Do you have a favorite ice cream memory? I’m thinking of the fudgesicles that were sold at school track meets back in 7th grade which seemed so impossibly delicious at the time. I don’t know why I joined the track team. Perhaps because I measured 5”11 at birth and the coach gave me a homework pass to sign up? Was it the fudgesicles? Whatever the reason, I had no business dabbling in individual competition.
There was this girl, her name was April, and I think she was responsible for my first five ulcers. Somehow we ended up in every running event together. I can't remember how fast she was, but that girl deserved a blue ribbon for trash talk.
The following is not a composite sketch from my memory, but a reenactment of actual events:
Scene: me and April at the starting line of the 800 metre race, waiting for the gun to go off.
April (on the blocks, looking sideways): I’m gonna beat you.
Me (head down): Okay.
April: You’re gonna eat my dust.
Me (throat instantly parched): If you say so.
April: Wanna know what’s gonna happen if I don’t win?
Me: That shouldn’t be a problem—we have a gentlemen’s agreement. My word is my bond.
April: What did you just say?
Me: I said, you’re going to win the race.
April: Darn right I’m gonna win this race.
Then, and I kid you not, she reached out and grabbed my chin. My chin!
April: Understand?
Me: (dumbstruck, nodding)
April: That’s what I thought.
Hey, April--The Sopranos called and they want their scene back.
I am telling you, take any notoriously tough, gang-ridden, inner city neighborhood in the United States and pit it against the little Canadian logging town of my childhood and hands down, we will grind it up like sawdust. With our teeth.
All of this begs the question—can someone invent a new word to describe the depths of timidity implicit in allowing a ten-year-old girl to grab one’s chin at the starting line of an 800m foot race??
At any rate…I must say I am surprised at the memories that are surfacing thanks to this little blog. You probably think I am writing this in a darkened room while reclining on a couch. And the computer keeps saying: Very interesting, Kirsten--can we explore that a little further? (even though it is secretly eyeing the clock).
I really wanted something lovely to go with this sweet little drawing and instead I keep dredging up all kinds of brackish fare. I know—tomorrow I will take my girls out for ice cream, for no particular reason, and let them choose whatever they want.