Grand Change (12 page)

Before long, the cowbell
clunk-a-lunked
again and the game went on with the gliding, pumping and grinding. The second period passed, the third carried on. Soon, all too soon, the round-faced clock hanging on the back wall in the penalty box said five minutes left. At the end of the rink, the slotted numbers said 4–4. My heroes were working the puck at the other end and I was with them. My shoulder hitched at the deke; my arms went up as the red light above the goal judge glowed through the mill of players and fog.

There was pause in the action, both sides checking strategies with anxious head nods as they got set for the faceoff. The puck was dropped. There was the quick chop of a stick in a pass and once more Skullcap was bearing down on Shorthorn with the puck. Shorthorn was backing, confident; he made his skate-chopping veer. At the last moment, Skullcap shifted and Shorthorn was faked out. Skullcap bore in alone on the goalie, almost in a gallop, with fire in his eyes. The goalie poised in his crouch, his eyes concentrated. The roar of the crowd was like a wall. Suddenly the puck winged and ticked off the inside corner of the square net. The goalie took a fearful backward glance, then swept out the puck with downcast eyes. A call rose above the uproar: “Boo! Boo! Shorthorn Bull, you didn't do so hot that time. Go home and fork manure.” It didn't seem reasonable to get scored on at time like this.

That's when Charlie broke loose, seizing the puck after the draw, and with long, smooth strides, his stick shifting like a magic wand, he darted, swaggered and quick-turned like a frolicking colt. They'd managed to smother him all night, but now he was in control. They'd swipe at the puck, but he'd sweep it away like it was glued to his stick. They'd lunge at him with checks, but he'd be gone, leaving them to thump the boards or take a falling slide through the slush and water.

The goalie at the other end, watching the helplessness before him, had a tense, fearful expression on his face. He made his move at Charlie's deke, but he, too, took a slide through the slush and water. As the puck sailed into the net it was game over, even before the cowbell clunked its last.

The jubilation rode on us like a crown and our steps were light as we made our way back to the truck and climbed aboard.

“Are all the chickens in?” Willy Walters roared.

“Anybody not here speak up,” came the voice from the dark. “Yeah, we're all here. Put 'er in the big cog and drive her.”

“Who won the game?” Willy roared.

A mixed chorus roared back: “The Royals!”

Prelude to
Spring on Hook Road

When the snow began to honeycomb, sink under the hot
sun and chill to an ice crust in the night; when the poles in the loft bed began to appear amidst patches of grey, dry hay that came up with the fork tines in flakes; when the times of birth came in the cow stalls and a farmer would spend hours with his feet braced against a group edge, straining on a rope looped around yellow hooves pointing from a swollen vulva, holding with the mother's heaves until the limp body, wet with slime, slithered into the world to eventually wobble on stick legs, then butt and
sphirp
in a bucket of curdled milk; when the woodpile was low to the ground, then those along Hook Road knew that soon, what snow the sun didn't dissolve, heavy rains would, and in their patches of dirty-brown and grey, the fields would begin to appear once more, with only traces of the packed winter road remaining, now dirty-grey and with yellow stains where the horse buns lay. Soon Hook Road itself would reappear and the muck-slopping would begin.

They junked up what was left of their winter meat then, before it thawed too much, and what meat didn't go to cold storage was bone-stripped, stuffed into cans, salted, lid-sealed and placed in steaming double boilers until the lids popped.

The bones, streaking white through meat remnants, were boiled, too, until they were stripped bare and the meat in the pots had congealed into that waxy crust over a conglomeration of stringy meat and jelly called potted meat.

The sluggishness came on then, and it was good to laze after a quiet suppertime with the door open and a sun-warmed breeze wafting in the choke of drying mud and listen to the countrified music of the suppertime radio show. The sulphur and molasses, cherry-bark steep and whatever came on then, as a remedy for the laze, or the want of a bad taste.

The last of the potatoes in the cellars, bearded now with sprouts, were moved out then, the clay buildup shovelled out. Seed potatoes were piled in bags against walls of barn floors and sheds for the set cutters. And they would huddle in mixed gender around washtubs of potatoes, sitting on backless chairs, crates and milking stools, in patched overalls, tattered coats with nails for buttons, peaked caps and wedging bandanas. And their banter would mingle with the
schlick, schlick
of keen knives, slicing potatoes between black-crusted thumbs and forefingers, and the plops of sets falling into baskets. In dusty granaries, hump-backed fanners were cranked and grain and hayseed were run through and bagged for seeding.

