Hi, Diary.
It's cold, as usual, in this first month of 1951, and I've been too busy or too tired to write in you. Or maybe I'm too lazy.
So, here I am. And here you are. I didn't go ice skating tonight. Too much homework. Sixth grade kids shouldn't have so much homework. At least, that's what I told our teacher. So, she really piled it on, and all the other kids in my class moaned and groaned. "Mister Put-foot-in-my-Mouth Hoffman," that's me.
When we don't have a ton of homework, Louie Abler and I agree on our way home after school that we'll go ice skating after we finish our suppers.
When I promise to be home by 8:30, Mother always asks, "Have you finished your homework?"
"I'm done with it," I tell her.
"Let's see," she says.
So, I show her.
"I don't think so," she says.
"You don't think so—what?"
"That you should go ice skating on a school night."
"All the kids skate on school nights. Please, Mother, pretty please?" I keep pleading, or if I'm honest, I keep whining, hoping I might wear Mother down. I can't ask Dad's because he's been stopping again at the Elks Club after he finishes with his house calls.
Around quarter to six, Louie comes over to our house because it's on the way to the ice pond. That's what everybody calls it, but it's not a pond. Every winter, city workers spray water on a flat field out of canvas-covered hoses that look like they should be in the back of a fire truck.
The pond is next to Witter Field, the Lincoln High School athletic field, where the Rapids Red Raiders football team plays home games.
So, Louie knocks on the front door. Even if Mother hasn't given me permission to go skating, Louie grins and says, "Hi, Mrs. Hoffman. It's a great night for ice skating, doan cha' think?" Louie and I wink at each other.
"Hi, Louie, how are your parents?"
"Oh, they're both fine," he says, winking again. I wink back. "Can Gordy go ice skating?"
Mother turns to me and gives me the evil eye, figuring I had planned this, which I did, but less than a minute later, Louie and I are heading for the wintry delights of our city ice pond.
During warm weather months, Coach Phil Manders and his assistant, Robert Torresani, hold physical education classes where the ice pond is located. They don't dare hold classes on the football field.
If you really want to find the pond easily, it's across the street from the 8th Street A&W root beer stand and two hops and a jump on Lincoln High School's east side. About a block and a half.
We usually walk by the front of the Pontiac garage where Bill Rokus's dad works. If Mr. Rokus is there, which he usually is, he asks, "Think Doc will buy a Pontiac this year?"
Each time, I shake my head, "I don't think so, Mister Rokus. Dad's an Oldsmobile man." Which he is.
"There isn't that much difference between a Pontiac and an Oldsmobile."
"Dad says there is."
"Well, he's the boss, isn't he?" Mr. Rokus smiles and waves goodbye as he locks the dealership's glass and steel entrance door.
"He never asks me if my dad wants to buy a Pontiac," said Louie. "Wonder why?"
"Look, there goes one," I shout.
"One what?"
"See? A new Pontiac. It's got that orange Indian head hood ornament that glows in the dark."
"Neat," we say together, take off our gloves, and lock little fingers together. We do that every time we say the same word at the same time.
By now, we're in front of the "Warming House" with the same color exterior as the high school. Louie opens the door. I follow. So, it's my job to close the heavy steel door. I never can close it fast enough because kids inside start yelling, "It's cold in here. Close that door, will ya?"
One high school kid's eyes are on fire. "What's wrong with you, shit hawk? Can't ya' hear?"
"Shit Hawk," I blurt out. "What's a shit hawk?" Louie and I start giggling.
"Shit hawk," repeats Louie. We giggle some more.
"You, you're the shit hawk," bellows the high school kid with kettle drum voice, zeroing in on me. "Next time, close that door, you hear?"
"Yes, sir." I salute.
"Smart ass," he returns.
Long and low wooden benches line three inner walls. Names and initials and dirty pictures and cuss words are scrawled in their tops. Louie and I find an empty spot and sit. We hear skating music blare on outside loudspeakers anchored to the building's roof as we whisper and giggle, loosening leather laces of our high tops.
"Shit hawk." We giggle some more.
Our right-foot boots have small pockets with snaps. That's where we store our jackknives. You never know when you need a jackknife, the tool that fits the bill for just about any problem a kid encounters. We shove knives in our pants pockets. Kids won't steal boots, but they will snip jackknives. The floor is covered with layers of thick canvas so skate blades aren't dulled by the concrete underneath.
We pull on thick, wool socks and then shove our feet into the skates. I have a pair of brown-toe and black-body hockey skates, hand-me-downs from Doc III. Louie has a pair of all-black figure skates his older brothers wore. His skates look like new, not dumpy and all scratched up like my skates.
When we have them on and tied tight, we stuff our high tops under the benches, stand, and shake a little bit because we're not used to walking on blades. We button up our coats and put on gloves. Finally, we make our way to the rear exit door that leads to the ice. "Close that door and quick, shit hawk," oompahs the high school kid, his voice now a tuba.
Louie and I laugh like mad, that is, after we shut the door. Johann Strauss's "Blue Danube" waltz starts playing as we make our way to the pond's edge and stand there, watching a few older people but mostly kids, older and younger than we, skate every which way, some holding hands, most skating alone, some fast, others slow, some forward, others in reverse. A pretty girl in the center of the crowd wears white figure skates and makes neat circles. Most skaters smile. A few wear intense looks, their legs jiggling like wobbly wheels I witnessed the last time I was in Chicago. They were on a bearded junk collector's buggy pulled by a sway-backed nag, wearing a Panama hat.
