Riverside Ritual

By John Forrest

The thinner the ice, the more anxious is everyone to see whether it will bear.
~Josh Billings

The rumours began circulating at afternoon recess. A brisk November breeze was deepening the already bitter cold temperatures on the school playground and battering the seventh and eighth graders, who huddled in small groups speculating excitedly.

Winter had arrived in the form of light snow and sub zero temperatures on Remembrance Day and the frigid weather had stayed with us for more than a week. I was new to Riverside Public School, which, true to its name, was situated hard on the bank of the Credit River near where it emptied into Lake Ontario. Our family had moved to Port Credit during the summer and I had enjoyed my first few months at Riverside. My teacher was cool, my classmates were friendly and I had already earned a position on the village's peewee ice-hockey team. But I was still getting used to the customs and traditions of the school and I was about to discover a new one.

As a sixth grader, I was able to wander close enough to the seniors to overhear the words, "tonight, after school" and "at the river." Something was up.

The recess bell rang. We lined up to enter but the teacher had to quiet the buzz of conversation before admitting us. Once seated things settled down until one of my classmates entered late from a visit to the washroom. He brought with him important news. A hastily scribbled note began to make the rounds. I noted the interest and smiles as the message made its way toward me. My friend Bill received it, read it and then passed it to me, whispering "Great news!"

I opened the note. "After school, at the river, hares, ice. Be there." I had no idea what it meant. I started to pass the note on when a voice of authority brought me up short.

"John, you know my rule. If you pass notes everyone gets to know the contents. Please read your note to the class." There was no escape.

"Yes sir. It says: 'After school... at the river... hares... ice... be there.'"

"Really?" said my teacher. "That's terrific and about time! I think I'll go myself to watch the fun. Now let's get down to work."

I still had no idea what was up, perhaps a fight, but I doubted a teacher would want to watch or permit it. I looked to Bill for more information but he mouthed, "Meet me after class." I would have to wait.

Dismissal came. Bill had already crossed the street that ran between the school and the river and called for me to join him on the bank. Many other kids followed, and everyone's attention began to focus on a group below us, near a large boathouse and dock at the edge of the frozen river.

"Okay Bill, what's going on?"

He pointed, "See those kids? That's the Hare family. They're getting ready to test the ice. It looks good, but there is a pretty strong current here and you can never be sure when it is safe. The Hares own that boathouse and are experts on testing the ice, but it's their way of doing it that attracts all the attention."

Standing on the dock, the group of kids was dominated by a very large teenager. I knew one of them; a seventh grader, Don (Duckie) Hare, and the others were his brothers. The big guy was Albert (Albie) the oldest, and he had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. The ritual began with Albie tying the rope around the waist of his little brother Billie, a first grader, and then lowering him onto the ice.

Billie did not seem reluctant and, with the rope trailing behind, he began inching his way out onto the ice. A hush fell and conversation ceased as little Billie made his way toward the centre of the river. About twenty yards off shore he stepped on some crunchy shell ice, stopped and looked back. But his brothers encouraged him until he reached the middle of the river. Turning, he then scuttled quickly back to shore to cries of, "Way to go Billie!" and mitten muffled applause from the watchers.

Next up was Duckie. Secured to the rope, he too began carefully, mincing his way gingerly away from shore, one tentative step at a time, until he was well out onto the ice. His return to shore was a tad more dramatic. After making a running start he then slid back to the dock, finishing with a flourish, grasping a piling with one hand and waving to the crowd with the other. He also was heralded by the gathering.

Then the crowd began to chant, "Albie, Albie!"

Albert Hare responded by tying the rope to his own waist and securing the other end to the dock. He stepped down to the ice and, like his brothers, his first few steps were tentative.

Then he stopped suddenly. A loud "crack," like a pistol shot, sounded and a sudden fissure appeared in the ice.

The crowd gasped. After pausing briefly to assess the situation, Albie carried on. Once he reached the centre of the river he turned to face the shore and began to jump up and down. The ice held. Suddenly a mighty cheer went up from the onlookers; the test was complete. The ice was safe. Let a winter of fun begin!

Before I graduated from elementary school I witnessed this ritual three times. Not once did a Hare fall through the ice, and their validation of safety was the signal for hundreds of us to begin enjoying winter on our booted blades of steel.

Years later I moved north to begin my teaching career. I pleasure skated, played hockey and coached my children's hockey teams indoors, on artificial ice.

To this day, when winter descends and the lake near my home freezes, I dig out my skates and hockey stick and take a trip back in time on natural ice. And when I make those first tentative strokes, along with the snick snick of my blades carving the ice, I hear chanting — "Albie, Albie" — and remember the simple joy of knowing the ice was safe and my winter fun could begin.

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