In the meantime, the spring calves, seeing outside for the first time, found their legs and ran bucking, kicking and crashing fences in the pastures.

Then the fields of furrows, flattened by winter snows and spring rains, bleached and dried chalky by the sun and wind, were grudgingly torn by the mats of spring-tooth harrows; with the drivers choking in dust, hauled by the reins in their grasp, their steps falling halting and rigid from the pace.

In keeping with the scenes of spring, bags of fertilizer, lime and sets would appear in their piles on headlands.

The high-wheeled seeders ran in their cross-field weave then, the spouts along their lengthwise boxes shooting down oats and hayseed, the short links of their cover chains jangling.

Then the potato planters would appear, hunched and sneak-stepping like aged cronies, struggling for balance in fertilized grooves, dropping sets at their toes for spacing, their potato sack set pouches hanging heavy on their shoulders. While in their midst, the scant horse hillers with their twin toed-in discs scuffled up rows of hills.

As a final sweeping-away of a dreary winter, the farmers of Hook Road approached their ragged rows of manure with their snow and ice troves, fork-loaded the rotting dung onto wagons and fork-flung it to the sod.

Spring on Hook Road

To the sweet strains of Jim Mackie's fiddle, the thump-
thumpa-thump-thumpa-thump
of his feet, the backing strum of Alban Gallant's guitar, the dancers swept head-high and proud in their majestic swirl—the dainty feet of the ladies skipping light, the heavier feet of the men quick-stepping and hammering the floor. They wove through the grand chain, pranced through the promenade, rocked and whirled together in the swing with now and then a “yuh” and a “tamarack her down.”

After having to deal with a harsh winter, then being literally booted into the hectic drudgery of spring, a tyme was just the thing to shake things loose. And I would have to say the tyme they had for Joanie and Charlie did a bang-up job. The whole affair—though it didn't end that way—started out as the major happening that spring. Agnes Cobly brought it to mind when she came collecting just after the crops were in.

Agnes was a good match for John, especially physically: freckle-faced, about the same stubbiness. Her most outstanding feature was her protruding lower lip, which protruded even more after her short speech phrases: “How are youse this evening? Collecting for Joanie and Charlie's wedding. Nice young couple, good for the community. We thought a chest of drawers would be nice. Yep, a dollar would be just fine. Better keep on the go. Don't forget to come up for a game of auction.”

The wedding came off pretty much the same as weddings usually go. Charlie had a few belts in him by the time he got to the altar. When the minister asked him if he would take Joanie to be his wife he said, “I'll take her,” then he tried to put the ring on Joanie's little finger. There was the usual snuffle around that time of course. After the marriage ceremony, two of the Wallace cousins got into a wagon race on the way from the church to the mill. They both hit the gateway at the same time and a wheel got smashed against a post. The usual sort of thing that makes the occasion memorable.

Alf and George compromised and they held the reception
in the mill and the dance in the house parlour. George
decided if they tamaracked-her-down on the mill floor, the roof might tamarack-her-down itself. Since he was the father of the groom and Alf was the father of nothing but inventions that never worked anyway, he was entitled to the last say.

Charlie's uncle on his mother's side was the emcee. He was a stout man with a perpetually red face, which blended in well since most of the male faces had a royal flush. He had a bit of a lisp and the more slugs he took from the punch in his glass—replenished from under the table by a nephew with hair over his eyes and a thick-lipped smirk—the more it grew. The lisp became more of a confused slur when the time came to toast the bride. “Now Ahlbhert Wallache will lead us in thishing-ah-tashing-ah-toashting the bird-ah-bhride.”

A few minutes after Charlie's speech, a two-minute job that ended with, “I hope you all came to dance cause we're going to drive 'er,” something beneath the rough board floor punked and the folding table with the wedding cake shook and the tablecloth flapped and George mentioned that it would be nice to have the cake cutting and all the rest out in the yard in the sunshine. Nobody had to be persuaded.

