Thursday, or Thereabouts - June 5, 2014

The Stanley Cup Final

It's June, so what's up with all this ice hockey stuff? Well it's the way it is here on the left side of the Atlantic Ocean. This season began on October 1, 2013; 1230 games (82 games per team) were played before the playoffs began in mid April. Since then, 3 playoff series (Round 1, Quarterfinals & Semifinals) have been played. The mind boggles, at least mine does, which is why I don't start watching until maybe quarterfinals and then only if one of our Canadian teams is playing. The semi's I sort of watch if I have nothing better to do, unless a Canadian team is on the ice. BUT the FINAL? Well that's where the real hockey is played and I never miss the Stanley Cup Final.

image courtesy of cbc.ca/sports

I've written about my hockey dreams in this blog a few times before, but permit me to once again put on my gloves, Chicago Blackhawks sweater and grab my hockey stick...

image courtesy of ctv.news

I loved the match up between Montreal and New York, two teams from the 'Original Six' of the NHL I knew as a child, but I was really cheering for the Chicago Blackhawks to prevail over the LA Kings. That was not to be, still I've always been a Chicago Blackhawks fan through and through. The likes of Bobby Hull, Stan Makita, Chico Maki, Pierre Pilote and goalie Glenn Hall filled my childhood dreams of triumph and greatness.

The best Christmas of my childhood, the most memorable was the one (1962 or '63) when I got not only a hockey stick and gloves, but also an official Blackhawks sweater (they really were sweaters in those days, not jerseys). I well recall the surprise, the absolute joy that rocketed through my body when I tore open the package from Auntie Lilian, to discover not yet another dress (blech!), but the red and black wool of the hockey sweater. I was in seventh heaven and couldn't wait to get out on the street for a game of road hockey with the boy across the street. He'd be Johnny Bower to my Bobby Hull, or Stan Makita.

image courtesy of rangers.nhl.com

I had hockey dreams. There was just one problem. I couldn't skate. Try as I might I could not master those
bright white slender figure skates. They tripped me up every time; the damn picks dug in and sent my flying far too many times. Back then, figure skates were the only option for girls, after all every Canadian girl on the ice wanted to be Barbara Ann Scott (1948 Olympic champion), didn't she? Well no, at least not me. I recall my Dad considered buying a pair of real hockey skates like his, but Mom wouldn't hear of it - those were boys' skates!

No matter, road hockey worked the magic and in winter on our quiet street there was often enough snow pack to use my real NHL puck and stick handle my way up the road rink to face Johnny Bower between the pipes.

She shoots! She Scores!

The crowd went wild.

My Blackhawks didn't make it, but one of The Original Six did, so start spreading the news ... 

New York, New York!

image courtesy of wallmild.com

text ©2014 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - February 10, 2014

Hockey Dreams

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved to play hockey. She dreamt about stick handling her way down the right wing, closing in on the net, then a quick wrist snap puts the puck in the top left corner It's all one fluid movement and she nails it every time. That's the way it is with dreams.

Reality told a different story. It was the 1960's, the time before helmets and face masks. Little girls were not supposed to like hockey let alone play. More than that, girls were not allowed to play hockey. And no wonder - girls skates, those bright white figure skates with the sharp picks at the front, were not made for hockey. The little girl struggled in too narrow skates, hand-me-downs from a sister who skated perfectly through turns and twists, forwards and backwards. She never mastered the task, defeated by those blasted picks that dug into the ice and sent her down too hard, too often. The laughter and taunts from the sidelines didn't help.

The best Christmas ever delivered an official hockey sweater of the Chicago Blackhawks, CCM gloves and a Titan hockey stick. The dream lived on. Her father, cutting up the ice in speed and wide turns, encouraged the dream. The mother tolerated the dream, taking all this hockey stuff in her stride for the most part, but she drew the line when the father suggested buying boys' tube skates. It was a bridge too far for the mother of the not so girly daughter.

No matter, out on the winter street, hard packed with snow, the neighbourhood boys always needed an extra player and the little girl was always dressed and ready to go in sweater, gloves, stick and boots. Living the dream.

The years passed and girl grew and the boys grew and soon wanted nothing to do with the hockey girl who couldn't skate. She settled for Hockey Night in Canada to satisfy her desire, but mostly the dream fell asleep, and thirty years slipped by...

1998 - The Women broke onto the ice hockey scene at the Olympics in Nagano, Japan.  A little girl's dream tucked inside a gown woman, stirred and stretched. Oh to have been born in the 70's instead of the 50's.

****************************

It's 2014 and though I have no stick, no gloves and still no skates, I've got my official hockey jersey and  my heart skates along with Wickenheiser, Apps, Hefford, Johnston and all the rest.


She shoots! She scores!
The dream is alive again.
Go Canada, Go!





Story ©2014 April Hoeller

Monday Moanings - December 30, 2013

Looking back, Moving forward -
a reflection/poem by Joyce Rupp

The Old Year Runs Away from Me

the old year runs away from me.
I hang on to her sleeve
but she shakes my loose.
where does the old year go
when the new year comes?

she slips away into memories,
falls into the crevices of wishes
and ought-to-have-dones.
she waits no longer upon promises,
turns her back on the might-have-been.

the elves of the old year step in,
pack up the struggles, store the joys,
tuck them away in the bulging box
spreading out on the psyche’s floor.

it’s up to the new year now.
I bring a lot to her domain:
expectations, dreams, hopes,
and I place them all before
her strong,  abundant door.

I walk into her untamed territory,
with a meek apprehension
and a vast sense of mystery,
assured by the welcome I receive,

anxious about what is waiting
behind the drawn window shade,
curious about what I will discover
in the hidden folds of her new days.

Taken from Out of the Ordinary ©2000 by Joyce Rupp. Used by permission of Ave Maria Press. All rights reserved.

All photos from several of our annual trips to Niagara Wine Country, where the winemakers can always be counted on to make the best of any year, come what may.

Thursday, or Thereabouts - July 4, 2013

Independence Day 2013
Our big sister to the south celebrates her 237th birthday today. Happy Birthday, Sis!

January 2004

My mother was born in Massachusetts in 1921 and grew up in Connecticut. She loved her homeland all her life, treasured her US passport and never let it go - much to my father's chagrin. He wanted her to adopt Canada, and though she lived here from their wedding day in 1944 until the day she died in 2010 some 66 years later, she spent every one of those years as an American citizen.
Dementia took many things from my Mom but not her national identity and pride. In fact these became the certainties in her day. She wore the Stars & Stripes over her heart. More than a few times during her years in long term care, the precious pin went missing and then there was hell to pay. Mom would get so upset that we soon learned to have a few spare pins in reserve, ready to 'sub in' for the lost one.

"Hey Mom I found it! Here's your flag."
Eyes filled with tears, "Please pin it on me, dear." Relief flooded her face. She looked so grateful, so profoundly happy and 'at home'. The door of her room at the nursing home sported "Old Glory" too. Fortunately that flag never went missing!

August 1963

We made a big deal out of "The 4th" during the latter years; cup cakes festooned with red, white and blue, balloons and stories, lots of stories from Mom's childhood years. The staff at the home, God bless 'em, made the day special for her too. One staff member always called Mom, "Miss America" and sometimes "Miss New York. Mom may have been raised in Connecticut, but she was a New York City kind of gal, at times laying claim to apartments in the Empire State Building and Tower #1 of World Trade Center, and an operatic debut at Carnegie Hall. It is grand to live in one's dreams.

So a very Happy Birthday to my mother's homeland. Thank you for being the land of her birth and worthy of her hopes and dreams all her life.

And yes, God Bless America!