by Norma Best Boucher

I remember the day; I remember the hour; I even remember the skipped heartbeat when I first heard my six-year-old son Alan’s words: “I want to be a hockey player.”

Translation – You can be my hockey mom.

* * * * * *

“I have to teach him to skate?” I asked my husband. “You’re the athlete in the family—you teach him to skate.”

“You teach him to skate,” he said, “and I’ll teach him to play hockey.”

“Why me? Remember, I’m the one who took dancing lessons because I was so clumsy and at age five sat on my thumb and broke it and couldn’t be in the recital.”

“So?” he answered. “You were a cheerleader.”

“But I only did that to get into the games for free.”

“Skating is great exercise,” he added.

“This was my last rational plea. “But I’m Mrs. Couch Potato!”

Smiling, he answered, “I rest my case.”

* * * * * *

“My, God, he skates just like you.”

I had warned him, right? Hadn’t I warned him?

One year of intensive training, a frostbitten nose, frostbitten toes, a thousand miles on the car and another five thousand miles on my ice skates, not to mention the wear and tear on my body and all he could say was, “My, God, he skates just like you.”

What did I learn from this experience? I learned two things: one, once a couch potato always a couch potato and two, when you sit on your thumb at age five, it takes only six weeks to heal, but when you sit on our thumb at age 30, it takes six months to heal.

* * * * * *

“Hey, Mom, I’m on a hockey team. I’m number 6.”

Translation – He can now skate up and down the ice using a cutoff $20 hockey stick as a lethal weapon, and he can now legally crush against the boards any player who dares to touch that puck.

As the weeks went by, I learned hockey lingo.

Faceoff – This is when ten players line up with sticks to kill the puck to win or to kill each other – if they lose.

Off-sides – Technically this means a player went over his own blue line before the puck. The result is a face-off in front of his team’s goalie. Realistically this means if your son does this more than once or if a goal is scored, the mother of your team’s goalie will attack you because you are sitting closer to her than your son.

Checking – This is the legal crushing of bodies against the boards.

Charging – This is checking with the intent to kill but failing.

Major Penalty—This is checking with the intent to kill and succeeding.

“Get His Number!” – This is yelled by the mother of the player who was charged and still lives for revenge.

Burn – This is when a forward from one team skates past the defensemen of the other team and scores a goal. All the mothers then yell, “Get his number!” and the entire opposing team charges after the scorer.

(Note: If this player is your son, this is not a pretty picture.)

* * * * * *

“Hey, Mom, we’re going to play in a Squirt Tournament.”

Translation – I can now watch my seven-year-old kill or be killed in an arena with hundreds of frenzied mothers screaming, “Get his number!”

* * * * * *

Our team skated out. The nine-year-olds who could skate forward, backward and stop were line one, the Midgets. The eight-year-olds who could only skate forward and stop were line two, the Pipsqueaks. The seven-year-olds who could neither skate backward nor stop were line three, the Smurfs.

Not being able to skate backward was only a minor problem. The Smurfs just skated forward all the time. Not being able to stop was another story. Most hockey players do the snowplow where they stop sharply, turning their skates to the left or right and spraying a little loose, scraped ice to the side. Unable to do the snowplow, the Smurfs had developed a variety of methods for stopping. Some players dragged the toe of one skate; some skated into the boards; some skated into other players; and others did a pirouette-like whirl where they turned around on their toes in one spot.

The warmup started. Everyone was excited. Even I, who’d had nightmares about sending my lamb to the slaughter, was excited.

That was before I saw the opposing team’s players.

That’s our Rambo line,” volunteered the woman next to me. They’re our seven-year-olds.”

Just then five Rambo line players raced across the arena and snowplowed ice up onto the Plexiglas in front of us. At that precise moment I knew we were in trouble.

“Here comes our Commando line. They’re our eight-year-olds.”

Each of the Commando line players lined up on their blue line and took slap shots, one after another. Each puck sped past their goalie and into the net.

