Category: A Very Short Story

From the Short Story Vault

Finality

Finally graduated from Catholic elementary school. Did seven years. Seems like a jail term in some sort of perverse way.  It would have been eight but I skipped a year, grade three to grade five: Ms Upper to Ms Keller.  Come to think of it now, in all of those years, I only had one male elementary school teacher. Mr Bowner. He was great: very theatrical and entertaining.  Why was that? So many female teachers and so few male?  Is it because youngsters in those early years still require the nurturing attention that can only be provided by the female sex? Feminists today would kill me for even suggesting such a thing. I don’t really know.  Even in todays so called enlightenment school boards are trying to deal with the matrification of our Elementary School system, that boys are getting a raw deal.  So they say! That they are becoming whusses, feminized, losing their religion. So they say!  I don’t really think this is the case as this was the norm when I was in Elementary School some 55 years ago. If one were to check I do believe that one would find that women dominated the profession at this level for over a hundred years, two hundred maybe. I even remember reading about the explorer David Thompson and his schooling by the Grey Nuns of London back in the 1770s.  Why are we so concerned about it today? Don’t know, don’t care, I don’t have an opinion on this.  It seems to have worked…

 

Our Park Thou Art in Heaven…Final

…He saw me, looked down at me, smiled I think, or perhaps smirked. The cigarette burning red hot ashes from the corner of his mouth as both hands were needed to control the pressure of the water hose.

“What can I do for ya, young lad” he offered in a lyrical brogue. 

Somewhat embarrassed and off guard I returned:

“Just watching Sir, that’s all.” and then “Tomorrow this will be an awesome piece of ice”

“Aye, with any luck, if the weather holds.”

Silence

“So, this must be some neat job you have here, looking after things at the park?”

“Yes, but this is only part of it. I have three other rinks to look after besides this one”

“Wow” is about all I could muster. Then, continuing on:

“When I grow up I want to have a job like this. So cool.”

He chuckled “No you don’t, and no it ain’t” he said rather emphatically, then adding

“I have to do this. You don’t. I have no other choice. You do. So stay in school.”

“But school sucks. I hate it. The nuns, the priests, the rules and the strap.

He chuckled somewhat.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, I know. I know it’s not funny. But thinking back, I got it good too from those nuns and priests.  Real good. But not here. Over in Ireland, where I come’d from, where I grew’d up, – some of those priests and nuns were the devil’s own, the devil’s fire brigade. 

“Really,” I thought aloud, “Just like here?”

“Sure, sure” he said. “They’re everywhere. With fire and brimstone they spoke with the brimstone and fire they breathed.  And they sure set the standard for all of the physical pain and grief that a Catholic young lad or lass could harbour, without being dead, the world over. Some were good I would think. Just not mine”

“What school do you go to.” he asked

“Our Lady of Peace” I answered.

He looked right down at me and into my eyes, into my very soul it seemed.

“Is that so” he said.  “Well I think they had a school for it over there as well. Our Lady’s School of Perpetual Abuse, I would think. For they knew how to give it and we got it good, day and night.  Black and blue we was, then black again.  The thing is though we fought back, but in such a way that the bastards never knew they was being conned. We had a lot of laughs outsmarting them, doing that. That was the key for us to survive in these schools.”

He chuckled but in remonstrance, remembering perhaps that it would seem to be a memory hidden or repressed.

“Listen to me young lad. Adapt, and don’t let them get you down, or get to you emotionally, in your brain like thoughts, and if you do it right you will have fond memories of you and your mates’ experiences and a lot of laughs.  But I’m sure it isn’t as bad as when I went to school. That was day and night back then. No rest for the wicked boys and girls, as they said. We was all orphans.”

He paused, as if to let that last comment sink in. Then he turned, slightly, to blanket another part of the rink with water. Silent! I followed him around.

“Orphans? in Ireland?, Wow.” It seemed so far away, and too much to sink in.

“Orphans, yes. I don’t remember my mother or my father. Just the school, the orphanage, the nuns and priests.  But I got out of it.  Ran away and joined the Navy”

And as if sensing my next question. “I was 14.” 

“Yup, Royal Navy, the Senior Service, as they say.”  He volunteered “It was also harsh discipline thar, in the Navy, but I thrived on it cause I was already used to the abuse…Aaaargh” he laughed out loud.

