Month: February 2017

Remember the Royals

Hockey was our real religion: road hockey, ball hockey, ice hockey, everything hockey. We played on the streets. We played on the Church parking lot across from my house. We played in the schoolyard. We played just about anywhere there was a relatively flat surface. The protestant schoolyard was probably the best venue of all because they had a plethora of paved areas in which to play.  Ideally one also wanted a concrete backstop behind the net such that one wouldn’t have to run so far to retrieve the ball once it had been shot toward but wide of the net.  Sticks, a ball, a couple of nets but failing that four quashed milk cartons would make fine goal posts for us.  Not too shabby.  I can also remember spending hours in the basement trying upon all hell to build a hockey net but to no avail. It was just too damn difficult at the time lacking the necessary wood, the nails, a proper hammer and the requisite carpentry skills. Pop? Forget it. He was upstairs watching TV.  We were on our own in those days.  Our parents were too busy making a living and recuperating at the end of the day to worry much about us.

We belonged to the Knights of Columbus Hockey League.  It was the league of choice, the only league tied to our parish, our diocese, our church. Sponsors of this league included the Whynot Funeral Home and Undertakers; the Parish Priest’s Benevolent Fund for Retired Nuns; Assumption Cemetery and Crematorium; and the infamous Holy Roller’s Hockey Team. Team colours were generally green, white, crimson and purple – the four colours of the Liturgical Apocalypse. We had no choice but all kids being kids we couldn’t wait to get our uniforms adorned with our favourites: 14: Keon; 27: Mahovolich; 4: Kelly; 9 Maurice “Rocket” Richard; or 9: Gordie Mr. “Hockey” Howe.  Boy oh boy we were proud of those sweaters and our own personal number preferences of our hockey heroes.  We wore those uniforms day and night – much to the chagrin of our parents and teachers.  Sister Mary Bernice in particular wasn’t impressed but she let it go.

We didn’t wear helmets when I first started to play.  We also played on outside rinks. There were no indoor, artificial ice surfaces for grass roots hockey leagues such as the Knights of Columbus in those days. That was not good, especially for our parents because the parents of the losing team had to go out and clean the ice surface after each game.  Not nice.  While it may have seen that our parents, our fans, were yelling phrases of encouragement for our skill, our prowess and our ability on the ice during the game they definitely had an ulterior motive for their enthusiasm. It weren’t us I can tell you.  For it was damn cold standing there watching us kids play and the last thing they wanted to do at the end of the game was to go out on that cold, blanketed sheet of ice to clear off the snow, the slush, and sometimes, the blood in preparation for the next game.  The winners?  There was no mercy for they laughed and they cajoled, ribbing the losing team’s dads for the effort that was soon to befall them…

Life’s Tough

…”Dad’s orders. Sorry, I can’t get in or let you in until I get this done.”

No way!  I was beginning to feel really small.  This cannot be happening to me. It was and it was beginning to look futile to just give in.

Have you ever been in a situation where you feel you have put in way too much time or effort or sweat equity into something to just let it go nilly willy, or is it willy nilly?  Like waiting at a bus stop for an eternity, wondering to yourself:

“Should I just walk the extra mile or should I continue to wait here for the bus.”

Of course you know what will happen.  Just as soon as you decide to take the hike that bus will be seen barrelling over the horizon.  Of course you will now find yourself just a wee bit too far away to make it back.  Never fails.  Happens every time.  I believe they call this phenomenon in psychological circles, Escalation Theory and its corollary: Determinants of Commitment.  Yet, if I had just lit a cigarette at the bus stop instead of striking out on my own accord the same outcome would have occurred.  Of course, who smokes in public when they are 10 years old!

I was committed and determined to see this damn thing through.  My blood was beginning to boil, temperature rising, escalating to new highs, but what could I do?

Gerard was incessantly confident that all was right with the world.   I knew I was duped by his mischievous charm and his roguish aura of playfulness.  One way or another I had to see this through.

I looked at the pile of newspapers, felt a chill and looked about.  Kicking the snow and, as if by proxy, kicking myself in the ass.  You idiot, I thought.  This cannot be happening to me.

Then Gerard threw me a couple of caramels. “Just in” he announced. “Fresh as a new day’s snow.”

