“…they are just grown-up kids who have learned
on the frozen creek or flooded corner lot that
hockey is the greatest thrill of all.”

—Lester Patrick
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I don’t remember exactly when and how it started. Near as I can recall, my brothers and I were the founders of the hockey tradition in Aylmer. Which flared up under-ground and blazed briefly for a few short years in the early 1970s. And did not long survive our departure.

I don’t know which came first. Playing the game, then discovering the National Hockey League (NHL), or following the NHL through the newspapers George the Mailman gave us, then learning the game from that. Like the chicken or the egg. Which came first?

Whatever. We learned to skate when very young, on the two acre pond a few hundred yards east of the house, across from the little dry creek that ran through our barnyard. I was six years old when skates were unceremoniously strapped to my feet. I swayed and stumbled and skidded and fell on the ice a hundred times before finding my skating legs.

We learned with hockey skates, of course. Figure skates were for sissies. Everyone knew that. We scorned anyone who used them.

We played a rough form of primitive hockey. As the littlest boy, I had to tend the goal. Be the goalie. I was drafted by my older brothers. Didn’t have a choice. They placed me between the two boots that served as nets on our rink. Which wasn’t really a rink, just two solid acres of slick windswept ice.

It was cold. My brothers milled about and whacked a little black disc at me. It was very hard. Called a puck. I was supposed to stop it. Keep it from going between the two boots, which kept sliding around on the ice. I waved my little homemade goalie stick at the puck, and stopped it sometimes.

But it was fun. Even in the cold. Which wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. We skated as often as we could. In the ensuing years we got better at hockey. Skilled, even. We used old two-by-fours scrounged from somewhere when our father wasn’t looking and made our first rink one winter. Thirty feet or so wide. Sixty or seventy feet long. We nailed a few boards together for the goals. No nets, but better than the boots.

We got better. Invited some of our neighborhood friends over sometimes to play with us. Became quite skilled skaters. Professionally sharpened our skates at the Canadian Tire store in Aylmer. Got real hockey sticks. No one taught us the game. We learned on our own.

We followed the NHL religiously. George the Mailman saw to it that we got a newspaper almost every day from the extras he carried in his car. The St. Thomas Times-Journal. We chose our favorite teams. Checked each day to see how they were doing in the standings. Craftily, of course, as Dad had a maddening tendency to pilfer and destroy the Sports section before we could get to it.

I chose the New York Rangers as my team. No particular reason. New York sounded like a fine name. A fine town. I idolized their players. Titus chose the Chicago Black Hawks. Steve the Toronto Maple Leafs. Three boys. Three teams. Plenty to debate and discuss. And boy, did we ever.

Those were the glory days of the NHL. When they had real men, who didn’t wear helmets, and goalies who were just developing protective face masks. Classic guys. Gordie Howe. Bobby Hull. Bobby Orr. Gerry Cheevers. Dave Keon. Brad Park. The Esposito brothers, Tony and Phil. Ed Giocomin of the Rangers, my goalie hero.

About then we got serious about playing on our homemade rink. We built real nets for the goals, using burlap sacks for the netting. A huge improvement, but the puck had an annoying habit of slipping through the seams, causing many heated arguments as to whether or not the shooter had scored. We bought hockey gloves. Shin pads. Elbow pads.

I developed as the primary goalie in the community. Had quite a reputation. I bought a glove and blocker, and a wire face mask. And shoulder pads. But I could afford only the regular shin guards, not the thick goalie pads I needed. The shin guards were thin, but better than nothing, which was what I had before. During winter months, my shins were always speckled with pulpy little soft purple blotches, from blocking slapshots with my legs. I wore the bruises proudly, as wounds of battle.

We developed strategies too. Instead of a tight knot of players swarming after the puck like a herd of thundering elephants, we created our own lines. Forward, Center, Defense. Stick handling, passing. I cannot stress enough that all this was learned with no encouragement, no coaching, and no real knowledge of the game, other than what we read, and the pictures we saw.

On our rare trips to town, we splurged on forbidden contraband. At Steen’s Cigar Store on the east end, we perused and purchased glossy hockey magazines. Snuck them home and into the house and hid them in our bedrooms, under the mattress. Devoured them cover to cover.

