Bambi on Ice



I worked for many years for the City of Winnipeg Parks and Recreation Branch, in a variety of capacities: as a playground leader, arts and crafts instructor for children and mentally challenged adults, teen drop-in supervisor, and other sundry jobs. I even pioneered a few programs like the "adventure playground" (a very dangerous proposition, now that I think back on it), the travelling playground (picture two cuties - one blonde, one black-haired, bombin around the crummy parts of town in a rental van with "Fun on Wheels" emblazoned on its sides...and I'm not kidding). I was the first female supervisor at a community centre, and had to run quite an initiation gauntlet with rink rats and their aggressive hockey coaches who thought they could bully the young demure looking blonde hireling into allowing them to monopolize prime ice times. That was, for many of them, their first experience with things not being what they appeared to be (I may look innocent, but watch it, buddy), and treating a young woman with respect (I am woman, hear me roar).

It didn't take long for me to prove my mettle, and I never let them see me cry. One day towards the end of a particularly trying eight hour shift, a large sixtiesh man came bellowing into my office. I didn't know what had made him so angry, but I had had just about enough, and when he paused for breath, I pulled out of my desk drawer a dart that I had confiscated from an unruly kid earlier that day and said, "I don't know who you are, and I don't care, but the next person who comes into my office behaving the way you just did, is gonna get one of these right between the eyes." The shock registered on his face in wide eyes and an open mouth, and I thought oh boy, there goes my job. Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter (turns out everything this guy did was loud), composed himself and said, "Girlie, you're gonna be okay. Anyone who stands up to an old fart like me the way you just did, is okay in my books."

I was gold after that. That man was Sam Southern, an absolute institution in amateur hockey in the south end of my city for decades. He had devoted his life to children's hockey programs and was a towering force in the league. A few years later when the ruins of the Loblaws store behind my house were finally razed, an enormous indoor arena, recreation and seniors centre, and library were built and named for him. Needless to say, I'm glad I never pegged him with that dart.

Anyway, during that time, there was a "new" sport being born for females in my province: ringette. For those who don't know, it's played on ice skates with bladeless sticks and a rubber ring. The rules are similar to hockey except that there is no physical contact allowed, and the passing and carrying restrictions make it very fast-paced. One of the hockey moms invited me to join a team that played a couple of afternoons a week, and since the times were compatible with my work schedule and morning university classes, I thought I'd give it a go.

There was just one little catch: Although I had ice skated a great deal when I was a kid, I hadn't worn my white figure skates more than twice in the last five years. I also had never skated on artificial (indoor) ice before, and there's quite a difference, as my bruised knees, butt and elbows could attest to. I quickly learned that my skate blades were improperly balanced for an action sport (nowadays, only regulation hockey skates are allowed to be worn by ringette players), and I had the man who sharpened my blades, grind off the drop pick and move the rocker farther back so I wouldn't keep going up onto my toes.

As determined as I was, it was quickly apparent to me that, although my knowledge of hockey made me a good on-ice strategist, my skating skills were woefully inadequate. I signed up for on-campus skating lessons at the University of Manitoba Bison Arena. The trouble was, there were only two classes from which to choose: beginners and power skating. How "beginner" was the beginner class, I asked. The woman on the phone hedged and suggested I attend that class and then stick around for the power skating one that imnediately followed it, then attend the one most suitable for me. It was the same instructor and the same cost for both.

Winnipeg city is a cultural mosaic. Walk through any shopping mall and you are likely to see representatives of most every nation on the planet. Part of what makes this city so rich in culture and in wonderful ethnic restaurants, is the fact that differences are embraced and celebrated here. We have an annual two-week festival of nations called Folklorama with pavillions featuring dance, history, song and food from all over the world.

It follows then, that our universities are populated by students from faraway places, places that do not have snow or ice. These, I discovered, are the people who would sign up for the beginners ice skating classes at U of M. Most of them were East Indian, Filippino or Pakistani, and a more wobbly bunch of ankle-benders I've never seen before or since. I was Dorothy Hamill compared to these folks. I felt myself getting giddy as I watched these grown people, some of them in saris, jerking along tentatively, one foot sliding uncontrollably away from the other, falling and slamming into the boards, looking as helpless as newborn fawns on a frozen pond. They never gave up, and my amusement was quickly replaced by admiration for their indomitable pluck. I began to work with the instructor, hauling up the fallen under their armpits, holding their unsteady hands, coaxing them to take their first tentative strokes.

For the next eight weeks, I assisted at every beginners class, taking as much pride in the students' progress as they did; and then stayed for the gruelling power skating class that followed. Power skating classes are populated by athletes: hockey players who wish to improve their technique and stamina, and I was as outmatched by them, as my Hindu friends were by me. I tried my best to keep up with the drills, my heart pounding and my tongue draggin on the ice. I never did learn to stop on both edges.

But I did improve, and it did wonders for my ringette game. By the end of the first season, I had scored my first hat trick, and was voted the most improved player by my teammates. More importantly, I learned from the beginners skating class that you are never too old to learn a new skill.

I Know What Dad Got For Christmas in 1953



I reached a half century on this planet today.

Woot woot.

Pick Me a Winner



Why is that some people feel that sitting in a vehicle, completely surrounded by glass, in bumper to bumper traffic, is a good time to pick their noses?

As my mom would say, "Hey fella, call me when ya get upstairs".

Pavlov's Bears



Growing up, I had my share of cuddly teddy bears. I still do. I have giggled at Yogi’s inexhaustible attempts to procure a “pic-a-nic basket” and “awwwwed” at documentaries showing cubs frolicking at their mother's side. As a nature lover who is particularly partial to the flora and fauna of Western Canada, I have always had a strong, albeit ambivalent fascination for black bears.

