for the first time.

Please remember this: There are NO ex-Olympians (unless they had their medals removed for cheating); there are NO former Olympians. The athletes that represent their countries in all sports - winter and summer - are forever always Olympians. 

Like generals who lead their troops, these athletes earned their stripes. They earned the right to take the hopes and dreams of their countries with them into "battle" on the world's biggest stage. Some are victorious; some are not. They are all heroes. And NONE who served so well deserve the moniker of "former" or "ex". 

So, as we head into Olympics in PyeongChang, honor those Olympians who came before; who stepped out, and stepped up, to serve proudly. Please speak and write with respect about what they went through to earn their right to represent. They serve an important advisory role to a new generation of leaders who are trained, prepared and wear their country's colors with great pride. The Olympic family is just that - family. Give them credit for going where most will never tread. They deserve that from you. They deserve that from all of us. 

Advice to the Lutzlorn and Things I Won't Miss at U.S. Figure Skating Championships 2018 This Olympic Year

I have been spending a lot of time in the role that seems to suit me - being a small, green and war-weary trooper who everyone seems to think offers sage advice. I'm not quite sure how I achieved such revered status and respect. I don't seem to get it from within my four walls (which are appropriately decked out with lush padding), so I'll just go with it out there in cyberspace. I guess that, along the way, I somehow earned my scars and stripes.

Which brings me to my week. 

I have been in contact with no less than three skating parents who, if their ridiculously talented kids do what we know they will in San Jose next week, will be faced with the task of summiting  Mount Olympus for the first time. 

There are so many questions; so many financial concerns; so much fear and trepidation surrounding:

• How do I get there
• Where do I stay
• How do I pay
• Can I cut costs
• Will I see my skater
• Should I get tickets
• Is it safe
• I don't speak the language
• Can I drink the water
• What if I get sick

(and so on, and so on, and shoobee doobee doo)

I guess because I'm old and green, I'm supposed to know. 

So, I've been trying to answer all the questions and allay the trepidation. I've been  networking my  parent friends with my legion of wonderful Korean friends who have been there for us since 2008 when they discovered my skater at the Grand Prix Final. I cannot tell you how truly special these girls - now women - are to me. Actually, they are way

beyond special; they are part of my worldwide extended family that spans many continents, countries and cities. I have learned so much from all them over the years. The laughs and the stories we share are some of my most treasured memories. When I put out a message on Facebook for help, my Korean family answered the call immediately. I am so grateful.They jumped in with lodging suggestions, offers of assistance in Seoul and at the Games; transportation ideas. I had an instant South Korean travel and guide agency at the ready. How special is that to have those kind of friends halfway around the world with a 15 hour time difference. They were answering me in real time. I'm convinced they don't sleep, but then neither do I, and I adore them!

Which leads me to the second part of this blog. 

Here are the things I won't miss as I wing my way west to San Jose on Thursday and prepare myself to cheer on our athletes: 

• I won't miss any event after I arrive for which I am gratefully ticketed
• I won't miss another opportunity to sit in the Lutz corner (force of habit)
• I won't miss saying hi and hugging every skater, judge and coach I know
• I won't miss hanging with my Tweeps and Facebook friends because they are special
• I won't miss attending the Hall of Fame party
• I won't miss helping out at Friends of Figure Skating brunch
• I won't miss, as a Gold Sponsor of Destination PyeongChang, the Olympic Team Sendoff
• I won't miss seeing my son because we both know how important it is to be there to support the next generation of gladiators who will glide into the most breathtaking experience of their lives with one of the greatest responsibilities they have ever shouldered - that of representing our country with the best they have to offer as athletes, no matter what the outcome
  

The last thing I won't miss is what my competitor parent friends are going though now: The sick-to-your-stomach feeling of knowing, and not knowing, that all your love, support, time, money and life has come down to a few moments on a frozen surface in the U.S. that could lead to another frozen surface half a world away and in front of a worldwide audience. 

Being excited, scared and so incredibly proud thinking that you could see your kid march into that stadium wearing the mantel of Olympic Athlete - that is truly priceless.

Jeremy Abbott taking photos during Opening Ceremonies in Sochi

While I will miss being in PyeongChang and being with my other family, I won't miss that feeling of being a competitor's mom at all. I will revel in my memories of Vancouver and Sochi while I cheer for all those who represent us proudly and so well.

It's not easy being green..either from nausea, or from being Yoda.
See you in San Jose.


(This blog is dedicated to our Team Leader in Sochi, Kathy Slack. May you smile down on all of us. We miss you terribly.)

Keepsakes

There it was. 

In an Instagram story on the day before Thanksgiving, it all became clear. My son, sitting at a table with his idols, who became mentors, then friends, were now his extended family. Twenty nine years of skating was summed up in only a few words inserted over a photo taken in a restaurant.

I don’t know how to describe exactly how I felt; perhaps that’s why it has taken me a few days to organize my thoughts. But as the last Grand Prix of this Olympic season got underway in Lake Placid today, it made me think of everything it took to get us to where we are now, to every experience along the way, and to all the people who were the tight fabric – or the loose threads – that wove our journey to this revered and almost sacred place in skating called “Family.”

The timing for his post could not have been better because I had just spent a week with my daughter in Idaho culling through a mélange of literally hundreds of old photos that had managed to find their way into boxes, envelopes, tattered scrapbooks, crates and suitcases. Some I hadn’t seen in more than 25 years; some were more recent. For better or worse, they all brought back a flood of memories surrounding that one particular moment now frozen in time.