Somewhere about this time, my brother Steve got his first radio. He kept it hidden in the barn and started listening to the professional hockey games. From that, he learned some basic strategies.

He was by far the best player. The best Aylmer ever had. Which isn’t saying a lot, but it’s something. He could score about anytime he got a mind to. Always irritated me that I couldn’t stop him at the net. But I kept trying. Sometimes, to his surprise, and every-one else’s amazement, I made the save. Stopped his breakaway cold.

During the last two winters we lived there, 1974 and 1975, ice hockey in Aylmer reached its apex. Steve and Titus were young adults. I was a teenager. Our cousins, uncle Abner’s boys, and the Miller boys, David and Raymond, made up our little group of tough seasoned players. Sometimes Junior Eicher joined us. But not usually.

Usually the pond froze over by mid November. Not hard enough to skate on, but enough to shoot a puck across. And that’s what we did, after chores, before breakfast, one of us on each side of the pond, shooting the puck back and forth. Waiting eagerly for the deep freeze to come, so we could skate and play.

By December the ice was thick enough. We played about twice a week, always at our pond, because we made the best rink. Sometimes they planned the week night games on Sundays, sometimes furtive messages were passed along through school. Every-thing was informal. Under the radar. No sense in unduly alarming the church fathers, who frowned on all sporting events. Waste of time, they felt. So it was never an official youth gathering, just a few neighborhood boys getting together.

Around 7:30 or 8:00 of an evening they pulled in with their buggies, the Millers and our Wagler cousins. Got out in the crunching snow, put their horses in our barn. We all piled out to the pond, lugging our gear, skates and Coleman mantle lanterns. Each side of the rink was lined with four buckets placed upside down on the snow. We lit the lanterns and placed them on the buckets.

Our rinks were fine works of art, compared to our earlier primitive ones. Two-by-sixes lined both sides. Behind the net, and it was a real net, still homemade with wood frames, but with real chicken wire, we placed a four foot high backboard to stop flying pucks.

Without further ado, we chose sides, usually four or five players per team, and took to the ice. Those are some of my fondest sports memories. Loaded with my goalie gear, I huddled in my net, my private little kingdom, a force to be reckoned with. Every nerve alert. You scored on me, you accomplished something.

We tried to emulate the big leagues. Three timed periods of ten or fifteen minutes to a game. My little sister Rhoda served as timekeeper and also dropped the puck at face-offs.

Great shouts then, as the game began. Bodies flying here and there, as the lines surged back and forth across the ice. Checking, pushing, shoving, shouts, cheers. Clashing of sticks, the scuffing of skates on the snow-specked ice. The solid thunk of men and skates and sticks and puck hammering against the boards. The adrenalin of blocking shot after shot, breakaway after breakaway. The sinking feeling when the puck whipped past me into the net.

Sometimes tempers flared in the heat of battle. But we never allowed open fighting, and it never happened. Besides, the guy you fought might be your team mate next week. So we kept it cool. We had no refs, but policed ourselves.

Usually, at least once a night, somebody crashed into a lantern, knocking it onto the ice with a splintering sound as the glass globe shattered to smithereens. Time was called, the remaining lanterns on that side spaced evenly, then play resumed, as heated as before.

Sometimes the full moon hung white in the skies, and it was bitterly cold. The North-west winds swept over the ice and the crusted snow. Young, and full of boundless vigor, chilled to the bones, our toes turning blue and numb in our skates, still we played. And played and played.

On and on, until ten o’clock or so. Sweating, cold but exhilarated, we unlaced our skates and headed to the house for hot chocolate and cookies and conversation before everyone headed home. Until the next game.

Sadly, there are no photos. These events survive only in the memories of those who lived them.

By the winter of 1976, we moved to Bloomfield, Iowa, and the Aylmer hockey legends soon passed into oblivion. My brothers and I were the driving force, and the game simply could not survive without us.

We took it with us, though. Bloomfield was a land of opportunity. To teach a whole new crop of neophytes the joys of the game. We did just that. The Bloomfield youth took to it like ducks to water. We played fast and furious for a few good years. To the chagrin of more than one Bloomfield preacher. Something about the speed and violence of the game simply does not appeal to staid old Amish gray bearded leaders.

