Riding the Coaching Rollercoaster

I spend most of the winter (and a significant portion of my summer) in a hockey rink. It has been this way since I was seven years old and I would not trade it for anything. As I noted in The Game I Love, hockey is a huge part of who I am. For the past several years, I have not walked into the arena sporting only a bag slung over my shoulder and a stick in the other hand.

As a coach, I walk in with both hands full. Depending on the day and my reason for being there, I might carry a bag of pucks, my hockey stick, a mug of coffee, my coaching bag (skates, gloves, helmet), a black binder full of things I think I need but usually don't get to, a dry-erase marker, a white board, lost and found items from the last game or practice, fundraising forms and money, to name a few things.

The gear I bring to the rink has changed, but my reason for being there really has not. I love hockey. I don't come to the rink to win championships, pad my ego or live vicariously through my kids. I hope that every player I coach wants to play hockey for the rest of their life. I hope my players learn something about themselves. I hope they improve their skills and at the end of the season, I hope they miss our team because every team should be something special.

It takes courage to coach a team. Ultimately, a team's success reflects directly on its coach. I love the tongue in cheek adage "I coached great. The team played lousy!" However, it rarely plays out this way. Good coaches are willing to take all of the blame and deflect all of the praise. When things go poorly for a team, people want answers. I firmly believe that no one begins a game hoping to lose. Some days, the team is not good enough. Other days, the puck simply does not bounce the way it should. Occasionally, your team can do no wrong. The outcome of most games has little to do with what a coach puts into the game. As a season progresses, however, the success of the team has to reflect upon the coach. Even though a team's success (or lack therof) might have nothing to do with coaching, the coach ultimately faces questions, second guesses and criticism.

I am a teacher and I believe in teaching the game to my players. Basic skills take precedence over team tactics. I have coached every level from initiation to college and I can guarantee that any team capable of executing basic skills (skating, passing, shooting) at a high level of speed and accuracy will do well against any opponent. I know that there is usually an implementation dip or delayed reward, which means that most of my teams take a while to excel. For me, it's a worthwhile tradeoff because developing basic skills benefits all players.

Most of what I have addressed so far has to do with the science of coaching. I really believe that it is important for coaches to be able to pass on the correct techniques and skills to their players. That said, there is a definite art to coaching that cannot be overlooked. When I think of the best coaches I had in minor hockey, the thing that stands out is their ability to say the right thing at the right time.
Not only did they know how to make individual players feel good, they knew what to say to the team to motivate them. The lessons I learned from men like my dad, Rusty Climie and Gary Williams stick with me to this day. These men always mixed positive reinforcement with correction. Today, my approach to individual players and the entire team is always guided by these amazing role models. I was fortunate to have the best coaching of my hockey career when I was in Pee Wee and Bantam. The lessons I learned from those coaches have remained with me, not just in hockey, but in life.

The rewards of coaching are immense. When I hear young players call "Hi, Coach Ted" several years after I was their coach, it truly fills my heart. My basement is full of pictures, hockey sticks and cards signed by the teams I have coached. I have coached a few very successful teams and a few that could not find the formula for success. Regardless of a team's record, I look back on the memories from each season with great pleasure.

As much as I remember the great things, the not-so-great things stick with me, too. Coaching stays with a person. It can keep you up at night, distract you from your work and affect your personal life. At the worst of times, coaching makes selfless people question themselves. There is a downside that can be unsettling and heartbreaking.

The hockey season is drawing to a close, and I think it is really important to reach out to anyone who  gives their free time to coaching a team. I have been incredibly fortunate in Red Deer Minor Hockey to have amazing assistant coaches and managers. My opposing coaches have, with very few exceptions, been tremendous colleagues. If you have not already done so, take a moment to personally thank your team's coaches. They willingly get on a roller coaster three or four days a week and ask for nothing in return.

What Makes a Great School Great?