The bears in the zoo look dopey and harmless, and I always feel both sorry for their confinement and evident boredom, and envious of their leisurely lifestyles. Although they no longer have to forage for sustenance or be caught in the crosshairs of a hunter's rifle, it seems terribly wrong to remove them from their natural environment to put them on public display. In spite of this, it's hard to deny that they can be downright entertaining at times.

My husband and I howled with laughter at one fellow who was posed like a portly fan about to watch the Grey Cup from his Barcalounger. He began to scratch the back of his right thigh with long, leisurely strokes, the resulting pleasure of the experience obvious from his extended neck and closed eyes. It felt so good that he rolled onto his left shoulder and stretched his leg skywards, clawing at his ample haunch and groaning with ecstasy. There was something comically human about his behaviour. It's moments like this, that can make you forget that you're looking at an animal that, in the wild, can pose a threat to a naïve hiker or camper.

Oh, I've heard the statement that "they're more afraid of me than I am of them." Um, I beg to differ. I doubt very much that a bear coming face to face with me in a blueberry patch has ever wet itself, even if I was having a bad hair day. Judging from the garbage dump, provincial park and cottage area bears that I've encountered over the years, they either skipped the chapter describing typical bear behaviour, or had attention deficit disorder. They did not scurry away at my shouting and noise-making (carefully modeled after the instructions in bear safety pamphlets helpfully provided by my provincial wildlife federation); they were either indifferent to, irritated by, or even drawn to it.

The latter was a reaction I experienced due to an eccentric man who lived in a log cabin in the woods when I was a teenager. He used to bang pots together to summon the bears as they emerged from hibernation. He would feed them with provisions he had prepared and stored throughout the winter. Over the years, more and more bears and their offspring came to associate that clanging noise with free food. A couple of decades later, we bought a cottage lot in that area. Unbeknownst to us, the ursine benefactor had died, the result being several dozen hungry and brazen bears filtering into the surrounding area looking for eats. And so, I pieced together afterwards, this was the reason that, when a furry adolescent came a-begging at the door of my tent trailer, he did not run away but advance even more eagerly when I began banging pots. Turns out he'd been taught by his mother that this was a signal equivalent to a dinner bell. I might as well have yelled, "Soup's on!" Instead, I began to shriek with such distress that my husband came galloping out of the only structure we had built at that point, his sweatpants still down around his knees.

Over the years I have seen bears tear life jackets apart in search of something edible, tear through screen porches, leave deep claw marks in door frames, and reduce my tent trailer to tatters to find the origin of tantalizing cooking smells. So, as much as I enjoy their antics when they are entertaining me from the other side of a concrete barrier, I will never be lured into believing that I can cuddle them like their Gund counterparts.

Clean Underwear



I bet there's not a one of us who hasn't been admonished by our moms to always wear clean underwear in the event of an accident. My mother, who at the age of fourteen lost her mom and became a live-in maid for wealthy people, felt particularly strongly about this. She used to tell me how disgusted she was when she would do laundry and discover that, under all her finery, her female employer had ragged and discoloured undies. "Onder het bont, stront," she would snort, which translated, means, "under the fur, poop" (to put it politely). To this day, whenever I am going on holiday anywhere, I go out and purchase some new frillies, just in case anyone happens to peek into my suitcase. (I even bought 9 new pairs for our cottage rental this summer.)

Of course, one has to wonder whether your undergarments would remain clean, should you be faced with an unexpected near-death experience. One Friday evening, I drove a friend to a downtown hospital for a scan of her head (she suffers from migraines), and she had a severe allergic reaction to the radioactive dye that necessitated a gallop to the emergency ward. That's an interesting place on Friday evening. One completely stoned guy, bashed up and bleeding in a wheelchair, had been abandoned by his friends after they crashed on their way to a heavy metal rock concert. The van they were in was still navigable, so after he was loaded into the ambulance, they took off to the show. Nice friends. Anyway, the strong odour emanating from him as he gabbed obliviously with the investigating police officers, made it clear that, if he'd ever had on clean underwear, it certainly wasn't clean any more.

My mother's indoctrination extended beyond skivvies. She drummed into my head that you and your domicile must always be clean beyond reproach, or what will people think? We're talkin about a woman who had one baby in the hospital corridor, and another in the taxicab on the way to the maternity ward, because when her labour pains began, she felt it was urgent to scrub the kitchen floor. On her hands and knees. In those days, when women had babies, they were hospitalized for a couple of weeks, and since men were considered genetically incapable of cooking, all the women in the family and neighbourhood would come over every day with casseroles and pots of steaming home-cooked food. It wouldn't do for any of them to see so much as a molecule of dirt anywhere, or they would forever regard my mother as a slovenly housekeeper. And, given that my mother had very fast deliveries (as she inelegantly put it, one fart and we were there), it was little wonder that by the time she made it to the hospital, her babies were practically cutting teeth.

And so, as morbid as it sounds, every single time I leave my house, I feel compelled to tidy and clean. What if I don't make it back? What if I get squashed by a collapsing building and the people pawing through my belongings find dirt, or - even worse - something indiscreet or embarrassing? Oh, horror of horrors! You won't find any battery-operated playthings in MY nightstand, no sirree. No diaries filled with steamy fantasies or scandalous secrets. (NEVER put anything incriminating in writing, was another of Mom's maxims.)

Nor will you find messy drawers or cupboards. Mom taught me to fold towels and clothing with military precision. Even my spices are alphabetized. Go ahead and laugh, but I know exactly where my oregano is: right between the nutmeg and the paprika.

You know what OCD really stands for?

Obsessively Clean Dutchwoman.