But the Bloomfield games never quite stacked up to the old Aylmer standards. Or maybe I just hated change. The old classics always remain the sweetest in memory.

The last time I visited Aylmer, in the late 1990s, I stopped by the old home place. Walked the haunts of my childhood. Naturally, everything had changed. Including the old pond.

It’s barely recognizable. The current occupants, for reasons known only to themselves, reshaped the pond. With bulldozers. It’s about half as big as it was back then. Even the two old tree stumps that protruded from the waters are gone. No remnants remain, no water-logged boards from our old rinks, no splinters from our wood-framed nets, no bits of chicken wire. But if one dug around in the muddy banks, I’d bet you’d find an old puck or two.

I haven’t played in decades. Haven’t skated in years. But if I had a time machine, I would return. Back to those Aylmer glory days. For one last game.
______________________________________________________

It’s been kind of a bummer week. Haven’t slept well. Partly because of my friends, Paul and Anne Marie and what they’re facing. Partly because of other issues. The weather hasn’t helped. Cold drizzly rain the last two 2-1/2 days. It’s enough to depress a guy.

I stopped at Paul and Anne Marie’s last night after the gym. They fed me as usual. A few other close friends were there as well. We sat around and ate and talked and laughed, in the face of the looming specter of her surgery.

Her surgery was this morning at 11 o’clock. On shedule and everything went quite well. I spoke with Paul at 4 this afternoon. She was recuperating in ICU, still groggy. Paul said the tumor was almost exactly the same size and place as last time. Anne Marie will be allowed to go home as soon as she leaves the ICU, hopefully as soon as this Sunday.

“The wealthy curled darlings of our nation.”
—William Shakespeare
___________________

I hadn’t planned on going last Saturday. Full day scheduled, I thought. But at mid-afternoon, a couple of hours shook free unexpectedly. So I decided to risk the crowds and grab a cup of coffee. Besides, I had an item to return.

I arrived at the mall around 3:30. The parking lot was completely full. I found a few spots out in the overflow lot and backed Big Blue into a space. Walked in. Boscov’s was jammed, like it gets around the holidays. I waded through, managed to avoid the aggressive beautiful sirens at the Dead Sea Natural kiosk, and reached the center. Waited in line and ordered my cup of Seattle’s Best.

Nursing my coffee, I scanned for a seat. All the tables were full. I settled on a bench on the perimeter. Sat back and watched the crowds. Less than a minute later, a cheery lady pushing a wheelchair stopped in front of me. An elderly gentleman sat scrunched on the chair.

“Mind if I park him beside you here?” the cheery lady asked in a loud clear voice. Park him? What was he, an unresponsive lunk?

“Not at all,” I answered, as cheerfully. She backed the chair in beside me. It was a strange little wheelchair. All the wheels were the same size. Small.

“I getting a cup of coffee,” she announced, and left us. The scrunched up little man stirred on his chair. He was awake and aware after all. He glanced over at me.

“I’m ninety-five years old,” he stated solemnly, in a surprisingly firm voice. “And that’s my wife. She’s eighteen years younger than me.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Lived in the area all your life?” He leaned in. Hard of hearing. I repeated the question twice, louder each time.

He was sharp, alert and hungry to talk. Born in the area, he had lived in the Midwest, Chicago, worked in a factory for almost thirty years. Farmed. He had not fought in World War II. Somehow the draft had missed him. He was happy about that.

His cheery wife returned with an iced coffee, sat on the other side of me on the bench, and proceeded forthwith, with no prompting whatsoever from me, to regale me with all the details of their lives. She was a retired professor. Had taught nursing students. He still puttered in his little wood shop and made rocking horses, the very best quality, which they painted and sold at craft fairs. They came to the mall about every two weeks, because he liked to watch the people.

All I had to do was nod and smile. But I figured a ninety-five year old man and his wife had earned the right to bend my ear for as long as they wanted. Or at least until my coffee cup was empty. After about twenty minutes, it was. I stirred and made noises to get about my business.

“Oh,” the cheery lady asked, “are you going to the Bon Ton to see Paris Hilton?”

“I am,” I said. “If I can get close enough to see her.” I got up and thanked the nice old couple and left them. Maybe I’ll see them at the mall again sometime.