I work in a great school. I've mentioned this in many of my previous posts, including Come Together

It's a stretch to even say that it seems like work. There are definitely times when it is tough to get going in the morning and I certainly enjoy the holidays we are blessed to receive. I've worked in several different schools and I say with absolutely certainty that Grandview is great.

It's worth examining and I hope I can do it justice. What happens in our building really is special.

At the heart of a great school are great people. In my mind, education is about allowing children to see who they are and what they could be. Every decision that is made in a school must be made with its students' best interests in mind. Our school motto is "Parents, Students, Staff - Now That's Teamwork". I didn't make it up, but I like it because we really do live it. There will always be people who don't quite fit in, parents who mistrust the system, students who have trouble accepting the culture of how things are done, staff who do not commit themselves to the hard work it takes.

Overall, things work very nicely in our building. We have great kids. The vast majority of them have bought in to what we do. Work hard and play hard. Treat others with respect. Have fun! We don't have a long list of rules, but some things are not negotiable. As the vice principal of the school, I sometimes have to point out to children that it's not OK to play fight. Usually, they believe me and their behavior gets adjusted accordingly. If they don't "get it" the first time, then I need to spend time with them at recess. We watch the other kids, we walk, we talk and usually, they realize that play fighting is not what we do. There have been a few students who either don't get it or tell me they plain don't like that rule and those kids get to be my executive assistants. They get to do jobs inside, help with recycling, or work in my office. These kids are the exception because overall, the students who walk our halls understand their part in making Grandview a great place.

We also have amazing adults in our building. Starting with our indefatigable and overwhelmingly positive principal, Grandview is full of master teachers who care deeply about their students. Our staff is flexible and innovative. They openly embrace guest clinicians, performers and speakers. They seek out new field trips and technology to make learning come alive. These teachers understand that it's not possible to do a great job by arriving at 8:30 and leaving at 3:05 every day. Even better, they know how to work together. When they are given time to collaborate, it's all business and the business is making sure every child in our building gets the best opportunities possible.

The support staff does exactly that. They support the kids and the teachers. They do an amazing range of things and it all helps the kids in our building. Individual assistance, working with groups, tending to cuts, contacting parents, helping students with special needs participate in every activity, preparing materials and learning environments. These ladies do WAY MORE work than they need to and they do it because they enjoy it.

Much of what happens is a result of the prevailing culture in our building. In general, if people don't "get it", they leave sooner or later. I've been at Grandview for five years and we have some turnover each year. The core staff who drive the culture here have also been here for at least that long. It really is an amazing thing to be a part of.

You'll note that there is nothing in this post about achievement. We don't need an outside test or survey to tell us we are doing things right, though we do very well on those externally imposed and contrived "measures". There is nothing in this post about being a "Renaissance School" or a "Seven Habits" school. We don't need to attach any stickers or gloss on what we do. We are not a "Program of Choice" with a focus on arts/technology/languages/science etc. We have never attached the label of a "Professional Learning Community" to what we do, but if you understand what a PLC is supposed to be, you'll see that the definition applies very nicely.

We don't need labels, programs, high test scores and positive survey results. The people who spend their days in our school know it is a great place. You FEEL it the moment you walk in the building and to my knowledge, there is no way to measure a feeling like that.

This is real. This is your life. In a song.

I need to get something out in the open. Country music makes me cry like a baby. I can't help it and I'm pretty sure I know why.

You need to understand that I love all kinds of music. I don't love them equally, but I can honestly say I have a very open mind when it comes to the things I listen to. Rock, alternative, country, folk, ska, reggae, big band, easy listening, classical, Broadway, jazz, blues, hip-hop, metal, you name it, I can probably listen to it. My iPod play list goes from The Animals to The Emeralds to Eminem to The Mighty Mighty Bosstones to Neil Young to Zac Brown, with lots of stops between. While my late father-in-law liked music that had a good beat, I'm a lyric guy. I am tone-deaf and have only recently gained the ability to read music. I have no talent or rhythm, but I definitely understand how to put words together.

