The Rink Light
by Butch Loewen
My sister and I would stand on a stool in my mother’s kitchen looking out of the window through iced-over glass because the panes of those days couldn’t quite keep up with the cold of a Saskatchewan winter. Supper was over, the dishes washed and put away, and we were ready to go. A nine-year-old boy and six-year-old girl staring out into the night, not quite 7:00 pm, waiting for the rink light to go on.
At about 7:00 pm, George Small would open the padlock on the rink door with his long chain of keys and turn on the light. That meant the rink was open and off we’d go. Out the back door and through the yard and across the highway. Our mom would be watching us, slightly nervous about us making that walk across. Though on most days, maybe three cars an hour would go down that highway. The cold would hit our cheeks immediately. You could smell that cold on air that was so impossibly fresh that you couldn’t help but inhale the sweetness as deeply as you could, filling your head and lungs and heart. Fresher than any other air you will ever find.
George Small ran the rink. I don’t know if he even got paid. Maybe a little. He was a small, thin man with wonderfully smiling eyes, smoke-stained hands and an incredible work ethic that is so often found in small towns. His kids were grown so he took on the responsibility for every kid in town. If you were too little, he would tie your skates. He made sure you were dressed properly. He would dry your tears and give you a hug. He would scold you if you said a bad word or if you were rude or acted improperly. No parents ever had a problem with that. And he would always watch us as we left to make sure we crossed the highway safely. We’d bring him gifts at Christmas. One year, I remember giving him a carton of cigarettes from my parents. Later on, when George got too old to work, the town dads took turns volunteering to look after the rink. But I mostly remember George being there every night.
The door under that light would swing open. It had been strung up with a rope on a pulley and a cement filled paint can used to keep the door closed. When you opened the door, the paint can would rise up and then lower down again as the door closed. Gravity and weight. George would yell at us if we let the door and paint can slam.
The little lobby had a small, very old-fashioned furnace and it would be pushing out the heat. There were benches along both sides where we could sit and put on our skates. It smelled of old wood and rubber and a slight hint of burning oil. And if Art Maunder was there sharpening skates, you could smell the burning steel.
The ice surface was small, though we didn’t know that at the time. Plenty big enough when you’re five or six years old. I could skate well enough at nine years old to play any game, but still the rink seemed plenty big to me. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realised how truly small it was. It was covered with a corrugated tin roof that kept the snow off but did little to keep out the cold. And, in fact, on many nights probably made the rink even colder.
And then we’d skate. Public skating was from 7:00 to 8:30 pm every night. No sticks allowed. We’d wobble out of the warm lobby, feel the same cold, fresh air as outside and step on the ice; the natural ice was flat and smooth and hard. Our sharpened blades would skim across it, and we’d pick up speed just barely in control, falling often. A sense of freedom and movement and joy fills my heart from this memory even now, some fifty plus years later. Children were playing and moving and laughing.
We played games. We played tag and chased each other endlessly. Or ‘Pom Pom Pull Away’ where we would have to skate from one end to the other without being touched by those who were ‘it.’ Or ‘Crack the Whip,’ where we would all skate in a single file while holding hands, get as much speed as possible, and make a turn. The kids at the end of the line would of course gather great speed as the end of this whip flew around. And like a can on the end of a rope, the longer the rope, the faster the can. Sometimes we’d have 10 or 12 people in the line. Imagine the speed. Eventually someone would lose control and end up injured, much to the delight of the rest of us. But to our dismay, this game was banned, so we could only play once before getting yelled at to stop.
And then we would steal toques and mitts from the girls. And of course, they would chase us; it was better with the older girls who could skate better. They would get so mad that if they caught us, they would hit us or throw snow in our face. There has never been a drill invented by any coach anywhere that would teach evasive manoeuvres better than being scared and fleeing from mad girls with their toques and mitts.
Later on, as teens, the stealing of toques would become part of the mating rituals of adolescence. It was at the rink you would tease the girl you liked the most. It was at the rink where you would show off: shoot the duck, jump the lines, backward pivots, even figure skating moves and twirls. Anything to get the attention of that girl. It was at the rink where you learned to flirt.
Occasionally we would come in to rest and warm up. On many nights we couldn’t feel our toes and fingers and ears. George would take off our skates and rub our feet with his rough hands. Our faces would become flushed hot as they defrosted. Our ears burned. But we weren’t allowed to stay in very long. They didn’t want us fooling around in the small lobby. Some kids would go home, but I don’t remember ever doing that. I had to wait for the hockey. And my dad said I wasn’t allowed to play hockey unless I skated first.
At 8:30 pm, George would blink the lights and we were allowed to go out with pucks and sticks. There was a hole in the wall above the door where they kept the pucks. Those who wanted to play would come in 5 minutes early, get their stick, and find a puck. And as soon as those lights blinked, we’d race out again.
Everyone played. There were no age restrictions. No gender restrictions. There were no skill levels. There were no coaches or parents. Ever. The first few minutes would be shooting at the boards. When we were little, our only goal was to raise the puck off the ice like we saw on TV or like the older kids could do. The older kids would take slap shots. And then, somehow, we would pick teams and start to play. Everyone out. Nobody on a bench waiting to change. If you couldn’t get or keep the puck, then too bad. Try harder or quit.
And we learned the rules of shinny. Let the younger ones have the puck once in awhile. Play harder against the good players. No raises for goals if there wasn’t a goalie. “No raiseys!” kids would yell over and over. And you had to be at least a stick length away from the net to score. So, we learned to pass. I went from being a little kid that could hardly stand to a 10-year-old playing against the teens. And then to a teen myself, letting the little kids take their turn.
No helmets. No facemasks. No pads. No mouth guards. No equipment of any kind. Except maybe hockey gloves for those who could afford them. And as much as we tried, we couldn’t avoid getting hit by pucks and sticks. I would come home with my shins bleeding so often that my mom would get mad at me. I had bruises everywhere, all the time. I can’t remember how many times I would have a big goose egg on my head from when I fell and hit the ice. Concussion was not yet a word that anyone had heard.
At 9:30 pm, it was over. The lights would blink again, and we would pick up the pucks. And then we had to clean the ice. There were three or four wooden plows that we would take turns using. We’d skate up and down the ice with the plows angled to move the rows of snow toward the middle of the rink. Then when we got all the snow to the middle, two of us would join the plows together so we could push it to the end of the rink, below the chute cut out of the wall of the rink. When that was complete, we’d need a shovel to scoop the snow and throw it out the chute. Sometimes the dads, or George, would help with this last bit if there were no older kids around. The chute was quite high on the wall.
The night would be over. Skates off, feet somewhat or sometimes totally numb from the cold. Sometimes it would be next door to the curling rink for pie and a drink because that’s where our parents were. Sometimes it would be home for the dreaded bath where your frozen feet would feel like they were burning off before having peanut butter toast and Nestle Quik before bed.
We’d probably have school the next day, then after school hockey, either on the ice or on the street. We’d be called in for supper. And then back at the window, waiting for that light.