Wow. I was taken aback.  My interest in this endeavour was piqued, again. This must be true I thought.  I popped one of the caramels into my mouth. Sensationally savoury!

“Okay Gerard.  Let’s get these done before it gets too dark here.”

I was back in!

He snipped the lashings off the stacks, sorted the papers into two equal piles, placed them both onto a toboggan and more or less directed me to take hold of one of them lines.

“You just do as I tell you.” He said.

“I have to pull you as well?” I objectively stammered.

“Yes, better this way.  I can sort them while you pull me and the whole lot.  Believe me, it is the best method of getting these papers done.”

I surrendered.  Off we went.

Good thing he lived on a street that was one part of a two part Crescent: each Crescent forming a half circle. I was surely the circle jerk in this operation. We got the route done.  Or should I say, I got her done as Gerard never left his perch on that toboggan. I pulled, I carried, I ran and I delivered every single one of those newspapers. He just sat there and directed traffic.

Finally done, back at his house out of breath and somewhat tired.

“Okay Gerard.  No more fooling around.  How about those caramels?”

It was getting late, for us at least.  Almost dark.

“They are in the basement,” he piped. “We will have to go in quietly by the back door. C’mon.”

I followed him and in we went: down the back stairs and into the dark, damp, dank confines of his basement.  It seemed to be one big room, but full of boxes. Floor to ceiling high with stuff, junk. The smell of staleness and mould was overwhelming to the senses.

“Turn on the lights,” I asked of him.

“There are none.” he said, “But I know where the caramels are stored and I’ll direct you to them.”

My suspicious mind was beginning to get the better of me.

“Over here” he touted. “By the big work bench. Now, you’ll have to get down on the floor.”

Boxes everywhere.  Funny that as they all seemed to be so light as to be empty.

Not to worry he reassured me. The caramels are in similar sized boxes, stacked at the back of the wall at one end of the workbench.

By this time I was down on all fours scrum-aging around underneath a massive workbench trying to come to grips with the situation.  Gerard just sat there by the back stairs directing me here and there. The boxes of caramels were beginning to be somewhat illusive. A spectre perhaps, a spectre of confectionarianism.  As unreal as a caramel reality could get.

Just then all hell seemed to break loose at my expense. Gerard began to laugh, slowly at first then uncontrollable bursts and guffaws right from the gut.  As if on cue his older brother Art was there as well: laughing, laughing, and laughing. Their faces red with humourous glee. In between bursts:

“Thank you Gilly” he laughed

“You are welcome.”  I was not laughing.

“Thank you for walking me home.” he laughed again

“You are welcome.” I was humiliated

“Thank you for shovelling the driveway.” he continued to laugh

“You are welcome.”  to my stupidity

“Thank you for delivering my papers” he laughed, uncontrollably. His eyeballs were so huge as if they seemed to be popping out with ridicule.

“You are welcome.” for my naïveté

And to further put salt in the wound I knew what was coming next!

“Hey Gilly” they could hardly contain themselves at this point.

“You want a caramel?” Art and Gerard just kept hammering away at me relentlessly, in between their gut wrenching guffaws, their bellies shaking as if in hysterical convulsion, and I deserved every salvo I got.

“Don’t feel bad Gilly.” he relented. “You are not the first.  Last month it was Oh Henry’s.”

I got out of there just as fast as I could: with my tail between my legs no doubt, metaphorically speaking of course.

I ran home: disgusted, embarrassed, humiliated and stupid.  Stupid to fall for something that in hindsight was truly ridiculous. The Great Caramel Caper of Our Lady of Peace.  I felt so small, so vulnerable: useless and not a good day for my self esteem or self worth, and definitely not wanting to show my face at school tomorrow.  Gerard would be merciless in his cat calls and ribbing.   I knew then that I would just have to take it all in stride and ignore him and his friends and attempt to deflect the onslaught of ridicule and mockery that was sure to come my way.  That’s about all one can do.

I got home. It was dark and very cold outside.  But inside, the warmth, the kind hearted glow of yellow tinged light and the comfort of familiarity greeted me. I was safe and sound.

“How did it go at Gerard’s?” my Mom asked.

“Fine” I lied. “His train set was awesome.”

“I am glad to hear you had a good time.”

And in the same breath, as mothers always do.