The lyrics don't need to be particularly meaningful or evocative, I just love the way artists assemble words. My favorite band of all time is The Tragically Hip and I honestly believe part of the reason they have not experienced worldwide success is the Canadiana that is infused in their lyrics. One of my favorite Hip tunes starts with a reference to the Group of 7 painter Tom Thompson and that line evokes Thompson's paintings, a canoe and images of a place that is on my bucket list (Alongquin Park).

The lyrics of a song don't need to be particularly profound to elicit a powerful response. The Counting Crows' debut album has a track called "Time and Time Again." It was never a hit, in fact, I'm not sure I have ever heard it played on the radio. The opening lyrics, though, send shivers down my spine.

I wanted so badly/
Somebody other than me/
Staring back at me/
But you were gone. 
Gone. 
Gone.

I listened to this song repeatedly as I drove to and from a good friend's funeral. It framed the entrance and exit to a monologue I wrote and performed to deal with how profoundly Jeff's passing changed my life. Even today as I write and listen, my eyes fill up and I'm transported to my old SUV
(The Millennium Falcon).

Aside from a few tunes that Gordon Downie would refer to as "weepy little things", most of the music I listened to in my teenage years did not reduce me to a puddle. I liked big, brash, fun music and particularly liked tunes with interesting lyrics. When I met my wife, things changed in a few ways. I started listening to country music.  We bought a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. It was all downhill from there.

After a big all night party at a teammate's house, we were killing time and watching CMT. Now, I'll admit that I was a bit fuzzy and compromised to begin with, but when my buddy Hammy said "This is the saddest song ever", I was a bit interested. The band was called Pirates of the Mississippi and the song is called Feed Jake. It's written from the point of view of a 20something guy who drives home to attend a childhood friend's funeral. In spite of cheeseball lyrics like "What we are and what we ain't/What we can and what we cain't", the video had me fighting back tears.

My next weak moment came on a Friday night when I was in university. My best friend Jeremy came to pick me up and we were having our usual warm up drinks before heading out for the night. The CMT Top 20 countdown was on and a new video by Travis Tritt came on. We were transfixed to the television, sipping a Lucky Lager. The video tells the story of a paraplegic war veteran named Mac Singleton who struggles to readjust to society with the help of his wife Annie and a fellow veteran named Al. By the end of the video, we simultaneously glanced at one another and realized that we both had the waterworks turned on. It was a true "I Love You Man" moment.

More than anything, though, fatherhood has rendered me completely useless in the face of songs about families, dogs, and being a daddy. Even when the songs are meant to be funny or tongue--in-cheek like Lonestar's Mr. Mom, they can make me weep uncontrollably because they remind me of a long-lost time when my kids were still babies. Nothing evokes a greater response in me than my family. Last year, I wrote a post (My Most Important Job) that explains how being a dad is more important than anything else in my life. Songs like Gord Bamford's Little Guy and High Valley's A Father's Love hit on themes that are the heart of how I see myself. I joke with my wife that these sorts of songs are inherently "unfair".

Even when the song does not directly connect to my life, if it tells a story and has a video that expands the story, I will watch it over and over again. Songs like Here Comes Goodbye and Colder Weather tell stories about relationships and loss. Jason Aldean's Amarillo Sky shares the story of proud farm families, Brad Paisley's Whiskey Lullaby tells the tale of lost love and alcoholism. These are not the stories of my life, but they make connections to my experiences and the people I love the most.

I suppose that the stereotype about country music is somewhat true. There are plenty of lost jobs, dead dogs and broken relationships in the music I listen to. On the other hand, though, being a parent and a husband is precisely "what I do". It's a good place to be and I'm glad that the musicians I admire and enjoy are providing the soundtrack.

