Winter as a Queens Line Kid

I was just watching clips from 'A Christmas Story' on Youtube and watching the boy's Mom stuff Randy into all his winter clothes sent me into a state of happy, fond reminisce. 

When winter would inevitably roll around when I was a little fella, Dad would mount the Super Six loader with its big snow bucket on our Massey-Harris 44. He made big piles of snow with it that seemed like white mountains to a little kid who could hardly stand up in all his getup much less climb. 

When it was time to go outside to play, Dad would cram me into all of my winter clothes like stuffing a wiener back into its skin. By the time I had been jammed into everything textile-wise that was in the house, he pretty near had to stand me upside down to shove my boots on. With six pairs of socks on, I could nearly fit into his boots. If I fell down (and I did - a fair bit) it was a monumental struggle to get vertical again. With a big scarf wrapped around my neck and my four shirts buttoned up to the chin, there was no looking down unless I bent at what waist was left available to me. Looking up was no better. The only thing that kept me from getting carried off by an eagle was the likelihood that they thought I was too heavy with all that bulky attire. Like Randy, I couldn't put my arms down, but it didn't really matter much because I couldn't pick anything up with three pairs of mittens turning my hands into soft woolen stubs on the short protruding stumps of what was left of my arms. So, I just walked around, and sort of bent at the waist to look at the ground or the sky. Or turned my whole body to look to the side. I couldn't get back in the house when I was done doing nothing because I couldn't turn the door knob with my woolen clubs, so I banged on the door with my forehead. That probably explains a few things. When I got a little stronger, I could just manage on a good day to squeeze the doorknob tight enough between my six mitts to get it to turn. That is, if there was no snow on my mitts, it wasn't too cold, the Maple Leafs had won the Friday night before, it wasn't a full moon, and I didn't have to go to the bathroom. Otherwise all bets were still off. 

Falling down turned into an epic struggle of the ages. It was often face first because I couldn't make my flappers go in front of me to stop myself. So, first there was a full wakening face plant in the snow, followed by flopping around like a fish to try to get myself righted. A good roll with a solid "UUHHH!" at the right time and place meant a fair chance of regaining my feet. Blink the snow out of my eyes and it was back to not being able to do anything in particular. 

Sometimes after banging my head on the door I was told I hadn't been out long enough yet. Long enough to do what? I may have not have exactly got finished, but in the confined, compressed, and compromised state I was in I hadn't really got started yet either. The only acceptable excuse at that time was either, "I'm cold!", or, "I gotta pee!" I had to use the second one carefully, because if I didn't go, I was busted, and back out I went to stand there doin' nuthin' looking like the Uniroyal Man with foam in his tires. 

I still miss Dad stuffing me into my boots to this day because he did it with so, so much love and care. 

As I got older and more able, I could dress myself in a more suitable fashion to actually accomplish something outside, such as building a snow fort. Well, only building a snow fort because that was all there was worth doing outside in the snow when you were a kid. That is, if you couldn't go sliding. Ahhh, sliding, in its different forms, was where it was at in the winter.

Dad must have loved winter, because, in hindsight, I think he relived his childhood vicariously through me. When Crazy Carpets first came out, he bought me one. It was great, boy. It was just a roll of some kind of poly plastic, but it was easily twice as fast as anything made of wood. And light as a feather for the long trudge back up the hill. It was always standing stuffed in the snow in its rolled up form, outside the back door of the house, ready to go. One time it blew away on a windy day out onto the road. Before I could catch up to it to retrieve it, a car stopped and a complete jerk jumped out and grabbed it and jumped back in and took off. He saw me chasing after it so he good and well knew what he was doing. I ran into the house screaming that someone "stole my Crazy Carpet!" Instantaneously, Dad sprang into action. He was into his boots in a flash and out the door as he was pulling on his jacket and into our brown 1965 Rambler 770 Classic and after them. With his foot on the floor he caught up to them below Ferguson's General Store and the Rink around the Queens Line United Church. They must have known who John Bowes was and didn't want any part of him with a full head of steam because at about 70 miles per hour they threw the Crazy Carpet out the passenger window and kept right on going. From this wider and clearer picture vantage point of time that prudent move probably did save them a few bumps and bruises and general lasting malaise. There was an abrasion where our right front tire drove over the one edge of it after they flung it out and it landed right in front of our car, but it didn't affect it any and I happily used it for years after. Every time I saw that scar I was reminded how special it really was because of the lengths my Superman Dad was willing to go to get it back for me.

