the deficit exchange club. In future, Magda would have Snow order them for her by the carton.
“Quick! What was the last thing you were thinking about after you sneezed?” Magda demanded.
“What?”
“Before you sneezed. What were you thinking about?
“Why?”
“It is a sign from your guardian angel. At the moment you sneeze, you have to pay attention to what you were thinking about. Do it, and the thought will come true.”
“Really? I was thinking you were just about to leave. Now, make it come true.”
Snow had lied. What he had been thinking was that he didn’t mind having Magda here to talk to at all.
Some people learn from books, some listen to their mothers and some are just fucking born geniuses (genii?). Some learn from their mistakes. Snow fell into none of the above categories. He had to leave the ranch before he learned there was more to life than heifers, mosquitoes, country music and fried bologna.
Or hockey.
Ask any American and they can tell you exactly where they were on November 22, 1963 at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time. That, of course, is when President Kennedy was assassinated. For Canadians, the equivalent day is September 28, 1972, the day the Canadian hockey dream almost died. Far more than Confederation in 1867, the defining date of when Canada came together as a country is 1972.
That Canada, the birthplace of hockey, was the best in the world at the game was taken as a given not only on the ranch but throughout the country, despite the fact that the Soviet Union had won the last nine World Hockey Championships. There was always the excuse that Canada couldn’t use its best players because they were professionals and not eligible for international competition. Then, in 1972, at the height of the Cold War, the two countries agreed to play an eight-game series to decide who was the best once and for all. The Soviets were not expected to give the Canadians any kind of challenge; Canada expected to win eight games to zero. And yet, after five games, the Canadian record was 1-3-1, with only three games left, all on Soviet ice. The Canadians would have to sweep the next three games to win the series, something that now seemed impossible. But that’s exactly what they did.
Any Canadian who is old enough can tell you exactly what he or she was doing on that date when Paul Henderson scored the winning 6-5 goal at 19:26 of the final period of the eighth game, just thirty four seconds from defeat. In retrospect, the win seemed divine. Henderson wasn’t even supposed to be on the ice. Never more than a journeyman player, once again sitting on the bench as a reserve, he suddenly stood up and, without the coach’s permission, waved star forward Peter Mahovlich off the ice. Later, he would explain that he just somehow knew that he was supposed to score the winning goal. Sitting in his basement thirty miles from Buffalo Jump, the young Snow was so excited he jumped up off the chesterfield and punched a hole in the ceiling with his raised fist. His father would make him pay for and repair the damage himself. Snow didn’t care. He spent the rest of the day racing around the rumpus room with a yardstick and a marble pretending he was Henderson with a stick and puck. Snow had found his game, something to replace his mother. Some thing to live for until some one came along.
Once, on the ranch, in the middle of the night, it rained. The next day, Snow skipped his chores for a game of pick-up hockey on the slough with the Hutterite neighbours. Halfway through the game the puck skipped over the snow piled around the edges to simulate boards onto a nearby stream. The other kids joined him and they took the game from the rink to the open fields. They skated for miles, following the game where it took them, no longer
“Quick! What was the last thing you were thinking about after you sneezed?” Magda demanded.
“What?”
“Before you sneezed. What were you thinking about?
“Why?”
“It is a sign from your guardian angel. At the moment you sneeze, you have to pay attention to what you were thinking about. Do it, and the thought will come true.”
“Really? I was thinking you were just about to leave. Now, make it come true.”
Snow had lied. What he had been thinking was that he didn’t mind having Magda here to talk to at all.
Some people learn from books, some listen to their mothers and some are just fucking born geniuses (genii?). Some learn from their mistakes. Snow fell into none of the above categories. He had to leave the ranch before he learned there was more to life than heifers, mosquitoes, country music and fried bologna.
Or hockey.
Ask any American and they can tell you exactly where they were on November 22, 1963 at 12:30 p.m. Central Standard Time. That, of course, is when President Kennedy was assassinated. For Canadians, the equivalent day is September 28, 1972, the day the Canadian hockey dream almost died. Far more than Confederation in 1867, the defining date of when Canada came together as a country is 1972.
That Canada, the birthplace of hockey, was the best in the world at the game was taken as a given not only on the ranch but throughout the country, despite the fact that the Soviet Union had won the last nine World Hockey Championships. There was always the excuse that Canada couldn’t use its best players because they were professionals and not eligible for international competition. Then, in 1972, at the height of the Cold War, the two countries agreed to play an eight-game series to decide who was the best once and for all. The Soviets were not expected to give the Canadians any kind of challenge; Canada expected to win eight games to zero. And yet, after five games, the Canadian record was 1-3-1, with only three games left, all on Soviet ice. The Canadians would have to sweep the next three games to win the series, something that now seemed impossible. But that’s exactly what they did.
Any Canadian who is old enough can tell you exactly what he or she was doing on that date when Paul Henderson scored the winning 6-5 goal at 19:26 of the final period of the eighth game, just thirty four seconds from defeat. In retrospect, the win seemed divine. Henderson wasn’t even supposed to be on the ice. Never more than a journeyman player, once again sitting on the bench as a reserve, he suddenly stood up and, without the coach’s permission, waved star forward Peter Mahovlich off the ice. Later, he would explain that he just somehow knew that he was supposed to score the winning goal. Sitting in his basement thirty miles from Buffalo Jump, the young Snow was so excited he jumped up off the chesterfield and punched a hole in the ceiling with his raised fist. His father would make him pay for and repair the damage himself. Snow didn’t care. He spent the rest of the day racing around the rumpus room with a yardstick and a marble pretending he was Henderson with a stick and puck. Snow had found his game, something to replace his mother. Some thing to live for until some one came along.
Once, on the ranch, in the middle of the night, it rained. The next day, Snow skipped his chores for a game of pick-up hockey on the slough with the Hutterite neighbours. Halfway through the game the puck skipped over the snow piled around the edges to simulate boards onto a nearby stream. The other kids joined him and they took the game from the rink to the open fields. They skated for miles, following the game where it took them, no longer
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