The Millennium Falcon

I imagine that most of my readers remember the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars. In the Star Wars films of my youth, Han Solo piloted an old ship that (almost) always came through tough situations. It didn't look like much, but it was Han's pride and joy. I am proud to say that I also owned a Millennium Falcon. Both of them carried beautiful women, hairy creatures and precious cargo. Both were driven by rugged dudes with sketchy backgrounds and plenty of scars. Both of them took part in plenty of amazing stories..

The main difference is that my Falcon was an SUV. A decked-out 1993 Nissan Pathfinder SE. In true early 90s fashion, it was teal green. It had custom-moulded running boards and a tint package that I paid way too much money for. Like many young professionals, as soon as I signed a continuing contract, the first thing I bought was a new set of wheels. All of my roommates at the time had taken the plunge. The truck I started my teaching career with was a gift from my parents, a nice little Ford Ranger with jump seats and a cool box cover. I really liked that truck, but it was 2 wheel drive. During my first year of teaching, we went on a New Year's ski trip to Whitefish and I couldn't push my little Ranger up the hill to catch our last day of skiing. I swore that day I would buy a 4 wheel drive vehicle (and I've owned one ever since.)

I clearly remember the June day I picked up the Falcon. We were into our middle school exam week, so we were going out for lunch. I picked up my new wheels, then sped back to the school to pick up "the boys". On the way, it sputtered and spat. Like Han Solo's Falcon, my truck couldn't reach the speed limit, let alone light speed. It was probably a vapour lock of some sort and it NEVER happened again. Nonetheless, I could see obvious doubt in the faces of my colleagues. I'm sure they believed that dumb old Ted got taken to the cleaners on his Japanese P.O.S.

From that day on, though, my truck never let me down. Ice fishing, off roading, long journeys on the highway, scooting around town, pulling trailers, trips to the dump. None of it fazed the Falcon. I went through several sets of tires, a transmission,a few fender-benders and my fair share of repairs. For the most part, though, I tried very hard to keep it running smoothly. Mechanically, it was a dream. Right to the end, it started happily in the winter and hummed like a top. It was a very sure-footed and well-balanced offroad vehicle, too. I never got it stuck (and I pushed it through plenty of scary spots.) It had all kinds of extras like "sport suspension", an 8 speaker stereo, a sunroof , plus power locks and windows that didn't like cold weather. My brother-in-law, a complete car junkie, loved the look and smell of my Pathfinder. This kind of compliment, coming from someone who has owned so many vehicles, always made me extra proud of the Falcon.

From a memory point of view, it was also fully loaded. I proposed to my wife in the Falcon. We took it across western Canada and through the Pacific Northwest. The console was extra worn because our pooch would stick her head between the seats so she could see where we were going. It seems fitting that our pup took her last breath in the Falcon. She went with us almost everywhere and when we had two car seats filling up the back, Bailey had to ride in the hatch with the luggage, but she didn't mind. It's a good thing my truck saw me through plenty of sad drives, because the day Bailey died just outside of Sherwood Park, I needed the Falcon to run on autopilot back to Red Deer.

More than anything, I remember going fishing in my Millennium Falcon. Ice fishing, fly fishing, lake fishing, bellyboating, canoeing, fly-in fishing. It had a second sense for finding fish and getting me home safely. Sometimes, it was my accommodation for the night. It was always a place where I had great conversations with great friends. My good friend Wayne called it the "Finder of Paths...Fishing Paths" and my buddy Dave immortalized it in a song about fishing on the North Ram River.

At times, my Pathfinder stunk. I usually had a Vanillaroma stinky tree dangling from the rear view mirror, but there were certainly times when other stenches overpowered the faux vanilla. A hatch full of wet neoprene or hockey equipment would billow the rankness of man sweat. After a night of eating red meat and drinking draft beer, it smelled like ass.. Following a ski trip where we tried to drink every Corona in the town of Canmore, the Pathfinder reeked of limes and onion rings from Peter's Drive In for a week.