“But in the Navy they had free rein to kill ya if they so choosed.  For being out of line, AWOL, or desertion as they called it.  But again, my mates kept me sane and my wingers safe. And justice? For the smallest infraction, there was shipboard justice…before the mast, before the Captain… the Coxswain would cry out in his loud and booming voice: “MARCH THE GUILTY BASTARD IN!” As I said. I loved it. Rum was dirt cheap and the cigs even dirtier cheapier. Clean sheets and three squared – if you liked kippers and hard tack that is. But compared to the boarding school, and the Army, I thought I had died and gone to heaven” 

“I came through the war unscathed though.  Only once did providence come to my side.”

“What’s providence?” I interrupted

“Providence is a sort of destiny’s luck.” he continued.  Like something that happens to you in the present that makes no sense at all except that it has an enormous impact on something in the future.”

He looked at me whimsically, quizzically, probably knowing full well that I didn’t have a clue of what he was getting at.

“Let me explain it this way.  I was transferred to an oiler – that’s a ship that refuels other ships at sea, like a floating, moving gas station on water – and just before boarding that ship to leave port and to go out to our war station at sea, I was called back.  Some sort of emergency at home.  How could that be I thought? I had no home! So the ship sailed without me and when I arrived back in the town where I had lived at the boarding school it turned out that I did indeed have a younger sister who was quite sick, had been given last rights, and had asked for me. Turns out she, like me, had also been given up and had been sent to another boarding school, but in the next village.  Damnation I thought. I had a sister.  As it turned out her school was a front for what they called laundry houses – or asylums. You wouldn’t know about those places but there was nothing asylum about them I can tell you that. They was an affront for sure, those sweathouses. An affront to humanity, human kindness, compassion, empathy, everything civil and just. The laundry school from hell. And that’s all I’ll say about that.”

He paused briefly, then continued

“But, as unluckily as it was for her that this was, it was also luckily for me because that oiler took a hit and being so full of oil went up like a some heavenly torch, burnt the sky crimson, in spectacular fashion it was with shades of reds and oranges and yellows, before being doused to eternity’s sleep as she slipped, stern first, into the sea breaking up below the waves to the bottom below but with one last glorious belch of sea salt from old Neptune himself, or so they told me after.  No one survived.”

He let that sink in for the moment. Then continued

“I survived the war though death really hit home. I cried and I cried and I cried. I don’t know why I cried so hard because I didn’t really know anyone on that ship thank God for that.” And I didn’t know my own sister either yet I cried so hard for her.  He made the sign of the cross with a free hand.

“What happened to your sister?” I asked, politely

“Died… a lung disease. But she really died from one of life’s broken hearts, and broken promises. I never knew her but I think I loved her. Funny that. Not knowing somebody but still loving them, potentially I guess, unconditionally perhaps, for I never knew, I never knew her. The ties that bind I think. You understand me boy?”

“I think so.” I said. I didn’t

“Good, cause I’m not sure if I do… understand me or my life that is”

Silence again. Much longer this time as the time was needed to take in this account of his.

“You should be getting home” he said as he turned again to strike out at another area of the rink.

“Stay in school, and don’t let them penguins get to you. By the by, what’s your name?”

“John” I answered, awkwardly.

“Well John. I am Desmond O’Brian. Des for short, but not for long”……he guffawed. You can call me Sir” he guffawed and guffawed again.  Then suddenly snorting, snorting then coughing, coughing hard, a bronchial, nicotine laced cough that went deep into his own form, shook his entire physical being relentlessly before dying down and out through his throat.

“Glad to make your acquaintance John.” he choked again, waved me off with one arm, coughing again.

I left, turned away toward my street and off I went, carefully as the ground was extremely icy.

It always seemed weird, but nice to me, when an adult of whom I had no association with at all called me by my first and given Christian name. John…John, yeah John. A simple name yet the sound of it from someone else’s voice directed at me and at me alone gave me a sense of well being and a confidence in myself that the adult had the respect, and acknowledgement of my own existence in this world, however small my own worldly horizon or vision may be.  It was as if we shared some of life’s experiences, good or bad, in some sort of way, synchronicity perhaps.  It was always a nice, heartfelt gesture to hear one’s own name in that manner by a relative stranger.  Instead of the usual  …MORRISON PAY ATTENTION OR I’LL PAY IT FOR YOU! 