At that moment, Paris Hilton was at the Park City Mall in Lancaster, PA. The scion of the wealthy Hiltons who founded the hotel chain. Paris Hilton. International jet setter. Famous for being famous. Pampered. Unproductive. Moneyed. Heir to more wealth than most of us can even imagine. Worth more than a billion dollars. Probably several billions.

She was in town to launch her new perfume line, Fairy Dust. Why her company chose Park City Mall in the sticks, the hick town of Lancaster, remains a mystery. By lottery, for all I know. The mall is nice, but not particularly distinctive in any way. Big, but there are many much bigger. Like Valley Forge, less than an hour away.

I saw the ads in the newspapers for weeks that she was coming. I usually hit the mall about every other week. I figured if she bothered to show up, I might as well stop by and see if I could get a glimpse of her. Doubted it, though. Only 300 people would actually get to meet her, and they had to pre-purchase one of her new Fairy Dust packages. Around $150.00 to $200.00 a pop.

I wandered down toward the Bon Ton. Crowds milled about as I got closer, but I squeezed through the entrance. Loud rock music blared through the store. To the right a gaudy stage had been set up. A long rope line, with 300 people squashed together, lurched back and forth slowly like a giant lifeless slug. Others, hangers on like myself, milled about. I pushed my way around to a better spot. Peered in the direction every-one was looking.

And there she was. About forty feet away. Set up behind a glossy table, flanked by two burly bodyguards, one on each side. Blond, painfully thin, smiling her plastic smile. A fragile porcelain doll. Looked exactly like she does in all the pictures. Exactly.

The burly bodyguards were impeccably dressed in suits and ties. Fully armed. Each had a curly white wire protruding from one ear, like you see in the movies. The people line snaked slowly forward. Ninety-nine percent women. A few guys. As each person in the rope line approached the stage, one bodyguard motioned her in. Each one walked worshipfully to the table, practically genuflecting. Paris smiled graciously and extended her hand. Each person then posed with her for a quick picture, snapped by a photo-grapher with a large camera. Each encounter lasted less than ten or fifteen seconds.

Local security lurked about, so I couldn’t get close enough to snap a picture with my cell phone. The whole scene was really quite mad.

Most of us are fascinated by the super-wealthy. They’re not like us. We try to imagine what it would be like to have all that wealth. We can’t. It’s impossible.

They’re not like us. Except ultimately they are. They’re human. And death comes for them, as it does for us.

Like many, I for years viewed Paris Hilton as a worthless leech of a celebrity, a bored little rich girl who could have anything she wanted, anytime she wanted it. She had servants, jets, vacations homes, fame and more money than she could ever spend.

My perception of her began to change last year, when she was jailed for driving without a license, in California. The press had a field day, as usual. Stalked her. Plastered her fear and horror before the world, on TV (I saw it at the gym.), the web, on front pages of newspapers and magazines. The common person somehow felt smug. She deserved all she was getting. Now she could see how ordinary everyday people paid for their crimes. She would share a jail cell with one. Mommy and Daddy couldn’t get her out of this mess. Not this time.

About the time she pretty much had a nervous breakdown in jail, the first tiny strains of sympathy stirred within me. A normal person would not have been jailed for thirty days for driving without a license. Why should she be? Yes, she was spoiled rotten, wealthy beyond all imagination, protected from the slings and arrows most of us face in life. But that wasn’t her fault. Why was the whole world feasting on her terror, drinking in her fear? For one reason only. Because she was who she was. Spoiled, filthy rich. And we all envied her. Longed to see her fall, brought down low. Even though we gained absolutely nothing tangible, nothing positive, from her misfortunes. Nada.

We, the masses, have to have our punching bags. Leona Helmsley, the Queen of Mean, provided one for years, back in the early nineties. She probably was not a nice person, but everyone should have the right not to be nice. We commoners sure do. Whether or not you’re rich should have nothing to do with it. I’m convinced most of the tales we heard about Ms. Helmsley were vastly overblown by the media. She died a lonely death a few years back, and we were all served up one last juicy rehash of all her misdeeds. Even in death, we couldn’t allow her to rest in peace.