“You are just in time for dinner. And, I have a big surprise for you for dessert.”

“Oh yeah?”  I suddenly became very interested in this train of thought.

“One of your favourites – Jell-O pudding.” she volunteered.

“Oh yeah?”

“What flavour?” I cringed, for telepathically, almost knowingly, I seemed to be fairly confident in my feeble mind as to be able to predict with some authority the answer to that question

“Butterscotch CARAMEL!”

Oh nooo! The torture continues!

Note to self. I will never, ever, ever have another caramel in my entire life.

And I didn’t!

I thought, you know: “Life is tough, but when you’re stupid it’s horrendous!”…

Secret Caramel Consignment

…Of we went: me chattering away at nothing and Gerard becoming increasingly irritated and impatient with my bantering.  Finally, for what seemed an interminable amount of time, we reached his street.  Gerard’s family also lived in one of those two story, really one and a half storied, houses that they built in the years following World War Two. The long slanted roof in the front with a dormer hanging off the back. Basement? Yes, but unlike today’s show homes these basements were designed for utility and functionality, not showiness or pretentiousness.

Finally, I thought.  Get the caramels and get the hell out of here and get home. It was getting colder and the afternoon sunlight growing weaker with every passing minute.

“Okay Gerard, what now?” I stammered

“Don’t worry, it’s coming all right.” he said  “The caramels are here but before I can show you where they are I have to get the driveway clear of snow.  My dad will not let us in until that job is done.”

What? I just about cried to myself. What is this all about? Here I walked home from school with Gerard, miles out of my way carrying his school stuff and now this. Okay, let us get the shovels and get this done.  “Are you sure about the caramels Gerard?” 

With shovel in hand I began clearing the drive.  From his garage back to the street we shovelled.  Gerard then proceeded to tell me that he had to go inside to talk with his pop about my share of the caramels.  “Just carry on with your work and I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Is there is a problem,” I asked nervously, “with my share of the caramels?”

“Well, Gilly, you see, these are very special caramels. Not just for anyone.  These caramels were made and delivered for the O’Neill family.  So, you see, I cannot just give you a box or two without permission.  But don’t worry, it will be fine. You’ll see. 

I was somewhat perplexed by all of this. Secret caramels? Special delivery. Marked for the “O’Neill’s Mouth’s Only.”  What on earth gives here?  Have I been taken for a fool?  Don’t answer that I thought to myself. Okay, let’s get on with clearing this driveway. At least they had proper shovels here at the O’Neill’s abode.

I say this because at my house my Dad, in his wisdom, thought it would build character if I shovelled our driveway with a garden spade.  I am not kidding.  Our driveway was very long with a double wide width as one approached our double garage. Interestingly, but we were the only house in the area with a two car garage. Of course we were.

On I went. That shovel was in perpetual motion, snow flying everywhere as if I was blowing it off to the sides. I could feel my whole frame loosen up with sweat beginning to brew from every pore of my body.  And before one could say “Frosty” I was nearing the end of the driveway by the roadway. Yet no sign of Gerard.  What gives I thought. Just then a truck pulled up and dumped off what appeared to me to be a mountain of newspapers. Hundreds it seemed.  No thousands. The city’s afternoon edition, no doubt. For what it’s worth, at least the way I was feeling right about now, it appeared to me that there was one for every soul on the planet.

Just as I was throwing, pushing the last bit of snow into the drainage ditch, Gerard came out of the house, very, very excited.

“You’ll never guess what happened?” he reported

Before I could get an answer out of my feebleness mouth he continued. 

“It’s in the bag Gilly, no, sorry, box.  A special consignment of caramels just came in last night from my uncle. Turns out, there were too many boxes and we were told that we could do what we wanted with the extra lot.”  As he said this, his eyes seem to bulge out somewhat, Feldman like, with, what seemed to me a wicked smile from ear to ear, not unlike the “Joker,” open though, showing a mouth full of caramel coloured teeth.

“You know what that means Gilly?” He shook my arm enthusiastically.

“No what?” I didn’t know what, or squat, for that matter.

“More for you.  All you can carry.  But first and foremost and before I can let you into the house to get your full share I have to get these papers delivered.”