I wanted to stand up and yell “Help!” but all I could do was stare.

“And here are our nine-year-olds. We call them the Terminators.”

Dare I look?

In a gust of wind five giants skated past us. The top of my son’s helmet reached only to their shoulders.

Our goalie’s mother jumped up and screamed hysterically, “My, God, he shaves,” but all I could do was slouch in my seat, mumble incoherently, and pray, “Let Alan live, God, just let him live.”

“Which kid is yours?” the woman asked.

Alan’s over there, number 6. He plays center.”

“The one with the toothy grin and dimples?”

“Yes.”

“A shrimp, huh?”

“No, Smurf.”

“That’s my kid over there. Hey, Butch!” she yelled. “He’s the number one Terminator, the captain.”

As she said this, Attila the Hun with five o’clock shadow skated by and smiled.

“What happened to his front teeth?” I asked.

“Lost them in the last game.”

I stared in horror.

“You should have seen the other guy,” she boasted.

“Not my son, God, please, not mine.”

Throughout the game our coach played the Midget and Pipsqueak lines as much as possible. Everyone said he played them to keep the score at a respectable 15-0. Personally, I think he played them to keep the Smurfs alive, and I was grateful.

During the game Mrs. Terminator, as I had begun to call her, gave me a synopsis of her team’s successes.

“We’re undefeated, you know.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise me.

“In fact, no team has ever scored one goal against us.”

Somehow that fact didn’t surprise me either.

“Butch is the top scorer. If he scores one more goal in this game, he’ll have a triple hat trick, nine goals in the same game, and that will be a team record.”

She was praying for records, and I was praying for lives.

“You know, you get what you pay for,” she offered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I paid $250 for my kid to play on this team. They practice Monday through Friday and play games on Saturday and Sunday.

“I only paid $75 for Alan to play.”

“Ha!” she laughed. You wasted your money. Looks as if you paid $75 for a seat on the bench.”

She was definitely beginning to annoy me.

Just then one of the Pipsqueaks changed up lines, but the door was closed. In an attempt to get off the ice, he tried to put his leg over the boards. Unsuccessfully, I might add. Butch skated by, and with a motion of his hand he flipped the Pipsqueak over the boards and onto his head.

The rest, as they say, is history. That Pipsqueak was followed by other Pipsqueaks, and they were followed by Midgets. Relentlessly, Butch skated our players into exhaustion, into fear, and just plain into the boards.

“I told you,” Mrs. Terminator repeated. “Two hundred fifty dollars makes a winner.”

Suddenly, my heart was in my throat. The Smurfs were going out. There were five little cherub-faced seven-year-olds carrying $20 hockey sticks cut in half to reach their chins. Some skated into the boards; some skated into each other, one dragged a toe; and all pirouetted from blue line to blue line.

“This is a three-ring circus,” Mrs. Terminator laughed. “It’s worth my $250 just to see this.”

Right then I was beginning to imagine what she’d look like without her front teeth.

Butch had two minutes left to score his triple hat trick goal, and he was determined to succeed. The Smurfs gave up chasing and lined up for the attack. The next 30 seconds, a scene from a Marx Brothers movie, were the longest 30 seconds of my life.

Butch skated around his cage with the puck and headed straight for our zone. The only obstacle blocking his way was Alan. I covered my face, and that’s when I heard the hit.

I peered through my fingers, and there was my Smurf literally plastered chest-to-chest with Butch. Alan lost his grip and slid to grab Butch’s waist – and Butch skated on. Holding on for dear life, Alan then slipped down to Butch’s legs – and Butch skated on. Suddenly, Alan lost his grip and with stick and body flat on the ice he hooked butch’s skate with the curve of his cutoff $20 hockey stick – and Butch still skated on, dragging Alan and his stick behind him.

Everyone just watched. This was going to be the record-breaking hat trick goal and another shut out for the Terminators.