It's cold, as usual, in this first month of 1951, and I've been too busy or too tired to write in you. Or maybe I'm too lazy.
So, here I am. And here you are. I didn't go ice skating tonight. Too much homework. Sixth grade kids shouldn't have so much homework. At least, that's what I told our teacher. So, she really piled it on, and all the other kids in my class moaned and groaned. "Mister Put-foot-in-my-Mouth Hoffman," that's me.
When we don't have a ton of homework, Louie Abler and I agree on our way home after school that we'll go ice skating after we finish our suppers.
When I promise to be home by 8:30, Mother always asks, "Have you finished your homework?"
"I'm done with it," I tell her.
"Let's see," she says.
So, I show her.
"I don't think so," she says.
"You don't think so—what?"
"That you should go ice skating on a school night."
"All the kids skate on school nights. Please, Mother, pretty please?" I keep pleading, or if I'm honest, I keep whining, hoping I might wear Mother down. I can't ask Dad's because he's been stopping again at the Elks Club after he finishes with his house calls.
Around quarter to six, Louie comes over to our house because it's on the way to the ice pond. That's what everybody calls it, but it's not a pond. Every winter, city workers spray water on a flat field out of canvas-covered hoses that look like they should be in the back of a fire truck.
The pond is next to Witter Field, the Lincoln High School athletic field, where the Rapids Red Raiders football team plays home games.
So, Louie knocks on the front door. Even if Mother hasn't given me permission to go skating, Louie grins and says, "Hi, Mrs. Hoffman. It's a great night for ice skating, doan cha' think?" Louie and I wink at each other.
"Hi, Louie, how are your parents?"
"Oh, they're both fine," he says, winking again. I wink back. "Can Gordy go ice skating?"
Mother turns to me and gives me the evil eye, figuring I had planned this, which I did, but less than a minute later, Louie and I are heading for the wintry delights of our city ice pond.
During warm weather months, Coach Phil Manders and his assistant, Robert Torresani, hold physical education classes where the ice pond is located. They don't dare hold classes on the football field.
If you really want to find the pond easily, it's across the street from the 8th Street A&W root beer stand and two hops and a jump on Lincoln High School's east side. About a block and a half.
We usually walk by the front of the Pontiac garage where Bill Rokus's dad works. If Mr. Rokus is there, which he usually is, he asks, "Think Doc will buy a Pontiac this year?"
Each time, I shake my head, "I don't think so, Mister Rokus. Dad's an Oldsmobile man." Which he is.
"There isn't that much difference between a Pontiac and an Oldsmobile."
"Dad says there is."
"Well, he's the boss, isn't he?" Mr. Rokus smiles and waves goodbye as he locks the dealership's glass and steel entrance door.
"He never asks me if my dad wants to buy a Pontiac," said Louie. "Wonder why?"
"Look, there goes one," I shout.
"One what?"
"See? A new Pontiac. It's got that orange Indian head hood ornament that glows in the dark."
"Neat," we say together, take off our gloves, and lock little fingers together. We do that every time we say the same word at the same time.
By now, we're in front of the "Warming House" with the same color exterior as the high school. Louie opens the door. I follow. So, it's my job to close the heavy steel door. I never can close it fast enough because kids inside start yelling, "It's cold in here. Close that door, will ya?"
One high school kid's eyes are on fire. "What's wrong with you, shit hawk? Can't ya' hear?"
"Shit Hawk," I blurt out. "What's a shit hawk?" Louie and I start giggling.
"Shit hawk," repeats Louie. We giggle some more.
"You, you're the shit hawk," bellows the high school kid with kettle drum voice, zeroing in on me. "Next time, close that door, you hear?"
"Yes, sir." I salute.
"Smart ass," he returns.
Long and low wooden benches line three inner walls. Names and initials and dirty pictures and cuss words are scrawled in their tops. Louie and I find an empty spot and sit. We hear skating music blare on outside loudspeakers anchored to the building's roof as we whisper and giggle, loosening leather laces of our high tops.
"Shit hawk." We giggle some more.
Our right-foot boots have small pockets with snaps. That's where we store our jackknives. You never know when you need a jackknife, the tool that fits the bill for just about any problem a kid encounters. We shove knives in our pants pockets. Kids won't steal boots, but they will snip jackknives. The floor is covered with layers of thick canvas so skate blades aren't dulled by the concrete underneath.
We pull on thick, wool socks and then shove our feet into the skates. I have a pair of brown-toe and black-body hockey skates, hand-me-downs from Doc III. Louie has a pair of all-black figure skates his older brothers wore. His skates look like new, not dumpy and all scratched up like my skates.
When we have them on and tied tight, we stuff our high tops under the benches, stand, and shake a little bit because we're not used to walking on blades. We button up our coats and put on gloves. Finally, we make our way to the rear exit door that leads to the ice. "Close that door and quick, shit hawk," oompahs the high school kid, his voice now a tuba.
Louie and I laugh like mad, that is, after we shut the door. Johann Strauss's "Blue Danube" waltz starts playing as we make our way to the pond's edge and stand there, watching a few older people but mostly kids, older and younger than we, skate every which way, some holding hands, most skating alone, some fast, others slow, some forward, others in reverse. A pretty girl in the center of the crowd wears white figure skates and makes neat circles. Most skaters smile. A few wear intense looks, their legs jiggling like wobbly wheels I witnessed the last time I was in Chicago. They were on a bearded junk collector's buggy pulled by a sway-backed nag, wearing a Panama hat.
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