Winter Wonderland

by Fielding Goodfellow

It was a winter that lasted through the spring, filled with dark and dreary days of sub zero temperatures that bit through the four layers of thermal and fleece lined layers, and I was sure could easily make me hypothermic just by looking out of the window for too long. But the old man was pretty fussy about his driveway, so we were out there every time it snowed, leaving him a perfectly manicured runway on which to land his Buick LeSabre, while my mom stood at the screen door waving at us, occasionally opening it to poke her head out and  remind us to “take your brother’s head out of that snow bank”.

The old man would come home, crawling down the snow covered street, swerving left and right, until he hit the driveway and made the perfect landing he longed for as the Buick caressed the asphalt and slid ever so gracefully up the driveway and into the garage. “Nice job on the driveway, gentlemen.”, he said as he stood in the foyer trying to remove the scarf he had managed to knot around his neck. My mother was always standing there, waiting for the moment when he simply gave up trying, so she could release him from bondage. She could untie anything, scarves, fishing line, shoelaces, it didn’t matter. She had never met a knot that she couldn’t defeat. We would stand around awestruck, watching as she manipulated the tangled item in her hands, and, after successfully resolving the dilemma, always handed it back with a smile.

“How did you manage this.”, she asked as she set him free.

“Damned if I know.”, he replied, winking at us. “I have a surprise for you guys”, he said as he removed the last few items of winter. We sat around the table waiting for the old man to finish eating. Consumed by the excitement of his pronouncement, we were unable to eat a thing, and took turns guessing what he had in store for us.

We suited up and followed him out to the garage and helped carry wood from the back of the Buick to the backyard. The old man marked off an area, and instructed us where to hold each piece as he pounded it into the ground with a sledge hammer and then joined them together with clamps. “It’s a hockey rink.”, one of my brother’s shouted with delight.

“Not yet.”, the old man informed us as he picked up the garden hose. “We need ice.” He began spraying water over the backyard. Long after my mother called us in, he stayed out there, freezing his old man nuts off, and continued flooding the yard, one layer at a time, until he was satisfied with the result. He must have been out there all night, and by morning, it was five layers deep. “It’s time.”, he said as he woke us, and we bolted out of bed just to look at it through the family room window.

The old man didn’t skate., I suppose he never learned how, but man did he love hockey. He stood out there with us for hours, coaching us, shouting “Pass the puck”, or “Shoot”, until Billy and Kenny Bellwood showed up. The old man and the Bellwoods had not seen eye to eye since the dog incident of 1966. It seemed that the Bellwoods once had a dog, a mixed breed of terrier and hell hound that, much like their kids, was allowed to roam freely throughout the neighborhood.  One day the dog bit one of my brothers in the ass. The old man pulled the hound off and the little shit bit his hand. The dog was carried back to the Bellwoods with a stern warning that if it returned to the old man’s property, it would meet an untimely demise. About a week later, the dog was found dead on the Bellwood’s front lawn. Mr. Bellwood was certain that my old man was responsible. There were idle threats made, and words were spoken that would never be forgotten. The old man was sure that the Bellwoods were stupid fucks, and he regularly referred to them as the Peckerwoods.. We didn’t like them much either, although I’m not sure why, and out there on the ice, we took every opportunity to knock them on their asses as we glided around the backyard rink.

“Hey”, Kenny shouted as he lay on the ice, “you tripped me.”

“It’s not my fault if you can’t skate.”, one of my brothers shouted back as Kenny swung his stick into my brother’s leg. And then all hell broke loose. A hockey brawl ensued on our little, back yard rink with sticks and gloves dropped, and punches being thrown in every direction. It didn’t last very long, but when it was over, there was blood pouring out of Kenny’s nose and mouth, pooling all over the ice. It wasn’t a big deal to us really, or to Billy or Kenny, but Mrs. Bellwood showed up at the old man’s front door about ten minutes after the fight ended, dragging Kenny and Billy behind her.

I have no idea what transpired at the meeting between Mrs. Bellwood and the old man, but my mother made us go over and apologize, trying to teach us about owning our mistakes. There were several more fights over the years in which Kenny and Billy were left with bloodied noses, and the occasional cracked rib or missing tooth, but the old man never made another hockey rink in the backyard. Our game was played forever more with a tennis ball on the snow covered street in front of the house, amid the endless chants of ‘CAR’. The old man would stand on the front porch, bundled up for the sub zero temperatures, shouting “Shoot”, or “Pass the ball”, or “Knock him on his ass”, in an attempt to lead us to victory.

