The years one attends Elementary school are so formative, it's hard to imagine one thing being more important than another. Mr. Legg teaching us that games really do matter, and that they can teach important life lessons? Mr. Phillips teaching me that symbols have a meaning and a life beyond my world? That sometimes the differences between Boys and Girls really are written in stone? Those are the years one becomes what one becomes.

One thing I always remember whenever I think about Blythwood is the ice rinks. Recess was always an ice-game paradise of sliding tag, crack-the-whip, and "Steal The Toque." Saturday mornings we'd be out there at the crack of dawn, skating on ice so clean and hard you could hear it crack under your blades. By afternoon we'd be loosing the puck in the snow we'd all created. Elliott Forer and I would skate all day, and my feet would be so frozen by dark it's amazing I never lost any toes to frostbite. For hours, that crazy Border Collie Bonnie would just keep running up and down beside the boards, up and down, up and down, perpetually chasing hockey playing sheep. At night, when it was time to finally take off our skates and head home, we'd occasionally be allowed into the little green hut to share a little warmth from the gruffy ice maker's stove. He always had a big metal coffee cup going, which I now know was what we might call "sweetened." My guess is that in his case it would probably have been Serbian Plum Brandy. Gruff as he was, he had a soft spot for frozen kids, and he made great ice, out there alone at night under the lights, using his ice-coated thumb to get just the right kind of spray. A labour of pride.

I learned so many key life lessons on that ice that have since stood the test of time. To try and list them would take more time than any of us have right now, but how about just this one: "It's more important to pass the puck than score." Whad'Ya'Think?

Lastly, for now, when I saw Fred Rapson's name on the Alumni Memories list I immediately thought "baskets." Sure enough, that's what Fred remembers. Nobody collected baskets like the Rapsons. Huge wooden mountains of the things, four to a square, piled high in the Rapson's spot on the boys side of the kindergarten windows. For some reason, I've never forgotten that.

Depending on how events unfold, I am hoping to attend the reunion on May 4th, and maybe I can drag a few pals with me. C'mon Peter, let's go!

Maybe Hairy Legg will be there. I'll bring the cards.

Bye for now.