By Kevin S. Giles
I reflect often on the majesty of snow and ice as seen through the eyes of a Montana boy.
Winter, you lost friend.
Sliding and skating captivated me mostly in my preteen years. I’m much older now and inclined toward frequent bouts of sentimentality. Barreling down a hill on metal runners holds no charm for me nowadays. Not that I care to further experience what’s done. Ice gives me shivers since I slipped and broke my shoulder a few years ago. The wonder of ice still astounds me, but only ice on a rink. Caution comes with age.
But it’s the memory, isn’t it? Even in summer, when the grass grows tall, I think of these things. Advancing age brings desire to revisit simple pleasures, if only in the mind.
hometown pride
I remember well the big ice rink in my hometown of Deer Lodge. It is long gone now, plowed under the foundation of the Granville Stuart Elementary School.
But I remember.
Each winter the fire department came to open a hydrant to pour water over the land. A portion of it, before my time, was the city’s baseball field. A ramshackle green wooden backstop remained, as did a rough outline of a base path, but summer recreation long ago had moved to the Jaycee Park fields at the north end of town. The old field stood empty most days.
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My novel ‘Summer of the Black Chevy’ grew from memories of my hometown. The novel also takes place there, in Deer Lodge, Montana.
But when that hydrant opened in December, as water flooded the frozen ground, my anticipation grew. Men came with truckloads of lumber scraps from the sawmill. Bonfires at night shone bright.
collision on the ice
When the city opened the rink, I laced on my skates at home, strapped on plastic blade guards, and tiptoed one city block to the gleaming sheet of ice. Night and day. I spent hours there. Faster and faster I went. Injuries included bruises from falls and, late one night, a regrettable head-on collision on a dark portion of the rink. Two high school senior girls at the bonfire inspected my torn bottom lip. One of the girls, notably, rated among the prettiest in town. I felt her warm breath on my cheek when she looked close.
The sliding hill, two blocks away from the house in the other direction off Montana Avenue, won’t impress a grown man. It looks short and leisurely.
To a boy, it was magic. I spent many winter days pulling my sled down the rutted unplowed streets to that hill. I pulled on rubber boots over my shoes, added a stocking cap and gloves, and zipped my coat to my chin. When snow invaded my sleeves and cuffs, I didn’t care. When it melted into my socks, I didn’t care. When the cold wind stung my nostrils, I hunched over the sled for another ride.
Some winter days I went to both the rink and the hill.
Something about those years sticks with me. I think an awakening occurs in that bridge of life between being a little kid and a big kid. The theme of innocence of youth fascinates me. So does its close cousin, coming of age.
summer of the black chevy
That’s why I wrote Summer of the Black Chevy. Many of my closest childhood memories occurred in the College Avenue house that was the launching point for my forays to the rink and the hill. My “bridge of life” occurred at that stucco home on the corner under three towering willow trees.
Age diminishes our thrilling preoccupations with sleds and skates. In high school we think more of wheels and sports. For me, the window for winter indulgence of the youthful variety came and went in probably three years.
Finally, the new school buried the big rink.
Those of us accustomed to definable seasons often relate to experiences in our youth. We embrace our memories in shades of white, gray, green and brown. Summer brought one thing, autumn another. Spring became a welcome relief to winter, but only because we had exhausted what winter brought us.
time changes us
The old hometown looks muted now, stripped of cottonwoods that once graced many city streets, neighborhoods showing scars that passing time inflicts.
But I’m reminded that nothing looks the same as the years advance. Now I think of warmth and water of the sea variety. I think of mild seasons unencumbered by a closet full of heavy clothes. Winter, you old friend, I keep you in my heart but our intimacy has faded.
I search for new best memories.
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Western Montana native Kevin S. Giles wrote the popular prison nonfiction work Jerry’s Riot, the coming-of-age novel Summer of the Black Chevy, and a biography of Montana congresswoman Jeannette Rankin, One Woman Against War, which is an expanded version of his earlier work, “Flight of the Dove.” His new novel, Headline: FIRE! is the third in the Red Maguire series. Masks, Mayhem and Murder is the second. The first is “Mystery of the Purple Roses.” More information is available at https://kevinsgiles.com.