Clandestine Rink Construction
If I moved too quickly across the branches of the plum tree and down the trunk of the tree, which faced the kitchen window, inside my mother diligently worked over the oven, close to the window. She could easily detect my motion in her periphery vision. Should she see me I would be busted, my mission aborted. I had to proceed with stealth and secrecy. I hugged the tree watching her every move waiting for my opportunity to jump the remaining distance to the ground. As she put her wooden stir spoon down, turning left away from me, she walked toward the living room giving me opportunity to move. Getting back up later would be a challenge to be faced later when the time came.
Once down the tree my brother and I were off down the street, about seven houses, to the edge of development on our street where the frame of the newest house was being erected. For us, as kids, it wasn’t just the plundering of the orchards by developers that upset our equilibrium; but equally the disappearance of what we called vital range land once open for play and exploration.
This current construction site was a source of natural resources for our many projects. It therefore offered compensation for our spiritual and moral loses. We felt as victims watching the plundering of our childhood environment disappearing before our eyes. For us to move forward in our fort construction we needed a constant stream of quality lumber products. We were also out shopping this Fall evening for suitable boards for our future hockey rink to be built in our backyard. The construction site we were about to visit was to use our Beaver Lumber Store of choice. We felt at the time it as our moral imperative. Writing this more than 60 years later, we were just determined kids who wanted their own way.
Since we walk past this particular site each and every school day we had a very complete idea of the inventory available and where it was located. We made a mental map of the progress of the construction each day and were cognizant of the optimum entry and exit paths we would need to take once we procured our allotment of lumber and various supply items.
This evening we needed a few sheets of plywood for the underground fort currently under construction by us in the vacant lot across the street from our house. Basic fort construction involved digging an elaborate labrinth of, what looked like to casual observer, shallow graves. These days would be covered over by rows of planks and two by fours. We typically laid sheets of three quarter plywood over the framework before covering it up with dirt and sod to blend it back to the natural appearance of the surface prior to excavations.
To enhance breathing for those inhabitants inside the fort, at three foot intervals, we inserted portions of eaves troughing down spouts to let in air and some light. Inside each room we further dug shelves into the walls to allow for storage of vital supplies. The floor space was covered by layers of straw and newspaper to keep out the dampness as occupants crawled from one section to another. We later discovered it was also a fire hazard and a very bad and dangerous design feature. All in all the design made for early affordable housing on a clandestine level. It afforded us a huge strategic and logistical advantage for our eventual nefarious bid for strategical and territorial advantage in the neighbourhood.
Off course in addition to land based forts there were also tree forts to consider, which for the moment our own father seemed pleased with building from his own lumber supply, in trees right in our own backyard. I’m sure he had his own supply chain. We left him that duty without filling him in on the over-all strategy of how his structures fit into our Maginot Line. He was just happy to participant without seeing the big picture, so we just left it at that.
We also needed boards and stakes for outlining the perimeter of our future hockey rink. Even in summer our planning did not lose sight of the fact that “Winter is Coming.” It was best to get these supplies early in the season so that the rink size could be laid out before the ground was frozen. The best laid plans.
This evening’s excursion was of great importance to our planning protocols and supply flow chains. We were highly cognizant of the dangers and perils in our line of endeavour as in a pervious excursion several months prior, on a house now completed, which sits complacently adjacent to the evenings target. We had almost been caught. It had been a rough and dangerous mission.
That night there were five of us as lumber supplies had run low and demand was high. There was much pressure. As we were gathering our normal allotment of two by fours and sheet plywood when we were mercilessly attacked for no apparent reason. Later when we could catch our collective breathes and think the problem through we realized it must have been the contractor, or the home owner who came for an unannounced and therefore unexpected site visited. He must have been hiding in the orchard because we never saw a vehicle approach. It was a total surprise attack, likely in violation of the Geneva convention, but nothing we could do about it at the time. All of a sudden a bright flashlight shone in our faces and like guilty little racoons we froze on the spot. The man with the light shouted, “What are you little bastards doing with my wood?” He obviously had a vested interest in our proceedings. We dropped the wood. We ran.
We had prepared for this moment and in our intensive pre-raid training sessions training sessions. We knew to run each in a separate directions to make tracking us more difficult. Therefore, instead of chasing one group of five our oppressor now had to choose between five unique trajectories. He chose mine and was gaining like a race horse out of the gate.
I was running through a rough orchard between trees, trying to look over my shoulder to determine the gap between us. He was rapidly gaining. In turning, I stumbled and tripped and fell hard. My pursuer was almost upon me. He grabbed me by my shirt. I was hoping even then please don’t rip it I’ll have to explain that to my mom. He was distracted and loosened his grip as a clod of dirt hit him squarely on his back giving me the brief distraction and opportunity to make good my escape.
My brother who had just saved my life and my shirt was now running at warp speed in another direction. We did not get any lumber that night, my shirt was soiled not ripped, the mission a failure, yet we lived to strike another day.