The worst smell, though, was provided by the Falcon's most frequent flyer, Bailey the Chesapeake Retriever. My buddy Brian and I took her fishing on the Red Deer River a couple days after a freak September snow storm. We must have timed the trip to coincide with the arrival of the water from the Blindman and Medicine Rivers to the west of town, because our poor pup came out of the river smelling like manure. She could barely stand herself and we had to drive home with the windows, sunroof and rear hatch wide open.

I believe that you can tell a great deal about people by the vehicle they drive. Even when the rust started to wear though, I was proud to hop in my Pathfinder. It was me, from the roof rack to the upgraded stereo to the various dings, scratches and dents. When I sold it for $1000, it had over 320,000 kilometres on it. If you approached from the rear, it definitely looked worse for wear. The moment I got inside, though, I couldn't help but smile and think of all the great adventures made possible by the Falcon.

In my lifetime, I have not owned many vehicles. A '69 Olds Cutlass, an '80 Olds Cutlass, an '89 Ford Ranger, a '99 VW Jetta (The Red Rocket) and a '10 Subaru Forester. My present truck is an '06 Nissan Frontier. Each vehicle has special memories and I'm sure that many of them will appear in a blog at some point.

None of them match up to the Falcon and none of them ever will. Get ready for the jump to lightspeed, Chewie!

Everyone and Their Dog

"Looks like everyone and their dog is here." ~ Stewart Hutchings

I grew up with a distaste for crowds. I learned this from my father, who intentionally avoided places he considered tourist traps. Many of my friends got to visit the Flinstones theme park in Kelowna, B.C. The Hutchings family drove right past places like this without slowing down. Dad would gladly stop at a place that had historical or cultural significance. Initially, I was led to believe that these were more worthwhile places to visit. In hindsight, it is entirely possible that we actually stopped at these places because they were far less crowded??? We would go out of our way to find campsites that did not have power hookups and showers. When it came time to visit Klondike Days in Edmonton, we went with mom and our grandparents. For the most part, I still dislike crowds. Like the narrator of Robert Frost's famous poem, I prefer the road less taken.

On the May long weekend, we decided to go for a hike on a very popular trail. The Kootenay Plains are a remarkable place to visit and the most traveled path in the area goes to Siffleur Falls. It really is a beautiful spot. The trail is wide, well developed and flat. It is a very easy, accessible, family friendly hike. It is not as busy as a place like Johnston Canyon or Bow Summit, but on the day we hiked it, there was no solitude.

We passed groups of every imaginable composition. Families with three or more generations. Church youth groups. Mountain bikers. Buxom young ladies in bikini tops. Solo trekkers. Shirtless dudes with potbellies toting a Coors Light in one hand and a lit Export A in the other. Young couples. Asian, German, First Nations, Redneck, Quebecois. Aside from the trail we chose to spend our Saturday enjoying, the one thing that most of the groups had in common was a canine companion. When we pulled into the nearly full parking lot, I couldn't help imagine what my father's reaction would be. I honestly think we would have circled the parking lot and left. It was that busy.

While I have many of my dad's quirks when it comes to spending time outdoors, I happen to be a dog owner. One of the first things my wife and I bought together was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. We named her Bailey (after the character in WKRP, not the Irish Creme) and she was a huge part of our life. She passed away when our boys were fairly young and we were poochless for about three years. In September 2008, we got an e-mail about a litter of seventeen Chesapeake puppies. The pictures were incredibly cute and you can guess the rest of the tale. We have another Retriever in our lives and she keeps us on our toes. She is very true to her breed, though she is quite small. What she lacks in size, she makes up for in speed, agility and stubbornness. Maggie is, shall we say, a spirited creature. She needs to run, swim and retrieve things. She digs, barks, jumps up and listens when it suits her. I am concerned that she could die of gastric misadventure.