Butch wound up, and the shot echoed in the silence. The puck headed straight for the left-hand bottom corner of the cage. But wait! The puck hit the pipe, and the ringing shook the crowd.

The puck then deflected off Alan’s stick and shot into open ice. Smurf defenseman number 14 was doing a pirouette on the blue line, and with pinball precision he accidently slapped the puck into the opposing team’s zone and toward their net. The goalie dropped to his knees – going, going and through his legs – Score!

No triple hat trick goal and a score against the shutout champs.

Our entire bench jumped on Smurf number 14 in ecstasy. Butch jumped on Alan in rage.

At that point everything went black for me. The next thing I remember was Butch in the home penalty box, a two-minute penalty for roughing. Through his face mask I saw his glaring eyes and clenched toothless jaw.

Alan was in the guest penalty box, a two-minute penalty for holding. Through his face mask I saw his dimples and toothy grin.

My Smurf was now a full-fledged hockey player. He had scored his first assist, gotten his first penalty, and was still alive to brag about it.

Mrs. Terminator was on her feet shaking a clenched fist, “Hey, Ref,” she screamed. “I didn’t pay $250 for my kid to sit the bench.”

I just smiled.

At this point, Mrs. Terminator saw me and yelled, “What are you grinning about, Lady? Your kid’s on the bench, too.”

I turned to face her, eye to eye, hockey mom to hockey mom.

“I know,” I quipped smartly, “but I only had to pay 75 bucks for my kid’s seat.”

(I had the privilege of watching these seven-year-old Smurf hockey players grow up and win the Maine 1991 Class A State Hockey Championship. Also, the editor of The Town Line, Roland Hallee, was the assistant coach of that team.)

by Norma Best Boucher

1987 – According to Shirley MacLaine, with crystals at each corner of my shower and with the fingertips of both of my hands touching in pyramidic fashion, if I chant three times, I will find an inner peace. Here goes:

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

“My fortieth birthday will not be a traumatic experience.”

Nothing personal, Shirl, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t put all of my eggs into one soap dish.

In reflection I remember that whenever my friends lamented, “I hit the big Four-0 today,” I had expressed sympathy and encouragement but never any real understanding.

After all, I had never prayed for perpetual youth, only to look like perpetual youth. Was my dream going to shatter just as everyone else’s had?

I decided to take the challenge, so on my 39th birthday I began to take stock.

I had begun to notice a slight giggle when I walked past the bathroom scales. When I actually got up enough nerve to weight myself, I heard down right hysterical laughter. Scratch one.

I had noticed crow’s feet near the corner of my eyes, but I decided years ago that if I didn’t smile, these lines wouldn’t show. Upon closer inspection I noticed that these few crow’s feet now map out a coast to coast round trip voyage across the United States. This includes alternate routes using federal, state, and local highways. Scratch two.

I had begun innocently enough pulling out my gray hairs as they appeared. On this day, using my multi-lighted cosmetic mirror, I had a decision to make: remain gray or continue pulling out the gray hair and go bald. Scratch three.

That was the last straw or should I say the last gray hair. This was no longer a challenge – this was WAR.

I could either lie down and be 40, or I could fight and be 39 one more time.

There was no stopping me. I became a driven woman. I lost 13 pounds. I bought a new wardrobe. I permed my hair. I got contact lenses. I had color analysis, and I pierced my ears.

In the grocery store I saw two people who had been my neighbors for nine years. Neither one of them recognized me. One woman even suggested that I change my name.

“Why not?” she said. “You’ve changed everything else.”

I gave that idea considerable thought but decided to save that decision and possible cosmetic surgery for birthday Five-0.

I became desperate. I began scratching out my birth date on calendars. I jogged. I did aerobics. I took vitamins. Nothing worked.

Time ravaged on, and so did I.

Inevitably, I have accepted the fact that the big Four-0 will arrive no matter what I do.

This is mind over body or whatever is left of it.

