Family Lines

stories for you

Month: May 2014

My “Stanley Cup” goal

Hockey game.

Fort Smith versus Fort Simpson at the Moose Hide Mama tournament.

I love hockey. Playing hockey, that is. I like watching the NHL. Especially during playoffs. I can imagine the thrill of each goal that brings a team closer to the ultimate shiny target – the Stanley Cup. I’d like to think I know how it feels to be playing your best and out for the win.

My first hockey team ever was the Fort Smith Fury. I had played hockey with my family on the pond growing up in Nova Scotia but it wasn’t until I went to the Northwest Territories that I ended up on a formal team. It was in Smith I learned how to put on shoulder pads and hockey socks and poke check.

I was a winger my first year. My second year I moved to centre – a good position for a puck chaser. Centre is awesome. You’re half forward and half defence. You skate a lot, which I liked because of the exercise, but you also have to have a good idea about what’s going on around you. It’s your job to feed the wingers (and the points) pucks to get the goals. As centre I did put some pucks in the basket but one stands out for me.

Every year Smith went to a tournament in Fort Simpson, a town about an eight-hour drive west. Simpson is a cool place where the Mackenzie and Liard rivers meet and the Moose Hide Mama’s tourney was so much fun. The hockey was good and the party afterwards included the whole town. It was worth the slog along snow-covered dirt highways with nothing to look at but trees and trees and trees.

Fort Smith made the trip to Simpson as did Hay River. Teams from Yellowknife never seemed to make it to anything not in Yellowknife. Smith and Simpson had a friendly joking relationship on and off the ice. Hay River was different. They were our rivals and always seemed to beat us in this tournament and others. Not this year.

Smith had sent a tiny team and we lost one of our players due to an injury. That meant we only had two subs, one for defence and one for forward. We had managed to win most of our games on Friday and Saturday but heading into the final game on Sunday against Hay River we were tired. We had played a lot of hockey in the previous days and, of course, attended the party the night before. Oh well. Time to hit the ice and win.

The first period went OK. Not smoothly but we were getting into it. Then came second period. This is where we had to hold our own. I was on the ice playing centre when the puck was shot from our side down the rink. Icing would be called – maybe. I was taught to skate hard after that puck in case the call was waved off.

Hockey team.

Fort Smith waiting to play in Fort Simpson.

I was deep in Hay River’s zone when the goalie took several side steps out of her net, stopped the puck and…passed it to me.

That’s when I started to feel the pressure. I had an empty net. A wide, wide open net. If I didn’t score on this then I would be scarred for life. I would never live it down if I missed and I did not want to miss this opportunity.

I had to do it. I had to shoot the puck now. For all I knew there were Hay River players about to pounce on me and take away this golden moment. I let the puck go and…she scores!

I did it.

That was one of my most memorable hockey moments. That goal buoyed my spirits and gave me a shot of adrenaline for a few minutes. Then I started to flag as I got tired again. We called the third period of that game zombie hockey. We were so exhausted that we were like zombies. Instead of looking for brains, we looked for the puck.

My goal was not the winning goal, there were far more talented women on the team who took up the score. Despite the game of living dead hockey, we won and were a bunch of happy ghouls.

Quiche and cobblestones

Colmar, France.

Colmar, France

The pastry crumbled in my mouth like a piece of shortbread. The cheese was creamy with just the right amount of sharpness to open my taste buds. A hunk of bacon sliced through the soft flavours and dominated my palate. This was Quiche Lorraine in Alsace Lorraine, where the French pie was created, and it’s one of my most favourite meal memories.

The cup of hot tea that accompanied my meal was parfait. It warmed me up after a morning of wandering around Colmar, France on a soggy sightseeing day. A rainy grey day better fit for staying inside a café until it was time to head to a bar. (But this was France so bars were probably open earlier than in Canada.) It was the end of December but there was no snow. The weather was more reminiscent of spring, like this past Friday and Saturday in Calgary.

I was in Europe with my friend Digger. She was on exchange with a German university and I went to visit her at Christmas in the mid 90s. Colmar was a short bus ride from Freiburg, Germany and we decided to check it out. The French town is picture perfect: old houses and buildings painted with colours you could eat – mustard and orange and lemon. A canal runs through the village and little postcard bridges span the dark water. A French town that you want to take a million photographs of even though you’d never be able to capture the historic shadows of the street corners and building blocks.