Images scattered on the floor took me on a visual and mental roller coaster ride from Vancouver in 2010, back to Aspen in 1989, and forward at seemingly warp speed to Sochi 2014 and Stars on Ice this spring. Years of competitions were laid out before me. Not all the images were salvageable after decades of wear, weather and bad storage, but most of the memories remained, even if the pictures were faded.

I bring this up mostly because today we live in a digital world where we are posting our lives by the hour and minute to a multitude of social media platforms like Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter and Tumblr. Everything is in the “now.” Many are designed to simply disappear. It is true that they are not all jewels worth preserving, but the aggregate make up the more linear stories of our lives.

Nick Kole, Evan Gibbs, John Coughlin, Jeremy Abbott

My point is this: 

Make sure you document and preserve important milestones for posterity. Make sure you don’t discard those photos from a young age with friends and competitors alike. Take pictures with coaches and judges. If you meet someone you look up to, make sure to record the moment. We live in a world of disposable media, but that doesn’t mean we should also dispose of the memories that caused us to press the button and save the moment. Images are catalysts. They can remind us where we have been so we can appreciate how far we have come, and how quickly the time in between has passed. And how, along the way, idols became mentors, and mentors became trusted friends who are now truly family - not just in skating, but in life.

Closing The Book

Ice Network Interview MP3

It was Tuesday, June 20, around 7PM. My husband, Allen, was driving. I was sitting in the back seat of the car as we drove away from the Colorado Springs airport, heading home with our son. The conversation went something like this:

Me - I saw that  you did an Ice Talk interview for Ice Network with Nick McCarvel. It's supposed to air tomorrow? 

Jeremy - Yeah, I think so. (pause) Uh, you probably should know that I announced my retirement. It just kind of slipped out...

Me - That's interesting. 

(A moment of silence ensued followed by a backseat Happy Dance)

And so it went. There was a sudden panicked realization that a LOT of key people probably needed to know about this: Coaches, officials, family, friends, U.S. Figure Skating (though we "assume" they already knew at that point if they  had previewed the segment). 

There was a flurry of activity and some continuing conversation about "what's next." To be honest, I don't even remember all of what was discussed, other than that making a public statement was kind of like graduating from college and looking out over the sea of faces, caps and gowns and feeling alone in your thoughts as you contemplate an uncertain future. After all, for the past two-plus decades, you had structure. You had places to be on time; a schedule that was unrelenting. You knew where you were going and what was expected of you - and what you expected of yourself. Now, with one short sentence, it all changed. All that was left seemed like a void in front of you; a vast sea of nothingness.

Of course, that's overly third act of La Traviata dramatic. The feeling, however, is quite palpable. 

The wonderful interview aired on Ice Network June 23, giving us all an extra day to come to grips with our new reality. For me, it was probably easier. I had been quite vocal about my readiness to move from the frozen tundra of competitive skating. I'd even written several blogs that were intended to be the final word of "Life on the Edge of Skating." 

Then I listened to the interview - much of it being about our family, and about me as a skating mom. Jeremy talked about all of us telling him that we would be supportive no matter what he chose to do. But to hear him state it was very different from having Allen, Jeremy's sister Gwen, and me say those exact same words. 

I'll admit it - I misted up. Well, okay, I cried. We are an emotional clan, so that should be no surprise to anyone who knows us, or has observed us in the stands at competitions.

In a brief 20 minutes, Jeremy put a period at the end of a more than 20-year sentence so he could begin writing his own new chapter in the sport. Because of that, I had a feeling I needed to write one more chapter myself. The only difference was that, this time, mine would truly close the book. 
After all, I began this chronicle in August of 2009. It was intended as a diary of my experiences and observations as a skating mom writing about my personal experiences in hopefully an intelligent, enlightening, mostly lighthearted manner. I wanted to take readers through our very personal adventures, ups-and-downs, giant steps and a few missed-steps in the sport that has consumed nearly 29 consecutive years of our lives. 
I did that. 
No apologies, except for the things I could have said but didn't along the way. Now, those things are best left unsaid. They serve no great purpose anyway, other than to make me feel better. I'll simply leave this statement as a "gesture" of goodwill aimed at those who more than earned it over the years.

NOW we move on, each in our own direction. I'm truly grateful to oh-so-many people who helped us along the way; those who guided us, and even those who were misguided. We learned from every experience, and isn't that what life should be about?

I hope that "Life on the Edge of Skating" finds a home in cyberspace for a long time. I hope that what we have experienced as a family, and what I have shared as a skating mom, will resonate with those who are new to the sport. Some things don't change in our world; they are universal truths, even if the individual experiences are as different as every skater who dreams a dream, and every parent who dares to follow. I hope that there will continue to be new readers who find value in what I've written, and who feel free to pass those thoughts along to others coming along in this sport. After all, we are a small, close-knit and slightly dysfunctional frozen family, bound together by a sheet of ice and three-sixteenths of an inch of steel. Find your path - with kindness, civility and, most of all, love of this incredible sport that makes the most difficult look easy. 

Now, I bid not au revoir, but à bientôt. Like my son, though this book is closed, I plan on being around supporting skating until I cannot stand - or find words to write. It's what I do. It's what I love, along with all of you who have joined me on this journey.

May the Force be with you always.

Allison Scott