In spite of her overall goofiness, we love her to bits and I think the feeling is mutual. She spends most of her nights in the bedroom of one of our family members. If we are not home, she plunks herself between the boys' bedrooms at night. She really is at her best when we are hiking, biking or near a body of water. Needless to say, she was in her glory on the hike to Siffleur Falls. Not only did she get to swim, run and explore, she got to sniff the rear end of dozens of new pooches. Talk about doggy heaven!

I know that this journey would have made dad's skin crawl. It was a bit much for me, but when I really thought about it, it was a great way to spend the afternoon. All of the people we encountered were there for the same reason - to enjoy the outdoors on a beautiful spring day. The dogs we encountered were very well behaved and the hikers were generally well-behaved. My kids had a great trip and I'm pretty sure that, given the opportunity, they will bring their kids to hike this trail.

It is true that I am more willing to visit a crowded place than my father. I have endured the wildlife-induced traffic jams of Yellowstone Park and elbowed for a view of Old Faithful. On our family journey to Los Angeles, we made a bee-line for Hollywood and Disneyland. I love visiting big cities like Toronto and Chicago. Somehow, I don't mind Las Vegas in spite of the incredible excess and waste it represents. Last fall, we spent the night in a Motel 6 in Niagara Falls, ate at the Rainforest Cafe, went on the Skywheel and took a cruise on the Maid of the Mist. Talk about full-bore, crowded, cheesy tourist traps!

Given the choice, I still prefer to have a stretch of river or trail to myself. I don't mind sharing with wildlife. When I fish, I like to go with partner, mainly because my favorite fishing spots tend to be pretty secluded (see my post The Places I Love to Fish).

If I must share the outdoors, I prefer to share with my family. And my dog. After all, I can endure any crowd when I'm surrounded by those I care for the most.

Technological Dissonance

dis·so·nance Noun /ˈdisənəns/

Synonyms:

• noun: discord, discordance, disharmony, jar

• dissonances plural

• Lack of harmony among musical notes
  • an unusual degree of dissonance for such choral styles
  • the harsh dissonances give a sound which is quite untypical of the Renaissance
• A tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements
  • dissonance between campaign rhetoric and personal behavior
    
    
    Source: http://www.google.ca/dictionary?langpair=en|en&q=dissonance&hl=en&aq=f

The idea for this post has been percolating for over a year, but I never seem to get around to actually writing it. I've changed titles, messed around with the topic and even now, I'm rewriting this introduction for the fourth or fifth time. In essence, this post is about saying NO to your kids even when you eventually say YES. It's not easy to explain, so here goes.

I’m not talking about a state of total denial. I’m just saying that it is a parent’s job to teach their children. As a child's primary teacher, parents do children no favors by saying “Yes” to all of their requests.

For several years, I was absolutely adamant that our children would not have video games or a gaming system. I said no for a long, long time. At times, I ranted and raved. I cited the "vidiots" I taught who spent every waking hour gaming instead of reading or doing my incredibly meaningful homework. I read to my kids every chance I got. We did not (and still do not) have a DVD player in our vehicle. When we went on a long road trip, we took books, played games like 21 Questions and, if it was an extra long trip, we purchased an Invisible Ink puzzle book.

My reasoning went something like this... I didn’t have anything like it when I grew up. Most of my friends had some sort of gaming system – Atari, Intellivision, Colecovision. I made do with my handheld Coleco football game. I never was very good at video games (with the notable exception of Galaga) so I spent a lot of my childhood enjoying simple things like reading and playing with sticks. I can honestly say that I don’t feel like I missed anything because I didn’t own an Intellivision until 1996 (a fellow teacher had a system gathering dust in his garage, so I brought it home on a whim.)

Over the past couple of years, gaming systems have gradually made their way into our house. Santa brought my oldest son a Nintendo DS and since then, a DSI, two iPods and an Xbox Kinect have appeared. My children have always had a computer to use. They are digital natives and it amazes me to watch them interact with and figure out anything that is electronic. What finally swayed me was watching how their peers interacted and socialized. Gaming has become a social event that can be shared whether they are in the same place as a friend or not. I wondered if I was turning my kids into social pariahs through my absolute denial of portable, personal gaming systems.