Flying Saucers were made available around that time, too, but they could be rather brittle in the cold. Danny Sullivan's Flying Saucer snapped into two perfect semicircles after a jump at the Back Place. He stood up in surprise with one in each hand. The material Crazy Carpets were made out of was much more flexible and resilient in the cold. 

Super Slider Snow Skates by K-Tel (who else?) were introduced a year or two after Crazy Carpets and Dad got those for me, too. Actually a pair for Polly and I for Christmas. They were made out of the same slippery plastic material as Crazy Carpets, but they were basically plastic boots that you laced over your regular winter boots and up the back of your legs. They had three or four lengthwise ridges underneath to give you some form of directional stability, and they curved up at the front like snub-nosed genie boots so they would sled over the snow. Because they were only maybe ten or twelve inches long, it was only hip strength that kept your feet together, so there were a few painful splits as I got used to them. But they were big enough I was able to use them for years, and Cory got to wear my sister's pair after she had long lost any interest in them. 

Sliding down the big hills at the Back Place was a fantastic pastime. It really was the pastime of the winter for us once we were old enough to be left alone at the other farm. If there was a good wind after a snowstorm, there would be a deep, curled crest at the top of the South side hill to drop off of and really make for a fast shot and not as predictable time. You don't get nearly as much a thrill when you can easily predict the outcome you know. Dad would drop us off about 10 or 11 AM and not come back for us until nearly dark. Even though we would be there for 5 or 6 hours, it still was over way too soon for us. We didn't think of food, of drink, of shelter or anything else for the whole time. Just the next ride as we were slogging through the waist deep snow back up the hill. Few things make you fitter and build stamina than repeatedly climbing a long, steep hill in deep snow with heavy winter clothes and boots. Take that to the bank. We were really careful to not walk back up where we slid down; the more it got packed and smooth, the faster and further it got. There was always a contest of who went the furthest. We learned to steer by patting the snow with our hand. If we dragged our hand we could steer, but it slowed us down too much. We found if we patted our hand on the snow we could still steer but not lose nearly as much speed and momentum. We spent countless winter hours on those hills over the years and loved almost every single second of them.

Dad taught Polly and I how to skate as little wee tykes by spreading big, thick sheets of cardboard he got somewhere on our big kitchen floor and having us learn on that. It worked really well, and we weren't heavy enough to cut through it on our skates. He thought of everything, he did. He was the best Dad a kid could have ever had.  

Once we learned how to skate at home, then Dad would take us Thursday (I think? Maybe?) nights to the Queens Line Rink to skate on real ice. Real ice, I quickly realized, hurt a lot more than cardboard when you fell on it. I don't know what it was, but the Rink always seemed like the coldest place on the face of the earth. Not that that was really such a terrible thing. It's just the way it was. A really cold night on the almost wide open farmland of the Queens Line translated into a fiercely cold night at the Rink; take my word for it. Or any Queens Liner worth their Champlain Sea's salt. It seemed like the mass of frozen ice created its own micro-climate of Siberian frigidity. The Booth, as it was called, thankfully always had a roaring fire going in its simple old woodstove, surrounded by a plumbing pipe protective guard so kids wouldn't burn themselves on it. The best bench for warming up was the one against the wall behind the woodstove next to the regular entranceway door you entered through when you first arrived. The heat enveloped you in a cozy welcome as you flung the rink door open and clomped on your skates on the well-worn wood floor to the wooden benches and thawed out, then warmed up, and maybe got a snack, and then it was back out again, everyone's breath coming out and rising out of sight overhead in great clouds of silvery vapour. Music was broadcast over the rink from a single, weak, tin can sounding speaker, but it carried well in the crisp night air. The rink door was plywood and wide to allow two way traffic, which there was plenty of. It didn't have a latch, only a big loop handle on the inside for easy grasping with mitted hands, and a heavy door spring to close it again as young enthusiastic kids couldn't be relied on to close a door properly when they were in a hurry to get back out on the ice again. From the outside you just pushed it against the spring. There were constant sounds of the spring stretching and retracting, the door slamming shut, and skates and frozen boots stomping. And excited, youthful chatter. There were Eckford's and Bennett's and May's and Tabbert's and Stewart's and Bowes's and McClure's and Gilmour's and Afelski's and Mordy's and Ferguson's and Kasaboski's and Dunbar's and Gould's and Pilgrim's and Campbell's and Latendres's, and McLeese's... The Queens Line moms were always there, keeping a close eye on all the kids.  There were chips and chocolate bars and other snack foods and coffee for the adults and hot chocolate or pop for the kids. I think Saturday night there were hot dogs and hamburgers. There was always a wonderful volunteer program in those olden, golden days of the Rink, and nothing was left to want, from flooding the rink to shoveling the ice to plowing the yard to manning the concessions to cutting and delivering firewood, to having the fire lit and hot before ice time, to painting and repairing the rink boards and whatever else in the summertime. Everyone pitched in at the Rink when I was a kid. It really was the center of the community. The hard working, hard playing, local young farm lads used the Rink parking lot and the Booth for a rendezvous point for snowmobiling in those late 1960's to late 1970's, so it was always a little rowdy and exciting, too, especially Saturday night. Practically every farm had snowmobiles in those days. The boisterous and rather reckless young lads, immortal in their developing minds, sometimes made it expensive for their Dads; some sleds made many appearances, some not so many, and some just plain never made it back from their nocturnal forays and hijinks. But you sure heard about it afterwards! Good clean fun, really. And another Queens Line lad's misfortune at the handlebars goes down into folklore... 