In these last days I realize that my major battle will be on the morning of my birthday.

My strategy is set. This will be my last hurrah. Here goes:

I will chant in my crystalized shower and meditate facing my “I’d rather be 40 than pregnant” poster taped to the inside of the bathroom door.

When no one is looking, I’ll remove half of the light bulbs from my cosmetic mirror, and I’ll apply my makeup before I put in my contact lenses.

One major question remains, Shirley, “What if even all of this should fail?”

Just in case, I have one more alternate plan.

With shoulders back and head held high, I’ll toss back my hair and say, “Dye it.”

by Norma Best Boucher

“Shhh! Can you keep a secret?”

I look first to my left and then to my right.

“Well, can you?”

Here goes. I read other people’s mail.

That’s right. I read other people’s mail.

Okay, before you get all bent out of shape, I don’t steal and steam open envelopes as snoopy neighbors do in the old-time movies. I read published books of famous writers’ letters edited by biographers and relatives.

These letters are very personal, and the authors most likely never expected their personal thoughts to be revealed to the world. That is probably why most of these publications appear after the death of the famous people.

I first got hooked on reading famous authors’ mail when a friend of mine gave me a book called “The Letters of Ernest Hemingway 1907—1922.” This Volume One of letters begins with his short letters with misspellings to his Papa when Hemingway was eight years old to his letters upon his arrival in Paris when he was age 23.

I had decided to read just a few letters each day, but as this young man experienced life and matured into the man who became the famous Ernest Hemingway, I just read right through to the end. Footnotes by the editor fill in the information educating the reader as to whom the letters are addressed and the relationships between them and Hemingway.

Knowing the ultimate famous life and death of Hemingway allows the letter reader to recognize the “dramatic foreshadowing” of Hemingway’s experiences.

Recently, I have been reading the letters of the author John le Carre’ (real name David Cornwell) “A Private Spy,” edited by his son Tim Cornwell.

Whether someone enjoys the le Carre’ books, which are mostly about spies and espionage, is entirely irrelevant. These letters show the real thoughts and emotions of this man with his wives, his lovers, his family, his friends, his enemies and with the other famous writers and actors who are involved in his many successes and failures.

Again, knowing about this author’s books and his death lets me enjoy reading the letter writer’s intimate thoughts.

I am only 300 pages into this 600 plus page tome, and I haven’t even gotten into his own life as an MI5 and MI6 British spy. Call me crazy, but this is a page turner for me.

I think I know why I enjoy reading letters. I was a letter writer in the day of letter writing. When I was of upper elementary and junior high school age, I had pen pals. I had a subscription to a magazine called “American Girl.” This magazine was not affiliated with the modern “American Girl” magazine and dolls.

Girls wrote short letters to the editor, and other girls could respond and become pen pals. I got a couple of pen pals that way, but the pen pal I remember most was a missionary’s daughter. We corresponded for a couple of years. She was a British girl who lived in India.

Back then mail to and from different countries took a very long time, so there weren’t that many letters exchanged. We wrote mostly about school and after school activities. Still, it was a thrill to receive a letter from India. I wonder what the postman thought when he saw those foreign air mail stamps?

My favorite pen pal was a girl who went to summer camp with me. Our letters were not really very interesting, but we wrote backwards and had to put the letters up to a mirror in order to read them. We wrote every week just because of the novelty of writing backwards.

One of my girlfriends was a pen pal to Annette Funicello, one of Disney’s first Mouseketeers. I wanted to be a pen pal with Annette, also, but I figured Annette wouldn’t want to be a pen pal to two people living in Waterville, Maine, so I didn’t try.

I understand now that those letters were probably fan letters sent to all, and I could have been another pen pal after all.

Of course, with letter writing, one had to have the prettiest stationery with matching envelopes. For 25 cents I bought a note pad or a box of uniquely designed writing paper. I also received stationery for birthdays and Christmases and even bought some out of my allowance, which was 50 cents per week.