“WHAT?”…

Big Kahuna

…It was cold.  I shivered somewhat, got my bearings and proceeded into the playground. Gerard was already outside, leaning against the white wooden picket fence that led out to freedom.

“Hey Gilly, over here.”

I gave up.

“Hey Gerard” 

“Ready to go,” he asked assuredly.

“You bet”

“Here take these will ya.”  He then handed me off a bunch of notepads. “I cannot carry them because my right arm hurts.”

What about your left arm I thought, but did not dare to ask. I did not want to jeopardize my upcoming windfall.  I took the notepads. 

We got on our way.  Gerard lived at northern border of our school district. It was the polar opposite to where I lived. No matter. The payoff will be worth the trouble.  On we went. I didn’t talk too much, just listened to Gerard’s ramblings.  And what about the caramels I interrupted? Where did you get them? How did you get them? Are there enough there for both of us? Are they old? New? Fresh? Stale? Packaged? In ones? Two’s? Or three’s? What Gerard? Tell me. Are they in boxes? Big boxes? Small boxes? Wrapped up? In singles? What? How many? Enough for both of us? Your family? Your brother Art?  The others? Nooo, you don’t really have any caramels do ya?

Yes, yes, don’t worry, of course, yes, yes, sure are, and more yeses.  I was beginning to sound a bit weird.  My bubba-like questions were beginning to become ingratiating and pedantic. I stopped with my stupid interrogation. Perhaps I was growing suspicious. I needed reassurance. Of course he ranted about how important his uncle is in the Kraft hierarchy. Chief Caramel Kahuna, he bragged. The big Caramel Kahuna, or the Big Cheese. The Big Cheese I queried.  Er, No, no, no, no, my mistake Gerard said.  Make that the big caramel. Kraft also made cheese.  Cheddar I think: slices and Cheese Whiz. And of course that famous staple known to all single, male, intellectually challenged young men the world over – Kraft Dinner or KD for short.  No matter. Vice President of caramel production, his uncle was good enough for me…

Four Horsemen of the Caramelypse

…I was as restless as one could be after a PTA sponsored lunch for the entire afternoon.  I could not concentrate. All I could think of was getting my hands on and my fingers wrapped around a thousand caramels. That would be my take for sure. A thousand caramels, I thought, enough to do me for an eternity, or until the end of time. My candy Armageddon? No, Caramelgeddon! Not a bad way to go I thought. The four horsemen of the caramelypse: all wrapped in those chewy tasty caramel treats, galloping their way to rapturous, heavenly caramel gooey glory,  Happy thoughts as I day dreamed my way through ancient history, geography and English grammar.

“MORRISON”, I could sense what seemed to be an echo like reverberation coming straight down at me from above, through my ear canal right into my brain box.

“MORRISON”

“Yes Mr Kraft” I lamented, woefully.  My teachers name was Mr Bowner.

“MORRISON” for a third time already.  One more take would make the four horsemen of the caramelypse, Caramelgeddon.  But I dare not risk it.

In one cracking instant I came back to reality. That cracking instant was the noise made by Mr Bowner’s ruler as it came crashing down on my wooden desk.  His ruler came down so hard that it almost ruptured the ink-well.  That would not have been pretty.  Lucky for me Sister Mary Bernice was not around trolling about for victims. You see, the lay teachers could not, would not, lay a hand on us. I was not really sure at such a young age if they did that by choice or by an ecumenical papal decree. Regardless, only the black and whites were allowed to strike us.  Perhaps it was part of their training, or better yet, the second Vatican council’s encyclical to instil upon us the threat and the fear of eternal damnation.  After all there was a STRAP factory somewhere in our diocese, as there were in every Catholic diocese – the world over.

At the same time the sound of vibrant laughter permeated the classroom.  As I came out of my drunken like stupor, my drowsy like eyeballs tried to focus on a groggy induced picture of a blackboard. I could sense what seemed to be but a thousand eyeballs ingrained into my entire being.  With that came guffaw, after gut wrenching guffaw, all on my behalf. I didn’t care for I was soon going to be the recipient of a thousand caramels.

Finally, the bell rang. I grabbed my stuff and like the other 20 some odd boys in our class ran a beeline for the door like a rapacious gathering of the male clan; crashing into one another, like a mêlée of imbeciles that we were, about to be the first to taste a sense of freedom, at least for this day…