It was a winter of slap shoots, wrist shots, and penalty shots. It was us against the Bellwoods, and no one was safe. Billy Bellwood was running down the road, carrying the ball on his stick, with his head down. Someone stepped into him, with elbows raised, and sent Billy flying over the street headfirst into a snow bank. Billy didn’t move. “I think you killed him.”, someone said. It certainly seemed so. Someone went to get Billy’s mother, and as she rolled him over in the snow, he groaned and started to cry.

“Someone needs to call the police on you little, bastard hooligans.”, she screeched. It was then that I figured out my mother. She was always so calm, so quiet, and so polite. But she came down from the porch, with just winter boots and a cardigan to keep her warm, and looked Mrs. Bellwoods in the eyes.

“If you ever refer to my children like that again”, she warned her, “I’ll be shoving your face in the snow for as long as it takes to shut you the up.” When we got inside, my mother refused to acknowledge what had just transpired, and we were told that we were never to speak of this incident again. I never did. Until today. But that winter helped me to understand that the love and devotion both of my parents had for us, although it was often shown in some weird fucking ways . I’m sure frustrated and disappointed them, more often that I care to remember, but I know that their love for me never waned. I am who I am because of them. My mother gave me creativity, a love for the arts, and a passion for music and literature. She also gave me hope and a willingness to help others. The old man, well, he gave me perseverance and integrity. He taught me to stand for what I believe is right, to question everything in the search for the truth, and that East Side Mario’s is not an Italian restaurant. Over the years I have discovered that I have turned into the old man, becoming more like him everyday. And while I swore that it would never happen, I am actually quite relieved, I mean it could have been a whole lot worse. I could have been a Peckerwood.

 

 

 

A Willowdale Christmas Story

by Solomon Tate

 

Growing up in a suburb of Willowdale, in the north end of the city in the 1960s was remarkably ever changing. As developments sprung up, and roads were being built, Passer’s Farm stood as a reminder of what used to be. My brothers and I spent a lot of time outside, scouting out the building sites, carrying home bits of lumber, so that we could build a fort in the back yard.

I particularly enjoyed the winters. Crawling around in the snow, tunneling through the moats we made that led to our snow fortress. And while we did not celebrate, my favorite time of all was Christmas, with all of the family traditions that accompanied it. Christmas Eve was filled with the joy of watching  ‘Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer’, and ‘Mr. Magoo’s A Christmas Carol’. It seemed like I had to wait forever for the annual airing of these shows. We stayed up late and watched ‘Its A Wonderful Life’ with my mother, and then retired to our beds. It was strangely quiet on Christmas Eve, so quiet that you could actually hear the snow fall, as it piled up on our lawn, glistening in the pale yellow street lights that dotted the landscape of my life.

In the morning my brothers and I raced outside and shoveled the driveway, so that we could play ball hockey, while my father took the garden hose and flooded the backyard in an attempt to make us an ice hockey rink. It was always uneven, and there were patches that didn’t freeze due to inadequate water placement, but it was wonderful fun, skating up and down the rink, body checking each other into the waist high snow drifts that lined either side. Our laughter seemed to echo across galaxies, as we pulled our heads out of the drifts,  our faces covered in the untainted snow, making us all look like Santa himself.

In the afternoon, we all piled into the Ford Country Squire Station Wagon, to begin the first leg of what had become our family Christmas tradition. ” You guys better get yourselves outside.”, the old man chanted as he stood at the front door  of our house. “I”m leaving in 2 minutes.” The old man hated to be late for the movies. If he wasn’t in his seat at the theatre before the cartoon or the coming soon features started, it was a Christmas catastrophe. We headed off to the Willow Theatre, located on Yonge Street, just south of Finch Avenue, at break neck speed.

“Slow down.”, my mother would say. “Let’s get there in one piece.”

“I been through worse than this.”, my father would answer.

“Go faster, faster.”, we shouted from the back.

