Twelve Kinds of Ice (review)

In this brief and crisply poetic childhood memoir, Obed explores the many facets of one of winter’s pleasures (at least, for kids in northern climes)—access to outdoor ice. She starts with the excitement of the first ice, a sheer crust across the top of a water pail in the barn, and moves on to thicker and thicker manifestations of ice as fields, then streams and ponds, freeze over. The highlight of the “ice season” for Obed was the huge and carefully tended ice rink (named “Bryan Gardens” after the family’s garden where the rink was constructed each year) in her own backyard and the bustle of activity (hockey games, figure skating, and an elaborate neighborhood “ice show”) it prompted. This is a love song not only to the joys of skating, nature, and winter but also to Obed’s father, who features prominently as he takes the children skating up a frozen stream, cheerfully oversees the maintenance of the backyard ice rink, and clowns around on his skates for the family’s amusement. Obed’s writing is as clear and carefully formed as the ice she loves; her detailed descriptions will have kids in northern areas clamoring for a rink of their own while those who have never experienced outdoor ice will likely find this delightfully exotic. The book itself is prettily petite, with a tasteful, quiet design that’s nicely but not obtrusively old-fashioned; McClintock’s frequent black and white line drawings are both sturdy and elegant, with lots of hatching to provide depth and texture to the icy scenes. This trim title would make a mellifluous winter bedtime book, or a piquant precursor to a skating outing or a seasonal nature study.