Their gaming was initially restricted to educational sites and games like Brain Age. Over time, we have mellowed. Before our New Year's Eve party this year, I even purchased the Dance Central game so the kids could play (and laugh at the adults.)

In retrospect, it appears that I was being obstinate and perhaps hypocritical about gaming systems. I did have handheld games as a kid – Coleco Football, Mattel Basketball, and an amazing piece of plastic called a Merlin. When I was twelve, one of the coolest things I did with the friend I wrote about in Stand by Me was to play Space Invaders on his Atari. During my third year of University, I bought a Mac Classic II (after all, it had a blazing clock speed of 16mHz, twice as fast as the first generation of Mac Classics. When I started dating my wife, I did enjoy playing Donkey Kong on their Nintendo. I have a laptop from work that I bring home and take with me when I travel. My wife and I both have an iPhone and when I’m away from 3G and WiFi, it seems strange to me.

Part of the reason this post has taken so long is that I don’t believe in preaching. I particularly don’t want to write one thing, then turn around and do the other thing. My first title for this post was “Do Your Kids a Favour and Say No”. Upon further reflection, dissonance has tempered my outer grouch.

In my job, I do encounter children whose parents indulge their every whim. For many parents, screen time for their children means peace and quiet. Buying candy in the store also buys a quiet child and prevents embarrassment. My wife and I try hard to ensure that our children understand that they cannot have everything. We don't have the financial resources, but more importantly, I really want my kids to understand that things need to be earned.

More than anything, I hope that parents think carefully about the decisions they make when it comes to their children. I take a very long time to make decisions because I really need to understand as much a possible about an issue before I determine my stance. I am pleased with the way technology operates in our home. It allows us to learn, to communicate and provides a great deal of entertainment. Like anything, moderation is crucial. Every hour spent in front of a screen is balanced with an hour of physical activity, homework, reading or family time.

After all, I spend a great deal of time writing this blog because I really enjoy writing and I love the feedback I get from people on the thoughts that rattle around in my head. It would be pretty sanctimonious for me to deny my children the opportunites that technology affords them. I may not always say what I mean, but I do mean what I say!

Stand by Me

Over the past weekend, I led a group on hike around Nordegg, Alberta. The route follows an abandoned rail line and crosses three trestles that are in varying states of disrepair. As the kids (and adults) nervously picked their way across rotting boards, one of the group leaders mentioned how much the trek reminded him of a scene from Rob Reiner's great film, Stand by Me. This comment brought back a flood of memories for me that form the basis for this post.

Many people have seen this wonderful film and I imagine that most people know it was based on Stephen King's novella, The Body. I'm not sure that everyone knows that this story first appeared in a collection of King's novellas called Different Seasons, a book that also spawned the blockbuster film The Shawshank Redemption and the lesser-known Apt Pupil. When I was a teenager, I was a huge Stephen King fan. I purchased Carrie at Woodward's book section in July 1982, read it in two days, and was hooked. I plowed through all of King's books I could and was thrilled when my mom brought home the paperback version of Different Seasons in the fall of 1983. She bought it at The Wee Book Inn in Edmonton's old Strathcona neighborhood and it still sits on my bookshelf.

There is a line in the movie that says "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?"

My answer is yes. And no. Let me explain...

When I was twelve, I had a fair number of friends. Like Gordie, the protagonist and narrator of The Body, I had three or four very close friends. Now that I am forty, I've lost track of most of them, stayed in contact with several and lost one of those friends to an automobile accident nearly twenty years ago. My youngest son is named after my fallen friend, who died two weeks after I had asked him to be in my wedding party. His loss had a profound impact on me and completely changed the way I look at the world.

