Christmas, and the long winter ahead, stirs memories of long past and longer forgotten. Memories of a better time, which really is nothing more than sugar plums and peppermint candy clouding the true reality of our lives. And our loss.
I remember though, how every pothole full of frozen water became a potential hockey rink. And after our parents checked out the safety of the venue, the thickness of the ice, and whether or not it was in the range of "Mom's call" for supper, our Montreal Forum, Chicago Stadium, or Maple Leaf Gardens (spit) would be cleared for occupation by the masses. Games beginning in the morning, running through to dark, only stopping for Mom's call, or the occasional pee in the bush.
Hours and hours of unsupervised play time. Days ending with rosy cheeks and frozen wet pant legs. Does this even happen anymore?
The following was a Twitter thread many years ago. I should clean it up and build it out, and I might a wee bit, but I believe the chaos of my writing, trying to fit it into the Twitter structure, trying to finish and post quickly, is what this story was originally and what it needs to be.
Tongue in cheek, And forever with admiration for the work and memory of Roch Carrier.
The Sweater (Part 2)
The Socks
One morning my Mama took out her fancy writing paper from the side-board, filled her fancy writing pen with ink, peacock blue, laid them on the kitchen table, then she sat herself on her throne like kitchen chair. The chair from which she ruled the world, When she was comfortable, and after she furrowed her brow in composure, she began to write.
Dear Monsieur Eaton.
I am the Mama of the Petite Garcon whose young life was ruined, and whose future was left in doubt, when you f'ked up my order and sent us the sweater of the 'ated Toronto Maple Leafs.
When my little Poutine wore the cursed blue sweater his friends all laughed at him. The Curate sent him home to pray in shame. Maurice Richard himself called my Baby Tourtiere a wuss, and shot horse turds at his head. And you know that Maurice Richard never misses. You did that M. Eaton! I should jump on the Toronto train and pay you a visit...
But no. I can not do that, I would have to sell two chickens to get the train money for M. C.P. Rail. And my growing Petite Homme needs all the eggs that Sadie and Martha can lay.
I must let you know, though, that after you f'ked up my order, and my Son was chased home by the girls (who can all run faster than a boy cursed with the 'ated Maple Leaf sweater), I took that stinky blue garment and burned it in the kitchen stove. I then took out my fancy writing paper and I filled up my fancy writing pen with peacock blue, and wrote a nice letter to M. Simpson and his partner M. Sears. (After I first checked the prices at the boutique of Monsieur Hudson Baie. Too expensive. Nice blankets though)
M. Simpson and M. Sears sent me the proper red sweater of Les Canadiens. (Cheaper than you, you Baie Street pirate) My son loves it. His friends do not laugh at him anymore. The Curate let him back into the choir. Maurice Richard himself apologized for taking horse-turd slap-shots at his head, My little Caillou skates like the wind, a blur of red and blue.
So Monsieur Eaton, today I give you one more chance. I will pay your inflated price, but only because your "quality is guaranteed or money refunded." I want you to send me
-One pair of Les Canadien socks, like Maurice Richard himself wears.
If you send me the socks of the 'ated Toronto Maple Leafs I will sell those chickens and board that train to Toronto. I will roast those chestnuts of yours. Not over an open fire, but with my foot. Get it!
All my love
Mama
Three weeks later I received the socks like Maurice Richard himself wears. And I wear them to this day.
Epilogue - I could never run faster than the girls who were chasing me but eventually I realized that wasn't a bad thing.
Comments
Post a Comment