Charlie drove 'er at the dance that evening, no doubt about that. He said he was going to dance with every single woman there as a parting shot and he pretty well did. Between one of the sets, someone called for him to “give us a step” and right off, to shouts of “drive her” and “tamarack her down,” Charlie was prancing to the centre of the floor with mischief in his eyes, mock anger on his face and his neck bowed like a proud horse. Then, hoisting his pant legs in a curtsy in time with the sudden belt of music from Jim and Alban, he toed
the floor like he was testing water. Then, like a sudden
summer rain, his scuffed shoes drummed, belted, crossed over, quick-stepped and hammered the floor. Then he broke loose. Parting the crowd as he went, he danced his way into the kitchen, where he jumped, clicked his heels, landed on a chair and danced there. Another jump with a heel click and he was dancing on the stove. Then he was on the floor again, dancing his way back into the parlour.

Charlie's act opened the way for what might be called
“participation time.” Alf took a chair in a conspicuous corner below the mantle where the Aladdin lamp glowed. In a flourish, with a lick of his tongue, he pulled loose his green tie, unbuttoned his shirt, placed both feet flat on the floor and conducted the proceedings. “We'll have theGallants now,” Alf said.

And they danced and sang. “Now, George. ‘Molly Dee'. Come on.” George stood in a far corner with his head canted, pursing his lips.

“Well, I'm not much of a singer,” George said.

“Stop putting on the dog, George, and sing,” Alf said.

“Come on, George,” John Cobly said.

“Show us your stuff,” Joe Mason said.

“Well, I don't know all the words,” George said. “But…” George steepened his head cant, hitched his shoulders and began in a low foghorn bellow: “Oh, Molly Dee. Oh, please don't cry. Cause I must say goodbye. I'm going to sail, so please don't wail. I've joined the Navy and it won't be gravy. I'm leaving soon as the wind blows high. Oh, blow ye winds and blow them high, the skipper's name is William Nye. Now please don't cry, my Molly Dee…”

“Ah, that's enough, George,” Alf said, “if that's the best you can do.”

George shot a mean glance at Alf. “Well, I told you I didn't know all the words, big mouth.”

“You don't know none of the words. Where's Dan? Come on, Dan, give us a poem.”

“Where's Dan?” Charlie said.

“Here, he's coming,” John Cobly said.

Dan Coulter, with his tie hanging out and his sleepy eyes peering past a long nose in a thin face, made his way through the gathering to stand hunched and bent-kneed beside Alf. Alf gave no further introduction, other than to throw back his head and hold out a flat hand as an offering. Dan passed his hand over his brow, swiping away a fall of grey hair. Then, directing his gaze at a ceiling corner and holding his hand out palm up in stage fashion, he flapped his oversized lips a few times and began:

 

In
Carpet
Town,
there
lives
a
man,
by
the
name
of
Mr.
Jones;

And
t'would
take
a
banker's
ledger to
list
the
things
he
owns.

He
owns
the
restaurant
there,
you
know, though
it's
not
in
his
name;

The
ice
cream
parlour,
and
the
grocery
store are
underscored
the
same. The
hardware
store,
the
bank, the
store
for
shoes
and
boots; He
even
owns
the
bootlegging
joint, and
the
house
of
ill
repute. I
got
to
know
about
the
gains of
this
famous
Mr.
Jones,

When
things
got
slack,
a
few
years
back and
I
hit
him
up
for
a
loan.

Then
the
cows
all
died,
the
crops
all
failed, so
the
mortgage
just
kept
growing;

'Til
all
I
had,
including
me, belonged
to
Mr.
Jones.

I
could
go
on
about
it
all, but
to
minimize
my
groans,

There
was
scant
few
places
where
I
didn't
owe this
famous
Mr.
Jones.

Just
the
funeral
parlour,
and
oh, to
keep
things
fair
and
true;

There
is
the
insurance
company, oh
yes,
he
owns
that,
too.

About
a
week
or
so
ago, I
dropped
in
on
old
Doc
Reeves,

With
his
scope
at
me
chest,
he
said
in
jest, “Sounds
like
you
got
the
heaves.”

But
he
really
didn't
joke
at
all, when
he
said
with
a
kindly
face:

“You
better
get
things
nailed
down,
my
friend; you're
about
to
leave
the
race.”