Before I was out of sight I stopped, turned and looked back at the rink. I could see Mr O’Brian ever so faintly, or should I say his silhouette, which really resembled a dark lifeless shadow in the stillness of this winter’s night. The stream of water continuing to rise, then arc, then cascade out and down and out again in a frost-like icy fog over the surface of the rink. Tomorrow that ice surface will be an awesome shade of greyish blue, a smooth virginal sheen of ice, as fragile as frozen glass, bordered by the brilliance of clean white snow, until the inevitable cut and crunch of the first set of cold steel blades hit its surface.

I never saw Mr O’Brian again. 

In today’s world, that park is bereft of young boys and girls playing. Sadly, it is deserted all year long.  Its lifeblood is a distant memory.

Our Park Thou Art in Heaven…5

…In time the municipality built a permanent brick shelter by the rink.  It was a place where we could hang out in relative warmth during the winter months and tie on our skates and flirt with the young gals and show off to our hearts content.  It was also the abode of the caretakers who were responsible for the maintenance and the flooding of the ice service.

I remember one evening, a school night, it was about mid week.  I was running late and it was as cold as ice outside. I had been at my friend’s house and was now on my way home taking a short cut through the park, alone with my thoughts and my futile attempt to stay warm. There was a cruel frost in the air that froze one’s breath into that visible plane of C02 stillness: opaque, inert like foggy dull whiteness that seemed to just hang there in mid air, motionless, wafting for a second or two, then disappearing wistfully until followed inexorably by the next sustained exhaled breath.

I sauntered down to the area of the rink.  The usual bandits were not there. In fact no one was there except a lone figure holding a fire hose emitting a jet streamed rush of water over and on to the ice surface. The natural light of the half moon and its reflection off of the snow and ice surface made it somewhat surreal watching this stream of water jet forth from the nozzle like liquid crystalline, then arc its way up and over some invisible barrier then down and out it went splattering onto the surface of the ice flowing and emanating outward in what appeared to be rippled waves of smooth liquid velvet sheets across a frozen yet clear rejuvenated expanse. Ironically that cold blast of water resembled a cauldron of steam, exploding like an expansion crack when it made contact with the surface and frigid coldness of the ice.

The caretaker just stood there, like an automaton, as if watching and admiring the outcome of his work from afar.  He would move the hose from side to side, then up and down a few times as if coaxing, then directing the stream to do its magical work, somewhat like a maestro conducting a movement.  He was old, about 40 I would guess, crusty, with a wrinkled face of someone who made his living working outdoors.  He had a low forehead from what I could see just shy of his toque. His was a square face with a set strong jaw and a bulbous crooked nose masking dark, brooding inset pair of eyes.  From time to time one could see a slight glint but that only came to light as part of the draw on his rolled cigarette. The exhaled smoke, combined with his frozen breath, gave the impression of a magician’s folly with nature’s illusion of turning water magically into ice…

Our Park Thou Art In Heaven…4

Winter’s Friday nights were also a hoot at Wedgewood’s outdoor rink. For Friday night was the time to show off one’s skills and daring in front of the girls. The girls from both of our schools, Protestant or Catholic, it didn’t matter for this was also a nun free zone. It was also an unwritten rule that Friday nights were off limits to hockey of any sort.  Just skating in pairs, arm in arm, holding hands with the girls, chatting some useless banter and stammering, nervously, to get the words out in some nonsensical bit of juvenile conversation and vocal drivel that would only seem important or relevant to a twelve year or fourteen year old, while moving to the music provided.  It was all too innocent and pleasant.