Digger and I were both 21 but only one of us was naïve. Almost every man passing us on foot invited us for a drink. At first I thought everyone was so nice to the tourists when I had heard otherwise about the French. Until Digger told me the guys were hitting on us.Family_Lines_Colmar_two

Oh.

It had been raining in Colmar since we got off the bus. Not full-on pouring but more like little drips here and there. Enough to make us cold after hours of our shoes on the cobblestones. We were hungry too and wanted to take a break.

We found a restaurant in the centre of town. I’m not sure how we picked it. The outside was a dark brown, unlike the other bright buildings, and the inside matched. It was dimly lit when we walked in but a fire was a bright spot in the corner of a room. Zut. There were no tables near it.

The place was almost full but we found a small table in a back room. There I ordered my meal – the one I still dream about today. The incredible Quiche Lorraine. But it wasn’t only the lunch. It was the combination of food, company and history. This was the first time I had been to Europe and I was overwhelmed by the antiquity that was everywhere I looked in France, Germany and Switzerland. I was a history major in university and I studied this stuff but to be this close to it was unreal. Everything was so old (not the quiche I had been served) that it boggled my Canadian mind.

After our lunch Digger and I headed outside and back into the rain. We got dessert to take out, chocolate crepes, from a small restaurant down the street. (You know that European way, it’s cheaper to take food away than it is to eat it in the restaurant.) We stood under an awning of a furniture store and dug into the sweet treat. Chocolate spilling out of the French pancake and dripping down our chins.

“Cochon!” yelled someone on the other side of the street. “Cochon!”

He was calling us pigs.

Alors, there was the rude Frenchman that I heard all about.

 

Questionable singing

Old Lady.

Photo source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCaYt1KxZiY

One of my friends had a baby a few months ago. I get to see this little guy several times a month. He’s a mostly happy boy but sometimes, like anyone, he gets cranky and needs a nap. When he is feeling tired his mama sings him songs. Songs I haven’t heard in ages. Songs that always made think when I was a young girl – what is that all about? Songs that still make me wonder the same thing.

Take the old woman who swallowed a fly. Huh? When I was a kid this song made me mad trying to figure out all the things this senior ate. So many large and disgusting things disappeared down her craw: a spider, a bird, a cow. While I appreciate a good steak the whole animal is too much. Maybe the song is supposed to make youngsters think about what they’re eating.

I knew an old woman who swallowed a fly
I don’t know why she swallowed a fly

In my head the old lady swallowed the bigger items like a boa constrictor. Bit by bit, centimetre by centimetre, until the whole thing was gone. Perhaps she’ll die.

Then there’s the old man who played knick-knack on my thumb. What is knick-knack anyway?

This old man, he plays one
He plays knick knack on my thumb
With a knick knack paddy wack
Give a dog a bone
This old man comes rolling home

What kind of bone did he give to the dog? I hope it wasn’t chicken because they’re not good for puppies. Also, why did the man go rolling home? Is his house at the bottom of a hill? This is another song that raises too many questions for me to like to sing it. The lyrics are in the way.

My mother used to sing “Do your ears hang low?” to my sisters and I. Not to put us to sleep but to entertain us. I was stuck on one particular part though, what’s a continental solider?

Dog.

Photo source: http://attackofthecute.com/on/?i=3582

Do Your Ears Hang Low?
Do They Wobble to and Fro?
Can You Tie Them in a Knot?
Can You Tie Them in a Bow?
Can You Throw Them Over Your Shoulder Like a Continental Soldier?

Of course we’re now in the age of the Internet so I googled “continental solider.” Turns out, a continental solider was someone who fought against the British in the American Revolutionary War in 1775. Interesting. Here is it 2014 and we’ve been singing about these rebels for almost 240 years. It’s amazing to think of the oral history still being passed along in certain songs and stories.

Now that I’ve cleared those lyrics up (oh and the song is thought to be about a hound dog’s ears) I don’t have to think about the words anymore. I can share this song with my little buddy. I just wish I could sing.

© 2017 Family Lines

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