Laurence, “Big Maribel,” and “Little Maribel” Owen together.

      The time at the rink paid off. Maribel won nine U.S. National Championships in the ladies event, six championships in the pairs event (along with three silver medal finishes), and had also won a silver medal in ice dance. She appeared in the Olympics three times and claimed a medal in one of those appearances, yet her legacy was unfulfilled, having never won the elusive gold medal. Like her mother, Maribel was invited to perform for the British king and queen.

      The Vinson family undoubtedly played a leading role in the Boston skating scene’s storied history and the sport’s association with wealth and privilege. Because skating drew most of its participants from the wealthier classes, the sport also meshed well with the Harvard community. Olympic gold medalists Dick Button and Tenley Albright, for example, were among the top U.S. skaters who earned Harvard degrees. In 2004, the Harvard Varsity Club’s John Powers wrote about this bond: “Rosy-cheeked Brahmins already had been doing figure eights for years on outdoor ice at the Cambridge Skating Club on Mount Auburn Street and The Country Club in Brookline. In a day when Harvard and Boston society were conjoined, it was inevitable that figure skating would wear a crimson muffler.”

      With such an impressive family skating tradition, it is no surprise that reporters said the Vinson family was to skating what the Barrymores were to acting. These lofty labels and expectations, though immense, did not appear in any way to weigh Laurence down as she prepared for her first real shot to win a national title. She was a girl who marched to her own rhythm. While always polite and mature in her manner of speech, she exuded an individualism and fierce independence that she, no doubt, inherited from her larger-than-life mother. Those qualities were manifest even in her appearance. She wore pants over her long legs much more often than the skirts favored by most girls of her time, and she kept her dark brown hair in a short, boyish pixie cut, a style that seemed designed especially for her high cheekbones. Her eyes seemed to disappear into small slits when she flashed her large, toothy smile, called a “laughing smile” by photographers who had the pleasure to catch her in action. She looked exotic without being flashy and was wholesome and approachable. She spoke through her nose just a bit, like a lot of teenagers still discovering their voices, and she communicated her thoughts and feelings best with either a blank piece of paper or a vacant sheet of ice. Like her mother, she was half writer, half skater, and she’d often change her mind about which she liked better.

      Even though the Olympic gold medal had eluded her, Maribel was viewed with the kind of reverence reserved for athletes with a legendary resume. As she led her daughters around the Broadmoor Ice Palace, whispers of fascination echoed through the corridors. “There she is!” “Laurence looks just like her mother!”

      Maribel, known as “Big Maribel,” on the skating scene, was a galvanizing figure. She was charming, intelligent, animated, and always willing to share her opinion. Former student Ron Ludington said those who were close to her cherished her as a beloved mother figure, but that others had trouble warming to her.

      “She ran the show, and she was considered out of line. She wasn’t supposed to behave that way. Others would say she behaved like a man.”

      Ludington added, “She opened a lot of doors. She took charge, and it rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.”

      Ben Wright, skating historian and a mainstay of the Figure Skating Club of Boston, agrees that Maribel had an outspoken side. “She did not waste words.”

      Maribel was known as a hard-driving coach. She ran her house with a military sense of order that would drive the toughest army general to exhaustion. She was Auntie Mame and the Unsinkable Molly Brown wrapped up into one combustible soul. Laurence wrote about the family dynamic for a school project.

      It was during my first stay in the East that two major forces entered my life: my grandmother and figure skating. ‘Grammy’ took an immediate liking to me. Apparently, at our first acquaintance, I gave her an approving glance and instantly fell asleep in her arms. Also, whereas five-year-old Maribel was full of irritating questions, I was blessedly still. At any rate, I have always been her little ‘lovey,’ a position which has often made life difficult for both Mara and me.

      Grammy has always picked up after me, done my mending and washing, taken on responsibilities such as feeding the animals, and has been my general factotum. Although I never asked for such help, I soon began to expect it as a matter of course, and consequently grew rather slipshod. This infuriated my mother who wanted me to be neat, organized, and on time …. all the things I wasn’t. It has taken years to even partly fulfill her hopes, and I am still struggling to subdue the monster known as disorganization. In recent years, though, Grammy has done less for me, a good thing, as it compels me to be neater.

      Another one of Grammy’s foibles was indulging all my likes and dislikes of food. By so doing, she brought out my stubborn streak. At the age of five or six, I developed a passionate hatred for eggs (they were slimy). Mother was determined that I would eat them, like it or not. I was just as determined that I wouldn’t eat them, and certainly never like them. May I add that she won this battle, but not without much defensive action on my part. I can often remember sitting at the breakfast table for one to two hours, a cold egg before me, mother behind me with an equally cold glint of determination in her eye. Once in desperation, I slid my fried egg under the rug. All was well until the maid found it three days later. Then I tried throwing them out the window until our Japanese gardener reported a strange new crop. I ate two eggs a day for the week following that escapade. Ugh!

      Maribel was known as a woman who never minced words, even when it meant burning important bridges. She lived for the advancement of skating on all levels—but lived mostly for her daughters, for whom she worked tirelessly and whom she loved with her entire being. She wanted them to be successful—and in recognizing their tremendous talents, she sometimes could push both daughters to the brink. Laurence, effervescent and always happy on the outside, faced daunting pressure to fill her mother’s legendary shoes.

      Ron Ludington remembers Laurence as a tremendously friendly girl who had no trouble meeting new people.

      “Laurence was outgoing and liked to talk to people, but she was a strong-willed person. Maribel and Laurence fought fiercely at times.”

      Laurence admitted in a high school essay that she had trouble controlling her temper.

      During the last several years, I have had one main ambition: to stop losing my temper. No one would guess this ambition because I keep right on losing it. When I resolve to remain calm at times I am in an objective mood, and am able to detach myself from my surroundings. Then, when I am actually involved in the daily routine of life, I lose this objective view, grow irritated, and lose my temper at the slightest provocation.

      Laurence’s smile always masked any hardship or self doubts, but the outwardly serene family home hid from the world the emotional tempests that exploded within. Outspokenness seemed to be in the Vinson Owen bloodline, Laurence conceded.

      Certainly I have a difficult background to overcome. My grandfather was inclined to use language that would do justice to a salty old New England sea captain, while my mother informs me that she started to swear