“If
I
give
you
an
extra
fin,”
I
said, “could
you
set
things
up
a
bi
t
?
”

“This
man's
in
good
health,”
he
solemnly
wrote, and
signed
his
name
to
the
chit.

Then
I
ambled
down
to
Jones's
bank for
one
last
goodly
loan;

Ere
I
left
the
bank
I
kindly
thanked and
shook
hands
with
Mr.
Jones.

Then
I
ambled
to
the
insurance
place like
I
was
on
a
spree,

And
took
me
out
an
all
-
inclusive insurance
policy.

Now
me
mortgage
gets
paid,
me
debts
all
stayed,
me
wife
won't
have
to
cry.

They'll
bury
me
in
a
Jones
-
built
box; all
I
have
to
do
is
die.

So
when
it's
my
time
to
kick
the
pail, don't
nobody
take
it
hard;

Just
send
my
bones
to
Mr.
Jones and
give
him
my
regards.

 

Throughout the recitation—which was well-lauded at the
end —there were nudges and frank nods with murmurs:

“He make that up?”

“Probably.”

“He made that up.”

“Ain't he a corker?”

“Should be on radio.”

Just about then, George made his way back in and stood by the organ at the other end of the mantle. He had a sneaky gleam in his eye. “Okay, Alf, time to give us a step.”

“Yeah, come on, Alf,” came a voice from the crowd.

“Drive 'er, Alf,” Joe Mason said.

Alf s mouth hung open and his eyes faded.

“Well, I'm not much…”

But Jim Mackie and Alban Gallant, with bemused glances at each other, had already hit into a lively reel. Alf rose to his feet, gulped a few times, then began shooting out his feet in a diddle-stomp hobble.

“Yahoo!” Joe Mason hollered. “Drive 'er, Alf.”

Then George moved around until he stood in front of Alf and bellowed above the music, “You call that dancing? Look at him—diddly diddly de.”

Alf gave George a dirty look and disappeared. Alf held up his hand for the music to stop. “We'll have John and Agnes now with Sally Lutz,” he said.

John and Agnes did a decent job on the song, with their heads back and hands clasped behind their backs. Didn't have to be coaxed, either.

After a respectable applause, someone called for a waltz and the dancers found their partners and the musicians played the sweet, haunting strains of “Over the Waves.” Wally Mason stood, head hung, in a corner with lament on his face, and I knew what he was feeling: we didn't get our chance to play.

But Linda Robins came from I don't know where and stood in front of Wally and waited for him to make his move. Wally stood peering up with his head still hung until Linda frankly set her fists into her hips. She stood that way with her lips pursed for a bit, then caught him by both arms and hauled him onto the floor. It took Wally a while to get his feet going, but he did, eventually, with Linda's help. She could move around pretty good, with her chin up and that frank, smug look on her face. She was pretty able, too. By the time I decided to check out the card game in the porch, she had Wally hobbling around pretty good. He even seemed like he was enjoying himself.

The Old Man, Alf Wallace, Joe Mason and John Cobly were having a four-hander of auction. In a shadowy corner in a sunken armchair, Dan Coulter sat, sneaking sips from a cup he would replenish from under his coat. In their off-game banter, without them knowing it entirely, they were about to herald in the second, and what turned out to be the number one, major happening of that spring.

“You really think it'll go through, do you, Dan?” John Cobly said. “I'll bid twenty five.”

“Thirty,” The Boss said.

“Thirty-for-sixty,” John Cobly said, eyeing The Boss.

“Away,” The Boss said. “What have you been drinking?”

“Yup,” Dan Coulter said. “We'll have it before the fall.” Dan's voice had a mellow placidness; the sleepiness of his stare was faded in shadow.

John Cobly gathered up the kitty and changed around the cards in study.

“What makes you think that?” Joe Mason said.

“Hearts are trump,” John Cobly said.

“The election's coming off,” Dan Coulter said. There was the call for cards, with Alf Wallace flipping them around from the pack.

“Okay, best in your flipper, Joe,” John Cobly said. Cards were thumped onto the table in the flurry of lift-taking exchange until one final thump came louder than the rest and John Cobly said, “Take that. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Sixty spuds mark it up.”