It’s six-thirty. Supper’s over.
Skates slung over your shoulder,
Knee-high moccasins laced
To the second highest eyelet
Over mother-knit woollen socks
The colour of porridge, tops rolled down,
Just so, felt-lined leather helmet
Like a Russian aviator, scarfed, mittened,
Parka-buttoned, you leave the house.
“Be back by eight-thirty,” your mother calls.
“Okay, bye!” And you shut the door.
You fly across the yard on the beaten path,
Past the shed, the biffy, the ash pile
And down the alley to the shiny
Snow-packed street. No street lamps here;
Only the silvery glow cast by the moon
In a sky, deep and black and ever so starry.
And up off to your right the ceaseless
Performance of the busy northern lights.
“Aurora borealis,” your teacher calls them.
A clear winter’s night, so cold
You can hear it snap. Your nose gasps
At the dry air made sharp by wood smoke.
You tremble, less from the night’s deep
Windless chill than from its awesome,
Creepy eeriness. But such thoughts you will away.
All senses keen, ears attuned, eyes darting
This way and that, you are an Indian scout
Leading a war party, silent, alert,
Mindful of the presence of enemies unseen;
And light of foot, so fleet, and cleverly camouflaged,
Every move deliberate, your pace quick,
Body tense, yet ready in an instant to uncoil.
And then comes the dreaded, darkest part-
Horrible Old Harriet’s, past Her house,
The tall two-storey brick whose blinds
Are always drawn. Here, your steps quicken,
You skitter along the opposite side of the street
To avoid Harriet, who, just last fall
Recognized you and Jack as the ones
Sing-songing ‘Harriet the Horrible’
From behind the steps of the post office.
In the narrow alley, next day,
Between butcher shop and drug store,
“You! It’s you,” she hissed. “You’re the ones!”
White spittle at the corners of her mouth.
“You’ll stop your name calling!
I know your father and I know yours, too,
And you’ll stop it!”
Babushka-wrapped straight grey hair,
An old brown ankle-length coat
Nearly concealing her black rubber boots
Worn year round, she shook us, shook us again,
And then . . . she let us go. Scared speechless
We sped to the safety of the street.
You shudder at the memory, as you run
Past Harriet’s, past the Catholic Church,
The priest’s house, past the butcher’s,
Past the now-vacant lot where
That old guy died in the fire
That burnt down his shack,
Past the Sunday School teacher’s
And then to Jack’s.
You bang on the porch door...you bang again.
“Coming I’m coming!”, Jack’s mother.
She opens the door. “Come in, David,
It’s cold out there. David’s here, Jack!
My, you’re an impatient boy tonight.”
The kitchen warm and humid,
Vegetable-patterned curtains frozen
To a white-rimed window.
“You can wash tonight because
You dried last night!” Jack’s big sisters.
“Hey, who stole my toque?”
“Your toque, Jack, is on the hook by the door
Just where it’s supposed to be.”
Mittened, moccasined, parka’d, toqued,
Skates around his neck, “Let’s go,” says Jack.
And up the street you race and slide,
Race and slide.
The single-bulb lamp above the rink door
Attracts skaters from all directions.
Strains of the ‘Skaters’ Waltz’
Drift through the airy walls of corrugated tin.
And in the waiting room, a score
Of yelling, jostling, red-cheeked kids
Unlacing and lacing up skates.
The stench of steam from ice-particled
Wool mittens atop the Booker coal stove
Clogs the air. The skate-worn plank floor
Is scattered with remnants of black rubber
Mats long past their usefulness.
Old Sinclair sits on a stool in one corner,
The emery wheel of his skate sharpener
Shooting bright orange, metal sparks
As it hones the blades he guides.
A white, chipped-enamel dipper hangs
On a nail beside a steel water pail on a stand.
And out on the ice ‘Pom-Pom Pull Away’
At the near end, big kids’ tag at the other.
Toque stealers, ankle-skaters, Barbara Ann Scotts.
Frolic, fun and feuding at the Rink.
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