My husband and I needed to drive to a nearby town. Once out of the city, the traffic disappeared and we had an empty road to enjoy. We chatted as we drove. I told him about your post and we began discussing how today’s kids rarely experience the freedom that was commonplace for us. As you’ve observed, freedom, responsibility, and learning are Siamese triplets. Our mistakes broadened our experiences. Nature is a stern teacher, but her lessons last a lifetime. Sometimes, the most innocent activities form lifetime attitudes.
Our neighbourhood enjoyed an ice rink. We had an empty lot on our street, and one of the fathers mowed the grass so we could play ball in the summer. It seemed natural place to play hockey here in winter. Everyone participated in the construction of a rink. We learned to work together. The boys would flatten the snow with shovels while the girls would operate garden hoses and mops to create smooth ice. We didn’t have the luxury of boards, but we had one plank and used it as a bench so we could lace our skates. There are two outstanding memories when I think of this rink: No adult help or interference, and nobody was allowed use of the rink without helping with the construction or maintenance.
The no help = no skate rule was enforced strictly. We once told one of the fathers he couldn’t use our rink to teach his youngest to skate. He stated that we were using HIS garden hose and that HE paid the water bills. We decided that this contribution was sufficient and gave our blessing. Otherwise, this rule was enforced to the letter. No amount of shouting, crying, threats, tears, or tantrum fits would result in an exception. We viewed such performances as entertainment, and would just laugh. And no work credits either: you shared the work FIRST, then skated later.
Whenever I think of this rink, I can’t help but think of The Commander’s nephew David. This kid was absolutely devoid of any athletic skills whatsoever, but this proved no impediment for him joining an organised hockey team. His parents’ credit cards must have smoked when they bought his equipment. They lugged a ton of stuff to the arena. Maybe they didn’t feel the load, because David’s play was scheduled in the wee hours of the morning or late, late, at night when they weren’t fully conscience. Dad would begin by staking a claim to what he felt was a good seat: a seat with an unobstructed view. He’d then move to an even better seat: a seat under the heating vent. Coffee would fog his glasses and it would spill as he stamped his feet warding off frostbite.
I don’t know whether it was the physical discomfort of standing in the arena or the mental anguish of watching his son dishonour the family name on the ice, but David’s mother soon assumed hockey transportation duties. At least she had the good sense to join the other moms in a heated anteroom and chat about something other than their kids’ NHL dreams. Meanwhile, David played organised hockey.
Organised hockey, for David, consisted of two main activities: sitting, watching, waiting, and hoping for a chance to play; and once on the ice, sitting, watching, and hoping for a chance to get up. As I said, this kid had no hockey talent whatsoever. As soon as his skates touched the ice, he’d trip over his stick and land on his bottom. I doubt he travelled over the ice, under his own power, head up and skates down, stick in hand, during actual play, for anymore than maybe ten minutes over the entire season. And I’m being generous.
Backyard rink hockey, for our neighbourhood kids, began by removing snow. Once the surface was cleared, everyone played. And everyone played all the time. The only time one sat on the bench was to tie or tighten skate laces. The rest of the time was spent playing. The game was informal, and because the rink didn’t have boards, there was plenty of off-ice puck chasing as well as digging in the snow to retrieve those buried beyond sight.
When daylight diminished to the point the puck became invisible, the hockey would end and the neighbourhood girls would occupy the rink. We pictured ourselves as figure skaters, but we were far better skilled in our imagination than we were on the ice. When we were finished skating, (the cold was a bigger factor than fatigue) we assumed flooding duties. We’d bring the garden hose from the cellar and a mop to spread the water. In a few moments, we’d have the ice surface smooth and shiny.
Eventually, spring’s warm weather would return, melting our rink. With the snow gone, we’d recover missing pucks, socks, and mittens. I’d begin next winter with one red and one pink mitten. It was a visual reminder for me to be more careful with my possessions. With luck, Santa would bring a matching pair. (He did!)
I wanted to submit my nomination for YOUR post as Rant of the Week and I got a little carried away with my explanation.
Cheers, PW.
P.S. I thought about changing the name, but The Commander has several nephews named David, and I think they all played organised hockey with equal skill. I’ll let him guess which one I wrote about.
AI
Market Data 
Markets 