I’ve watched Paris Hilton since her release from prison last year, and she is far from the dumb blond she likes to portray. I’ve grudgingly come to respect her. She is actually highly intelligent, and an extremely savvy business person. She works hard. Who would even want to meet and pose with 300 strangers? She did it, smiling as if she really meant it. For hours.

Her name is her brand. She flits about the world, opening a night club here, adding her name to some project there. All for millions.

There is no question she has made some unfortunate personal choices in her life. Some extremely unfortunate choices. But who among us hasn’t? Well, maybe not on her scale of bad, but bad enough. But when we make wrong choices, nobody knows or cares. Comparatively speaking. When she does, it’s broadcast to the world. Splashed across the glossy covers of every gossip rag.

She may be a sad commentary on our culture, as many like to shake their heads and cluck. Shallow. Glitzy. Plastic. But that’s neither here nor there. She is a product of her class and upbringing. I doubt many of us would do much better, were we in her place. Besides, if she weren’t there, someone else would be. The market would not exist unless the masses embraced someone like her to admire and hate.

I do wonder sometimes who she really is. And whether she herself knows who she really is. Can she ever relax, unwind, say silly unguarded things, like we all do to our friends? I doubt it. Who can she really trust, except her parents, and maybe her sister? To all others, she is an icon to be exploited, for the publicity generated by the sheer power of her name alone.

She has to feel alone. Surrounded by thousands, known to hundreds of millions, yet more lonely than most of us could bear to be. Strange. But true, I think. I sure don’t envy her. Not her wealth. Or her lifestyle. And no, I wouldn’t particularly care to meet her, publicly or privately. We’d have about as much in common as I would have with someone from an African bush tribe. Which is nothing, besides our common humanity and the fact that we both inhabit the earth.

I don’t envy her. Don’t pity her either. Admire her somewhat. Mostly though, I simply respect her right as a person to be just that. A person. Nothing more. Nothing less.

______________________________________________________________________

“There is no wealth but life.”
—John Ruskin

Now some stuff that really matters. Some real life. Stuck here at the end, because it all just came down, like real life does.

It’s Christmas time again. I had a vague, foreboding premonition this was coming. Almost exactly one year ago, I wrote about my close friends, Paul and Anne Marie Zook. About Anne Marie’s malignant brain tumor. And how they faced and dealt with it as a family, with their friends.

Throughout the year, I’ve written a few brief updates from time to time. How, after the operation, Anne Marie went on a natural healing program, and how she was doing. It seemed to be going quite well. For a full year, she lived a normal life, even though her doctors had predicted the tumor would return within three months, with conventional treatment. She chose the natural route. No radiation. No chemo. No loss of hair. Or other associated side effects.

I couldn’t help but marvel. She was always active. Boundless energy. Working outside in the garden with her children. Savoring every minute of each day. She always looked fit and healthy. Glowing with life.

But inside, not so much.

On Tuesday, exactly one year after her initial diagnosis, Anne Marie returned to the hospital for a scheduled brain scan. The results were devastating.

The tumor has grown back, larger than before. The same spot. The first time, there was some faint hope before sugery it would not be malignant. This time, there is no such hope. The doctors want to operate as soon as possible. As of now, surgery is tentatively scheduled at 2:30 PM this coming Monday, Dec. 8th. Tentatively because they are in the process of seeking a second opinion. Possibly at Johns Hopkins, where Ellen still has some contacts from her employment there years ago.

I have no words of wisdom, as such words would seem trite. I, along with their other friends, will simply be there for them. Through whatever may be their lot to bear, as they face and walk into these bitter winds. Until we know what is not now known. And beyond.

They are my friends. And I hurt for them.

I’ve done this only once before. Asked something of my readers. And that was for Anne Marie last year at this time. I’m asking again.

Send them a card or letter. Write as much or little as you wish. No matter who you are. If you’re reading this, you qualify. For those who can, include a little Christmas cheer, gift cards and such, for Cody and Adrianna. Cody is nine, Adrianna seven. Give as you are led to share, including funds for their day to day expenses.

Most of you don’t know them, except through this site. That doesn’t matter. Share with them anyway, whether it’s a card, letter or something more.

Cast some bread upon the waters. It will return multiplied.

Paul and Anne Marie Zook
588 Meetinghouse Road
Gap, PA 17527