The Queens Line Winter Carnival was the highlight of the winter. It really was fun for all ages. It usually took place on a Saturday in early February when the weather was getting a little milder. There was puck target shooting, skate races, tug-of-wars, a costume contest, fastest water boiling over an open fire contest, sleigh rides, draws for money and prizes, etc... Clusters and stragglers of snowmobilers would come and go. 

I vividly remember one time a bunch of sledders were fooling around in the parking lot out front. I was younger than them all at about 13 years old at the time, but something was up so I wandered out front to see what was going on. Someone had brought in a tiny Boa Ski MK 230 sled. It was a rather comical looking ugly little duckling between an Artic Cat Kitty Cat and a Ski-Doo Elan in size. They were playing around picking it up and tossing it around. Suddenly one of them (I won't say who) jumped on it, ripped the cord, and went out to the road. I don't think anyone knew for sure what he was up to. It soon became apparent when he turned around and came back full tilt and headed straight for the biggest pile of snow, probably 14 feet tall, plowed from the front parking lot. It turned out that little sucker really ripped. It was quite a bit faster, especially with an almost 6 foot teenager on it, than I ever thought it would be. He shot straight up the steep pile, and that's where him and the Baby Boa, as they were nicknamed, parted company. Too long-legged for the machine, he fell off backwards and somersaulted back down the pile like Gumby, and the Baby Boa, standing almost straight up in its trajectory, hung in the air for a split second, and promptly disappeared out of sight behind the pile like a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Everyone was laughing their guts out, some of them helplessly flat on the ground. I thought he'd wrecked it for sure, but it landed harmlessly upright and perfectly intact in deep soft snow over the fence into Claude Oatte's field, sitting there quietly putting away, patiently awaiting its rescue. Still falling over themselves laughing at what happened, it was another riot to them to lift the Baby Boa back over the fence and carry it around the pile back to a very shaky version of safety amongst them once again. 

The Winter Carnival was thee day, boy. Even beyond our mid-summer Strawberry Social. Everybody was there. Entire families between morning and evening chores. The Booth was full to overflowing almost the entire time. For me, the thing to be there for was without question the Carnival Day meal of ham, scalloped potatoes, and baked beans. Mister, there is nothing like the aroma and flavour of well-cured ham with scalloped potatoes and baked beans eaten outdoors in the cold, fresh air. I do not know whose ham and scalloped potatoes it was, but trust me when I say he or she was a Master at their craft. I am sorry, but I do not possess the words and phrases to adequately describe how delightful it was. For farm boys, one of the absolute best smells in the world is corn silage combined with wide open throttle Diesel smoke. Well, the bouquet of Queens Line Winter Carnival ham, scalloped potatoes, and baked beans beat that hands down. How's that? Rather than waxing poetic over the various aromatic and savory attributes of that dish, I'll just say that once I had my plate (and another if I could get it) I was ready to go home, because there was nothing forthcoming event-wise that could possibly compare with it. It was like Christmas Day again, except you ate the best present.

Boy, those are great memories, of great times, in a great place, with great people. Every parent knew every child by name. I was brought up among some of the most honest, hardworking, God-fearing, community-minded folk you could ever imagine, who all raised their children to be productive, upstanding members of society, and they all are to this day.