When we arrived at the theatre, we ran up the stairs to the balcony, with my mother following behind us, and my father at the concession stand buying us popcorn. There was always a western showing in those days. My father adored westerns. Over the years we watched ‘The Sons Of Katie Elder’, ‘Nevada Smith, ‘The Way West’, and countless others. One Christmas Day, my mother, who was a huge fan of musicals, managed to coerce the old man into attending a revival of “Calamity Jane’.  It was the last time she was ever permitted to select the movie. We sat in the balcony, 1st row, with our parents in the row behind us, popcorn in our hand, and our eyes glued to the screen as six guns were drawn, and rifles were cocked. It seemed necessary to advise the ‘good guy’ that trouble was behind them, or waiting for them around the next corner. We shouted it out with delight, certain that he could hear us, and followed up with the disappointing “if only he had listened”. If there was a coming attraction feature, and it was a western, my father would lean forward, pat us on the shoulders and guarantee that we would be seeing that one. Particularly if the cast included Jimmie Stewart, Randolph Scott, or Audie Murphy.

With the movie over, we piled back into the wagon, and headed out for what was the highlight of  the day. We did this only once a year. We did this every year, but only on Christmas day. As we pulled into the parking lot, the huge neon sign, seemed to scream out at us, beckoning us inside. “Let’s try to behave in there, shall we?”, my mother remarked.

“Oh, they’ll behave.”, my father stated. “Won’t you?”

“Yes. We’ll behave.”, proclaimed the unanimous children’s chorus.

“Okay then.”, he said. “Let’s go.” We jumped out of the car, and ran up to the door. And there scrawled in Chinese Style writing of English letters, were those words we waited all year to see: ‘Sea-Hi Famous Chinese Food”.

If you had never been to Sea-Hi Famous Chinese Food as a kid in the 1960s or 1970s, your childhood was incomplete. Nestled in the Bathurst St, and Wilson Avenue area, it was a cultural phenomenon. Every Christmas Day, for as long as I can remember, everyone who did not celebrate Christmas, for whatever reason, living in the North end of this city, wound up at Sea-Hi for dinner. It became a tradition for hundreds of families, perhaps thousands. It was, without a doubt, the crowning achievement of a Christmas well spent.

As we poured over menus, we would laugh at the names given to the dishes. Things like moo goo guy pan, and egg foo yung brought us great joy just to read them aloud. And, in those childish, politically incorrect times, we found great amusement in ordering in what we considered, Chinese. “I want flied lice.”, someone would inevitably request.

“Stop that.”, my mother scolded.

“Can I have clispy chicken?”, someone would shout from the table.

“We’re just going to go home.”, my mother offered her final warning. Regardless of what we wanted, my father always ordered the same thing, year after year after year. Vegetable fried rice, egg rolls, chop suey, mushroom egg foo yung, and hot and sour soup. We ate, and laughed, and attempted to use our chopsticks, and when that failed, we inserted them in our mouths and became walruses. There was one occasion when one of my brothers inserted them up his nose. This caused quite a commotion, as one became stuck, and had to be forcibly removed by my father’s tugging, which caused his nose to bleed right there at the table, all over the starched, white tablecloth, and my mother to begin the almost daily ritual of dying of embarrassment. The highlight of the meal, for me anyway, was the fortune cookie, which always seemed to carry some profoundly meaningful Eastern words of wisdom, written on the small, white paper hidden inside of the crunchy, tasteless morsel.  I was certain that those ancient words would somehow transform my future.

The car ride home was eerily quiet. We were tired, and we were full, satiated with enough rice and noodles to carry us over until next year. This tradition carried on throughout my childhood, and one by one, each of my siblings and myself dropped out of the ritual when we entered adolescence. It seems we were more interested in hanging with our friends, than we were in tradition. When I began to have kids of my own, I jump started the whole family Christmas, Willowdale style. It was never quite the same. We would watch Rudolph, but my daughters were frightened of the abominable snowman, and they found Its A Wonderful Life boring, as it was in black & white. Sadly, Mr. Magoo was no longer aired on Christmas Eve, but it did become available years later you tube. We moved north of the city, and Sea-Hi Famous Chinese Food was too far of a drive, so we settled on East Moon. The tradition continues to this day, however we now watch a movie on Netflix, and order in from South China Chinese Food. Sadly, it is difficult to maintain a family tradition in the face of ever changing technology, and free delivery. But those days, all those years of a Willowdale Christmas in my parents’ house, well, I miss them, and I carry those memories around with me like a badge of honor.