This day is the birthday anniversary of a sister-in-law, on whose death I found the need to celebrate. She and I were to have taken my husband's ashes to a special place suggested by him before his death It never happened. She was to visit me later and the day she died I was driven to do something unusual. I decided to try the ice on the new community ice rink. I rented figure skates; a silly idea since I had never used them.

I had skated on ice before. As kids we had skate runners fastened to work boots with clamps and twine. My sister and brother and I raced and cavorted around our lake when frigid temperatures popped the ice. We were stars, regular Sonja Henies, that could avoid wide cracks and coast over roughened surfaces that rattled our teeth.

With a few unsure steps in strange tight-laced skates, at age 62, I made my way around the rink among the youthful skaters, quite proudly, in fact. Round and round I glided, not trying to be a Sonja, just enjoying. I was to be at dinner at my son's house when the public skating closed but had no idea when that would be. The manager was across the rink and I made my way to her to find out. Unfortunately I crossed the path of two speeding young men racing for their own reasons. One dodged around me spinning me out of control. I smashed into the ice, hands first.

My left wrist was swollen by the time dinner was over. And it hurt like the very devil, whatever that is. I drove the ten miles home in my stick-shift car - just glad that my right arm was not injured. I decided by the next day to have an emergency doctor x-ray the damage. He grimaced at the plethora of chips in the wrist joint and made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor of my choice for Monday next, a weekend away.

The bone specialist pulled at my hand and stretched my arm until he was satisfied that the bone chips were in place, at least as best he could do. I went home with an exo-skeleton of plaster from my palm to my armpit.

It really was a memorable celebration.