It’s one of those beautifully frigid winter nights that inspire poets. The skies are clear and the light from the moon illuminates the backyard. Fireplace smoke rises straight into the air and hangs motionless over this suburban outpost. It’s quiet, but for the cursing of one crazy hockey father who’s discovering the true glory of the outdoor rink.

Frank’s trying to thread a nozzle onto his garden hose. Under the warmth of the summer sun it’s an easy job. Now, in the freezing cold with gloves under his big deerskin mitts, co-ordination is harder to muster. It has taken him about five minutes to get the hose out, and now this. Finally everything lines up and the spout is connected. He hopes it isn’t an omen on this brutally cold evening.

He can hardly move. He’s wearing long johns, blue jeans and ski pants over his short stubby legs. His big winter parka covers three layers of clothing. The hood with its fringe of wolf fur is pulled tightly over his head creating a warm tunnel between the outside world and his face. He has two pairs of socks under his Kodiak boots.

Months ago this rubber hose contained enough water pressure that it flung the nozzle out of his son’s hand, spraying everyone. There’s no fear of that tonight &#150 summer’s strong spray is now winter’s weak dribble.

That’s not altogether bad. His dad always told him not to hurry the perfect rink, no matter how cold it gets, so Frank moves methodically from one side to the other, slowly spreading a thin layer of water on the snow. It’s boring work that forces him to move in slow halting steps. Not much chance to move around and get some heat into his toes.

A friend told him one good thing about making an outdoor rink is that the beer is always cold. Nice notion, except tonight everything liquid is ice. The same friend went to a local hardware store to buy a rink in a bag. He’s inside a warm, comfortable house watching the Flames play the Oilers. Frank remains true to his dad’s old-fashioned method of rink-building. No plastic ice here, just water on snow, frozen snowbanks for boards, and boots for goal posts

What he’s accomplished so far doesn’t look like much. Every tiny mark in the snow is now encased in ice. There are rough, rigid edges everywhere. He doesn’t remember his childhood rink ever looking like this. Not even his enthusiastic hockey-playing daughters would be able to handle this ice.

His right hand, which is wrapped around the nozzle, is almost motionless with the cold. He tries to move the hose over to his other hand and sees his mitt is encased in ice, locking it in place. He remembers the nozzle leaks, not a good thing in freezing temperatures.

Wearing skin tight gloves under his mitts to defeat the cold isn’t working. He takes his fingers out of the end of the mitt and slowly folds them into a ball for a moment, then moves them up and down. The mitt remains on his hand. The hose stays frozen in place and Frank continues to flood the rink.

He completes a pass and then lugs the hose back to the beginning and starts over. This time he can see encouraging results. The extra water runs into the crevasses and the harsh edges are slowly rounded off. Parts of the ice are smooth enough for the girls to begin skating in the morning. It’ll be rough, but their skate blades will help flatten the rough sections.

Frank finishes this thicker layer and calls it a night. He drags the hose into the garage and uses a hammer to break the ice that held his mitt in place. By morning the hose will have at least partially thawed. A few hours on the hot air vent will bring his mitt back to life.

He stumbles into the house and strips off his outer layer of clothes and drops them on the floor of the laundry room. He props his pants in the corner -- they stand straight as if he’s still wearing them. It reminds him of his parents’ workpants hanging stiff on the clothesline in the middle of winter.

Frank feels as rigid as those clothes; he’s numb with cold. He staggers into the living room and turns on the TV. He finds the remote on the floor and searches for the hockey game, but first discovers one of those stations that provide all weather all day long. The perky presenter, who looks like she’s just out of journalism school from the nearby community college, is talking about his region.

“You’ll all be happy to know this deep freeze is about to end,” she says brightly. “We’re looking at a daytime high of five degrees later in the week. So hold on and we’ll soon be back to some great winter weather.”

Frank gets off the couch and shuffles to the kitchen, opens the fridge and reaches for a beer. He twists off the cap and takes a swig. He puts the bottle on the counter and slowly returns to the laundry room where he picks up the clothes he just threw on the floor and whips them into the dryer.

The “great winter weather” will make it impossible for his kids to enjoy his outdoor masterpiece for long, so he’d better get as much done tonight as he can. He has memories to keep alive — and to pass on.

  [Email Ken here]

Growing up in Saskatoon and going to the local outdoor rink in the late '60s will always be in my mind.

Now a father of two girls and living in Pitt Meadows, B.C., this last winter cold snap in January got the better of me. I promptly took the hose out and began to create an outdoor rink for my girls to skate and play hockey on; as my wonderful wife looked on she thought I was from another planet ... there I was, standing on my home-made ice rink wearing my rubber boots, long johns and jacket with mitts at three in the morning!

Satisfied with the frozen ice results, I went to bed. When I awoke, I went outside only to find slush with a typical B.C. rainfall. Needless to say, we were very disappointed, so we gathered our skates and went to the local indoor rink for a fun afternoon.

Maybe some time in the future I'll take my family back to the frozen land of winter to experience the wonders of an outdoor rink with the cold prairie wind blowing in one's face and the sound of the skate blades cutting the rough ice on the slough. Only then will the real feeling of an out door rink last in our memories for years to come.

J. & C. McLaren
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When I was growing up I never had a decent backyard rink. Me and my father would make one every now and then but it would never last, it was too cold, so if you tried to stop the ice would crack. But we always had the pond, or as we called it, the frog pond, because we would catch frogs there in the summer.

It was great, playing hockey with my friends, my dad, and my cousins. Sometimes now me and my friends will hop on our ski-doos and go to a place known as the parie.

To the people of Stephenville Crossing, this is a place where my dad and his brothers and friends would play. Today I'm a teenager but I'm still in love with the sport of hockey.
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I really enjoyed your story, It was great. We also have a backyard rink that is awesome. It is a lot of work getting it started, but once the base is done, it is just a quick flood at night. The work is sure worth it when you see how much the kids enjoy the rink and how their skating improves. The old traditional Canadian backyard rink: kids are outside and getting excercise and having a blast. All the work pays off in the end. Anyhow, great story

Julianne Tym
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