Then there were the sealing wax sticks in multiple color choices. I melted the wax on the “V” of the envelope closure and pushed down a sealing wax seal stamp to ensure that no one but the intended recipient would read the letter.

I had different designs of stamps, but my favorite was my initial “N.” Somehow this stamp made the letter more personal AND mysterious, at least to my young mind.

I am sure that the authors whose published books of letters I read now did not use pretty stationery and sealing wax stamps.

I am also very sure that no one has saved any of my letters to be published in a 600-page tome after my death for all to read.

In 1965 during the first week in my first college journalism class, the professor told us never to write anything down on paper for anyone to read that we did not want to haunt us later in life.

I believed him.

He also told us in that class that in the future we would be reading our newspapers not on paper but through the use of a machine.

I DID NOT believe that.

Yet, look at me now – I read The Town Line newspaper on my home computer.

by Norma Best Boucher

“My Big Sister”

“I have a baby sister!” she yelled riding her bike up and down the street. That was what my parents told me my older sister Marlene did on the day I was born. I wasn’t there, of course, but I always felt pride and love knowing that she was so excited that I was born.

Everything went downhill after that. I spit up on her. I peed on her. I bit her finger with my first tooth. I was an overall pain in the butt from what I could see, but she laughed about these experiences, and I felt even closer to her.

Sis was quite a bit older than I. I was what they called a “surprise” baby. I always liked that…a SURPRISE! Surprise or not, Sis decided that I was going to behave, to be literate and not to be an embarrassment to her.

That was a major undertaking, but she was up to the challenge, and I had better be. She made me pick up my toys, did jigsaw puzzles with me, held my hand when we listened to scary radio shows like “The Shadow,” taught me to recite my ABC’s and to count to 100.

These were all games to me and fun, but she knew what she was doing. Even when I made a mistake in the 90’s when reciting my numbers, Sis let me start over again at number one and listened patiently so that I felt success and not failure.

Then it happened. She grew up. I watched her walk down the aisle to receive her college diploma and told myself, “I am going to do that, too.”

Sis got married, moved out of state, and didn’t come home to visit for two long years. My father kept an account at one of the best dress shops in town for her birthday and Christmas presents. He paid so much a week, and there was quite a sum of money there.

My dad, Sis and I walked into the store together. Dad was so proud of her. “This is Mrs. Clark,” he told the sales lady. “Please show her whatever she wants and put it on my bill.”

What a great time we had. Sis tried on more clothes than I had ever seen, and she bought me a red plaid kilt with the money. She hadn’t forgotten me, after all.

“Have you known Mr. Best long?” the sales lady asked.

“Yes,” Sis answered.

Then, out of nowhere the sales lady added, “What is he to you, anyway—your Sugar Daddy?”

Even at my young age I got the picture. Attitude, intonation, and the words “Sugar Daddy” were all very clear.

I just stood there.

This was 1958. Sis was young, pretty, college educated, married, and successful in a business career in a man’s world. This woman had the patience of Job and the strength of our mother. This was MY BIG SISTER.

Apparently, this sales lady had no idea with whom she was sparring…and I was not going to warn her.

The scene appeared Hollywood scripted and in slow motion. I had noticed a slight tightening of my sister’s shoulders upon hearing the woman’s rude remark.

I was sure the sales lady noticed, also, because at that point the lady put her right hand on her right hip, raised her left eyebrow, and gave the slightest smile of great satisfaction.

My sister was viewing her new outfit and herself in the full-length mirror. I was behind her on her left. The sales lady was behind her on her right.

I watched my sister’s image in the mirror. Sis moved her gaze upward from the mirror image of herself and turned her eyes to the mirror image of the sales lady.

A smile now formed on her mouth.

This was my first and probably the best lesson in timing in my life.

Sis pivoted around slowly to her right and stared directly into the eyes of the sales lady.

“No,” she answered, young pearly whites shining.” He’s my father.”

I loved it.