Kraken at Oilers, G70 2024-25

By the time spring rolled around 17 miles north of Maidstone, the isolation of winter in Saskatchewan gave way to more socialization. In mid-winter, interaction might be limited to buying the inexpensive hockey magazines at the Allan Store (they used to rip the top of the cover off “Hockey World” and then sell it for like 10 cents. I don’t know why, the 1970’s were weird) and maybe saying hello to a neighbour who happened to be at the store for canned goods, nails, etc.

My personal favourite purchase was “Smith Brothers cough drops” with the wild cherry borderline intoxicating. My Mom picked up on my ‘cough drops as candy’ usage early on, so I would have to fake a sore throat at times when she raised an eyebrow.

As soon as I could each spring, I’d ride my bike two miles to the Allan Store, and do the shopping solo. When you’re 10, walking into a store with money—maybe a dollar or two, no more—without parental hovering was quite the deal. I loved the chocolate bars (oh how I miss Bar Six), Salt and Vinegar potato chips and Coca-Cola. I especially loved not hearing about ruining my appetite or the ritual worrying verbal about what youth of today wasted their money on. Again: 1970’s were weird.

The Allan brothers were nice fellows with bizarre senses of humor, I imagine these years later they must have been bored most days. I liked them fine, I think I was the only one who bought “Hockey World” with the top half of the cover ripped off and they were nice to me. I discovered girls there, they had bikes too and smelled good.

Saturdays 17 miles north of Maidstone meant some work (shoveling coal, or carrying wood, Dad was the only one who could use the axe) and plenty of play. We had goats, on account of my brother not being able to drink cow’s milk. Goats are funny animals, they are sweet, unpredictable, smell bad (not as bad as penguins, mind) and could be stubborn. We had a billy goat named Billy (we were not the world’s most creative family) and he just stunk to high heavens. Imagine walking garbage.

One time, Dad tethered Billy in the yard where he could graze in a fresh area (because he ate all the grass in the usual area).

The new tether allowed Billy access to things like parked cars and the clothes line. That was the beginning of Billy and Mom’s terrific battles. Mom won, but Billy ruined sheets and shirts and all kinds of things. He also famously reared up and rammed Mom right in the ass as she bent over to grab more laundry to hang on the line. I saw it, laughed and then ran over to see if Mom was okay. She wasn’t okay. She was pissed! Billy had a smile-sneer on his face, kind of like Glen Sather, but it didn’t turn out well. Dad sold the goat not long after, he was sad to do it but Mom said.

Saturdays for me remain Hockey Night at My House. I won’t ride my bike to the Allan Store today, I won’t pretend to have a sore throat in order to have a couple of Smith Brothers, no salt and vinegar, no Coca-Cole, no bar six and no billy goats.

Those days are gone, they are just beautiful, innocent memories for an old man who reminisces more than most, I imagine.

You might say 17 miles north of Maidstone was a lonely place to grow up, but you’d be wrong. I was alone many days, too much probably, but it gave me a great imagination, an appreciation of dawn, dusk and the midnight sky. I saw the northern lights dancing, I discovered girls, I invested in magazines with covers that featured Jean Ratelle from the hips down. I wouldn’t change a thing.

It’s Hockey Night in Canada. In a lifetime few things last forever. Hockey on Saturday is one.