The Little Sun Valley Skating Club

In the town I grew up in (West Springfield MA,) during the late 1950s and early 1960s, there was a figure skating club a short walk from our house. It was called, “The Little Sun Valley.” There is almost no online evidence that it ever existed. I can’t locate any photos, although the LSV Skating Club seems to have continued on in Springfield, MA. The site it occupied is now under US Route 91 N/S, taken by eminent domain.

In the summer it was little more than a shallow-water pond of a few acres next to Prospect Avenue. Choked with lily pads and weeds, it was home to frogs and dragonflies, along with small warm-water species of fish. On the west bank was a brown, shingled, single-story structure, the clubhouse. At the south end water slid lazily over a small spill way. The north end of the pond, its source, was a swampy patch of low, grassy hummocks that gave way to dense vegetation. The pond itself rested at the bottom of two small hills where the Prospect Avenue rose and fell, then rose again. Hence, the name: “Little Sun Valley.”

By late November, the vegetation had died, and the water cleared. The weather hinted of much colder days ahead. The pond was usually frozen by early to mid December. It was then that the magic began.

During the week and on weekend days, Little Sun Valley was a private figure skating club. Often, you could catch sight of a graceful skater working out in the afternoon or early evening. Sometimes, I would watch from the street as a slender skater, usually a young woman, would cut figure eights, or practice spinning jumps. As kids we were often inspired to try emulate them, but usually ended up crashing on the ice, laughing at our clumsy attempts.

Saturday evening LSV was open for public skating. For something on the order of 50 cents you could sit in the clubhouse, tie on your skates, walk down the wooden ramp, and spend Saturday night gliding around in a huge circle. On each corner of the clubhouse were spotlights that lit up the ice. Two loud speakers, mounted just below the roof played sprightly organ music that resounded through the chilly night air.

When the cold got to you, and in those decades winters could be intensely cold, you could go into the clubhouse, to warm yourself with cup of hot cocoa. A huge wood burning stove heated the room to a tropical temperature, and in no time you were back on the ice. Public skate lasted until just before 9:00 PM when an elderly man, the club’s caretaker, would announce over the loud speakers that skating was done for the night.

On Sunday he would carefully assess the “damage” that the heavy traffic had had on the ice. We would watch as he carried a kettle of steaming hot water with which he would “patch” the larger cracks and divots. He repeated this procedure again and again, getting a fresh kettle of boiling water form the clubhouse until he was satisfied that the surface as up to snuff. Finally, he would run a long hose from inside, and beginning at the far end of the rink coat the entire surface with new life. In no time, it seemed, the ice shone like a mirror and was ready for the club skaters.

With our skates in hand, my sisters and I would walk up Prospect Hill, past Old Orchard Street, down the other side, and pay the entrance fee. We’d spend the next three hours on the ice. People came from near and far for public skate, and there were often dozens of us sailing around the frozen pond. On clear nights the ice would glisten, as the stars spread out against the dark sky above. On our skates the sensation was one of weightlessness. It felt like we were floating on steel blades. Those were utterly enchanted nights.

Winter back then was a season to play outdoors, to skate, sled, or build snow forts. Then, come in from the cold, pull off our wet and frozen clothes and hang them to dry by the furnace in the basement. Our faces would be ruddy and red, our toes and feet numb, but our hearts were glowing.