I can skate.

I read in the paper that there was a lake open for skating.

"I think I'll go skating this afternoon," I said.

"Can you skate?" Bill asked with surprise.

"Sure!" I said. And then I hesitated.

I have not skated since, oh, 8 years. And before that it was an equally long time. I pulled my dusty white figure skates off their nail on the wall in the garage and wiped them off. I felt some hesitation at the lake, but I pushed myself out of the car and headed for the lake and laced up. I watched the kids playing ice hockey on one end and the couples and a family figure skating on the other end. I took a deep breath and headed out for the ice. It was glorious. I skated in the late afternoon sun and felt the exhilaration of propelling myself over ice. I worked up as much speed as I dared.

The ice was imperfect. No zambonis on the lake. As I went over the ridges in the frozen water I recalled ponds in the Sandhills and the flooded city park in Fremont. There was no bonfire on the side of the lake though, so after 45 minutes, I headed for home.

Bill carefully inspected me when I came in the door.

"No broken ankles?" he asked.

"Nope. I can skate," I said proudly.

And I think I'll go back again today.