Everyone had their favourite partners.  Partners, as in many, for we were shy enough to move on when the conversation became uncomfortably sparse. For every goodbye there was a new hello and on and on it went this way for a few hours every Friday night in the dark and cold winter months. And, if we were really lucky and had the requisite athletic and organizational skills, a game of “Snap the Whip” would arise. This was like a giant conga line on skates. The lead skater would grab the next skater by the arm with his or her right hand. The second skater would do the same to the third, the third to the fourth and so on and on so it went until such a long sinewy line of skaters would form sliding like a snake along and to the whim of the lead few skaters:  hooting and hollering, crying out with laughter and shrieking with delight. The idea was to gather enough speed and momentum while holding on to one another such that the last few skaters on the line would be snapped like a whip, usually on a sharp turn, and off they’d go, launched into space and darkness. Their dark human forms silhouetted against the backdrop of the dull, ghostlike and unworldly aura of the winter’s night and set adrift in the cold night’s air. Into the snow bank they would fly and the line would suddenly dissolve amidst the laughter and the giggles of boys and girls, not to form again but on the unrehearsed whim and unorganized thought of one of the young skaters.  It was truly amazing how suddenly that line would form without any hesitation at all for we all knew exactly what was required…and we did it over and over again without a prompt or a prop or an adult in sight. Those were magical evenings. They were hugely popular, especially for us lads and gals who were nearing the transitional phase of hormonal development and immaturity…

Our Park Thou Art In Heaven…3

“Barrel Jumping” used to be an accredited winter sport, both amateur and professional.  It was never a winter Olympic event but it should have been.  I remember watching it on the Wide World of Sport TV program: that late Saturday afternoon stalwart of sports, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,” which I believe is no longer a fan favourite being replaced by the mundane and hyped Monday Night Football.  Barrel Jumping was a real man’s sport, sort of like winter’s version of the “High Jump and Long Jump” combined and all rolled into one event except that on completing the leap the competitor either landed squarely on his blades on the ice in triumphant jubilation or crash mercilessly, convulsively, into the barrels themselves. With hope upon hope, he tripped himself up after his leap into space falling on to his backside then sliding into the boards of the rink or snow bank.  Unlike the “High Jump” there were no padded landing zones to break the skaters fall just the hard cold ice zone to break ones legs, one’s knees, ankles or pride.  Concussions seemed to top the list as well.  Probably a good thing as the more one became concussed the braver one became in this sport.  It was like their badge of honour. It was not the Sport of Kings but rather the sport of Dentists, Orthodontists, Chiropractors and Idiots. 

The premise being that, in spite of idiocy and insanity, it was all about jumping over plastic barrels on skates, on ice of course. The more barrels that were cleared the more adventurous and dangerous it became. It was very popular in the Northern States, particularly New York State around the Lake Placid area; Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine plus the backwoods of Quebec and parts of northern Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan Canada. It was a hugely popular and well followed event. We all had our own barrel jumping heroes.

The competitor, or idiot on skates, would circle the barrels like some sort of displaced matador insanely focused on the barrels themselves that were racked side by side on the ice. Starting with one barrel the excitement and suspense of the fans grew exponentially as the number of barrels increased: two, three, five, eight, ten and on and on it went until there was only one man left standing, or sliding into the boards. The crowds would cheer as each participant cleared the barrels in flight and cheered even louder if one came crashing down into one of the barrels. The cacophony of oooos, aaaahs and groans were the real metric of approval.  Scoring was dependant upon the competitor’s misstep and choreographed mishap, which was the real essence that made this event so compelling from a spectator’s perspective. With each subsequent jump the competitors would try and outdo one another for the admiration and adulation of the crowds. Some would twirl, some would spin and some would jump like a drunk figure skater before building up the speed over distance that was necessary to clear the barrels. 10, 20, sometimes 30 miles per hour they could muster, their leg muscles bulging with every stride, their arms flinging in a sideways motion as if giving flight like an airplane or like the birdbrains that they were. The jumper must leap about 6 or seven feet in the air with a forward projection if he has any hope of clearing the barrels.

The competitor must have agility, speed and guts and be intellectually challenged if he is to be successful in this sport. Some would just leap and fall without the grace or agility of a showman. Others would appear to be running in thin air. Their legs, arms and skates pumping like the madmen that they were while others had the audacity and fool’s courage to project themselves horizontally over the barrels once in the air, like a human cannonball or like superman in flight with their arms outstretched dead ahead only to come crashing down to earth headlong into the barrelled mass. These guys were a crowd favourite. In essence the sport of barrel jumping was never really about clearing the barrels but about the chaotic showmanship of the competitors and their relationship with the barrels themselves as they went flying in all directions.

Unfortunately Barrel Jumping never became an Olympic sport. Instead we have Rhythmic Gymnastics!

“It was too brutal of a sport” a commentator was heard to say. “No one ever made it as all the competitors seemed to fall on their backsides.”

Yesss, exactly.