Given our past experience, there was only my brother and I. We had to limit our “take” and get in and out quickly. We removed some of the splendid planks from the scaffolding on the backside of the house. They were ideal as was their location out of view from the street. We removed one ten foot plank eased it to the ground as quietly as physics and our bodily strength would allow. We each grabbed an end, and considering I was only ten at the time, a very heavy load to carry at speed through the orchard that backed onto the construction site and to our backyard. We covered the distance in record time being careful not to alert the farmer’s dog. We successfully reached the fence defining our backyard and again gently eased the long plank over the fence, onto the ground.
We both scaled the fence in double time, without speaking, knew our well rehearsed roles. We stowed the plank with others from previous sites, from previous nights, over previous months, between the garages. That is the space between our garage and our neighbour’s garage. Here we had a selection of lumber that would have had a significant market effect on the regional supply chain had we ever chosen to flood the market.
The area designated as “Between the Garages” was known as our warehouse. Also the place where Candy, the girl next door, and I traded intimate secrets, but that’s a whole separate story for later. For some mysterious reason only known to our God and my own father, our stash of lumber and various building supplies, remained a secret. To this day I have often wondered why my father never asked, “Marty, I looked between the garages just the other day and well I was just wondering what you boys are doing with the 12 planks, 7 sheets of plywood and all that eaves troughing and those two by fours. Are you building an ark?” He laughed. He never said a word. Not once. We knew we were safe and kept accumulating. It was ordained. It was God’s will that we should build. If we build they will come, but we had no idea what that actually meant.
After this particular raid was successfully completed we couldn’t exactly enter the house coming in through the back door. This was the risky part. We had to climb the plum tree past the kitchen window, up to the porch roof and get into our bedroom on stealth mode without mom seeing us. My dad may have turned a blind eye to our enterprising ways, but we knew mom, a baptized member of the Mennonite congregation, would not have a similar perspective. She would be moved by the holy spirit to act it ways detrimental to our planned outcomes. Once past the kitchen window we could live and breathe again. From the bedroom we could then come down later and join the family in watching the Ed Sullivan show which broadcast on Sunday night. It was always best to do raids on a Sunday night, on the Lord’s day, when construction sites were not occupied. God willing.
By late November, just after my birthday, my brother and I and often with a few friends measured and surveyed where the rink would be placed and its final dimensions. We had approval for this project from my dad, but at no point did he help, give advice or get involved at any level. We thought we were lucky enough having his tacit approval in storing the lumber that seemed to magically multiple between the garages.
Using string and stakes, as one would measure out a new garden, we measured out the maximum size of our rink. By early December we brought out some of the long planks and staked them into place along with two of our sheets of plywood. The plywood served as backboards for the goals. Now it was just a waiting game for snow and freezing conditions.
Once the snow began to fall and was permanent on the ground, we began to shovel it, beginning with the driveway and transporting it to the rink area using toboggans, wagons and cardboard boxes for transport. We dumped the snow in the rink area over many days and compacted it with sheets of plywood. The snow was shovelled out evenly then using a half sheet of plywood we would stomp on it to compact the snow beneath. Eventually, when we had about eight inches of compacted snow within the boards we waited for the colder weather for watering to begin. This next phase was the challenging part.
It's an act of courage and faith to stand for hours with hose in hand spraying the rink surface as the packed snow absorbs water and gradually, after nightly waterings, transforms from crusty snow into solid thick, smooth ice. Often, I would come into the kitchen with numb fingers barely able to move them. Slowly, and inevitably water from the hose dribbled down into my gloves freezing my fingers. My face was so cold I could no longer pronounce words clearly. My mom would provide us with hot chocolate and warm us up during our breaks all the time marvelling at the great job we were doing. Occasionally she would comment, “Boys where did your dad get all the wood for the rink.” Not waiting for an answer she would add, “Aren’t you boys so lucky to have a dad that does that for you!”
Today, when I drive through some upscale neighbourhoods to my great satisfaction I still see some road hockey being played with dads out with their kids trying their best to keep up. In addition, at least in my daughter’s neighbourhood, there are about 6 or seven home backyard rinks. Although I have rarely seen anyone actually skate on these rinks, I’m sure it happens as soon as I leave the area. I mean I have never seen a comet before either. The thing is though the construction methods used now versus what I went through as a kid to construct the perfect ice surface just doesn’t compare.
Today, a father, I assume, can purchase a large plastic bag from Canadian Tire, called a”rink in a bag.” This involves placing the bag on a level spot in your yard, install boards in the form of a rectangle to contain the liner, fill the liner with water, let the water freeze. While on one level I applaud the simplicity, the ingenuity, I mock the lack of challenge. This quite literally is child’s play. There is no clandestine initiative whatsoever.
Growing up in my neighbourhood it was a badge of courage to go through a process of suffering, involving stages of exposure, hypothermia and exhaustion while completing the construction of a backyard rinks. We risked our lives getting the boards and in the process brought the project in way under budget. Our rinks were also on average larger, had better boards and were based on a process and history of challenge, sacrifice and adventure. Sadly what happened to integrity, history and valour in mid-century rink construction. Sadly, all is lost.
