Ice, Ice, Baby!
This post is in response to the Daily Post‘s Weekly Writing Challenge. The theme of this week’s challenge is “sound.” I decided to not only write about my favorite sound but write without the letter “t.” Just for kicks. It was a mother of a post to finish. And it sounds pretty strange, too.
Sounds–a husband’s squeaking breaks from your driveway when he arrives home from work, a maraca shake of yard sprinklers, a mad, scrambling clawing of your dog’s nails on your wood floor as he runs for some imagined robber. Many sounds of daily life never go fully recognized–all merely background noise. I deny any real loveliness in sounds of everyday life. Who really believes washing machines, cars on highways, and fax machines buzzing are like music for your ears? However, specific images and memories do arise from squeaks, splashes, and skiddaddles–a loved one home again, summer, and familiar chaos in a busy household.
Choosing only one, I would say sounds of ice hockey go unparalleled in lulling power. Ice scraping and pucks whacking calm me down in anxious occurrences, fend off fears of dark and murder lurking, demon-like ponderings. All you need do is flick on my radio, finger a channel dial and cease when you hear Mr. McNab explaining club dynamics and game play prophecies.
I can dance on ice blades, however, I have never braved dangers of playing ice hockey in-zuh-flesh. A friend and I grew obsessed over such chilly, smelly, quick-paced endeavors in high school. We had nick names for all players of our beloved Colorado bunch. We would spend hours idling in long lines for famous names (like Forsberg, Hejduk, and Sakic) penned on our caps and jerseys. Whenever we heard such noble presences would appear in malls or Panda Expresses or ESPN clubs, we were always early, by an hour, probably, so we could see our heroes. I never missed a game on my family’s big screen and so sounds of hockey followed me during all of high school as I grinded beyond algebra problems, skimmed biology books, and bullcraped essays.
When I hear sounds of ice hockey, I feel miraculously smuggled inside a zen-like place. One could say I’m even in my essence. Usually, I’m a reserved, less blabby kind of girl. However, when a hockey game comes on, my opinions are suddenly well-known–regarding preferred approach of each player, snarky ref calls, and bloodying and paralyzing slams and punches.
Have you ever really ceased worrying and allowed pucks-smacking-clubs-square sounds and blades-slicing-across-slick-ice sounds and geniuses-slinging-around-backs-of-goals-for-a-wrap-around-fling sounds? And how can you refrain from scheduling your evening for pure focus on muffled sounds of bodies being squashed and pancaked on sideboards? Mmm, I am primarily where I need and desire be when I slice an hour from a day simply for sounds of smashingly-good-fun ice hockey.
Do you remember a specific Dude (Mr. Lebowski) enjoying sounds of bowling league play on his Walkman as he snoozes on his brand new rug? My feelings are very similar. Such sounds can bring memories rushing forward and iron wrinkled brows from a worrying mind.