Another of my very close friends had been my best friend through most of elementary school. We shared a keen interest in birds, fishing, music and sports. We were in the same class and Cub troop. We slept over at one another's homes, went camping together, rode our bikes along the roads surrounding our elementary school. I admired him and wished I could be more like him in so many ways. He was always a bit taller than me, even though I was very tall for my age. He was definitely far better looking. When we went to the local roller rink, girls lined up to skate with him. They skated with me, too, not for my looks, but because I could skate backwards. In grade six, he moved to another school and we continued to keep in contact, but things were never the same as they were when we were in grade five. He moved to Toronto for a year when we were in junior high but returned to Sherwood Park during the summer of 1986. It's somewhat ironic that one of the last things I really remember doing with him was going to see the biggest movie of that summer. You guessed it. Stand by Me.

At twelve, my closest friend had already been my teammate for six hockey seasons. We spent the winters traveling to the same arenas, eating in the same roadside diners, and staying in the same hotels. Our weekends consisted of practices and games throughout Alberta. We even travelled to Quebec to participate in the Tournoi Hockey de Carnival and billeted together with a man who drove an AMC Pacer, spoke fluent English, and made sure we ate plenty of pastries. When we weren't on the ice, we often went to one another's homes and spent our time firing orange street hockey balls, pucks and tennis balls at one another. We watched Stampede Wrestling with his Ukrainian Baba on Saturday afternoons. We listened to AC/DC on vinyl records and eagerly anticipated the opportunity to watch Wayne Gretzky and Edmonton Oilers rewrite the NHL's record books. By the end of most of our hockey seasons, our bounty included several medals, trophies and complete sets of O-Pee-Chee hockey cards.

He was a great hockey player. Smart, skilled and shady when he had to be. We were captains and assistant captains. We won far more games than we lost. Even at twelve, though, he had a different perspective. He loved the USA and had been thrilled when the American hockey team won gold at Lake Placid. Two of his favorite pro players were Dave Christian (a result of his preference for Christian hockey sticks) and Greg Millen (yes, the colour commentator). Like his father, my best friend thought about things in unique ways. Some of my favorite memories of those years included driving to and from hockey, listening to talk radio and discussing whatever event his father was interested in.

We have stayed in contact in spite of the fact that we live in two different provinces and lead much different lives. I really look forward to our infrequent visits, as do my boys, who idolize their "Uncle Weese". It is true that I don't have any friends like the ones I had when I was twelve. Friends like them are incredibly special and I am very fortunate that I get to stay in contact with many of the guys I played hockey and rugby with as a teenager. We lived, loved, got an education, made plenty of mistakes, killed a few brain cells and somehow managed to become productive adults. Even as adults, I know them by their nicknames. Willy, Billy, Hoovman, Otto, Goo, Colman, Pee Wee, Parkie. I love the fact that we still get a chance to pick up where we left off. We don't need to talk on the phone or send Christmas cards. These guys really are the best and the fact that we still dart in and out of one another's busy lives is a testament to what great guys they are.

In my new life in Red Deer, most of my closest friends are teachers. We have worked hard, played hard and laughed lots during the past eighteen years. I am blessed that my best friend and teammate through university lives about 500 steps away. We have been "best man" at one another's wedding. We have taught, coached, backpacked, camped, played and lived together. He is perpetually upbeat, easygoing and positive. Our kids all go to school together and I have the extraordinary opportunity to work at their school. Like their Uncle Weese, my boys consider Jeremy an uncle and I'm fortunate to call him my friend.

My adult friends are an awful lot like the friends I had as a teenager. They are quality human beings who are not afraid to have a good time. My adult friends love sports, the outdoors and their families. Like my buddies from high school, they all have nicknames. Bee. G-Mac. Jimbo. Jimmy. Noonan. Pearson. Pickles. Robbie.

My childhood memories are like a lawn full of dew. It only takes a small step before I am drenched with thoughts that run a gamut of emotions. The older I get, the more positive the memories. It is completely accurate to say that my friends today are nothing like the friends I had when I was twelve.

I am convinced that this is a good thing.