Chapter Twenty

It’s hard to believe we’re up to Chapter Twenty of Lost and Found, but here we are. Hopefully, this chapter should be more on the “light-side” than some of those already posted.

Thanks for reading — and please pass it on.

Be well– be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Hockey was the primary activity on the rink most late afternoons after my piano practice time. We did play some evenings even though it was hard to see the puck when the only light came from a couple of street lamps. We would also play on Saturdays—sometimes for hours and hours. There were times we played so long that my ankles would give out and I couldn’t stand up in my skates any longer. It was especially difficult to go to work at the bowling alley after those exhausting skating days.

One of the kids who lived right across from the rink on Cardoni, Richard Carboni, would always be coming over and asking to play hockey with us. He was around the same age as some of the older kids, but he was one of the worst skaters you could imagine. Richard had trouble staying upright even with a hockey stick to hold him up. I don’t even know why he wanted to continue skating since he was on his butt more of the time than he was on his skates. His skating ability probably went right along with his normal clumsiness. Richard was a large kid. He was definitely overweight and would probably do better as a football linesman than a hockey player.

Whenever Richard would come to the rink and ask to play, he always suffered major ridicule from all of us. Things like, “Hey, Richard, how about laying down in front of the net for our side—nobody’d ever sneak one past you!” Or, “Hey, Richard, why don’t you strap your skates on your butt? That way you could keep skating more!”

We did try using Richard as goalie a few times, but whenever someone would take a shot at his goal, he’d get all excited and his skates would go out from under him and he’d end up on his back. He did stop a few shots that way, but not enough to make us want to let him play very often.

One day one of the older kids got mean with him. Richard wanted to play goalie and the older kid pushed him down on the ice. Richard went home crying, telling us he was going to tell his mother. Some of us knew Mrs. Carboni and her wicked Italian temper, so we all took off rather than stay around and face her wrath.

I took off with Charlie Saunders, the kid who lived next door to me. It wasn’t exactly next door. There was a large vacant lot between our houses where both families had their victory gardens. Charlie’s parents weren’t home, so we were just hanging around in his back yard smoking a cigarette behind his garage while we giggled and joked about “chubby old Richard running home to mommy”.

The Carboni house was right across from Charlie’s backyard. We watched as Mrs. Carboni, dressed in a short, heavy coat, heavy winter gloves, what looked like mens’ galoshes, and a babushka on her head, came clumping down her front stairs carrying a large, heavy metal bucket. She was a short, stout woman who walked with a forceful stride wherever she went, and this was no exception.

She clumped across the street carrying the bucket in front of her with an obvious sense of purpose. She headed straight for the ice rink. We continued to watch as she stepped carefully onto the ice to keep from slipping. She grabbed the bucket by its handle in one hand and began to spread something over the ice with her other hand that looked like dark sand. It was as if she was scattering feed for some chickens.

Charlie gasped and threw his hands up to his face, “Holy shit, Van! She’s spreading coal ashes all over the ice!”

“What the hell’s she doing that for? We gotta stop her!” I said in a very loud whisper.

“Hang on, I’m gonna go get my gun” Charlie said as he ran off toward his house.

Mrs. Carboni kept moving back and forth spreading the ashes on the ice.

Charlie came back a few seconds later carrying his Red Ryder BB gun at the ready. He was loaded and ready to fire. Charlie was one of the best BB gun shooters in the neighborhood. His dad had even set up a target for him in the alley during the summer. They would move the target around at different distances so Charlie even knew how to gauge his aim for distance. It was rare that he didn’t hit his target.

Charlie put the rifle up to his shoulder and took careful aim.

Click. Then the sound of the BB pellet on its way—thoop—a short time delay and we watched as Mrs. Carboni suddenly stood up a lot straighter than she was while she was scattering ashes. She sort of looked around trying to figure out what it was that she felt. Maybe the BB hit her coat, or she might have had some extra skirts on or something, because she just shrugged and went right back to scattering ashes.

Charlie took aim again—Click—thoop—another shot on its way.

This time he must have aimed below the area of extra padding because Mrs. Carboni let out a loud, piercing yelp, dropped the bucket of ashes, grabbed her behind, spun around and saw Charlie standing behind his garage lining up another shot.

Her face was beet red and her finger was wagging frantically in the air as she let loose a stream of invectives in Italian. Neither of us understood Italian, but we did hear something that sounded like Polizziotto! That sounded enough like police to send us scurrying for cover as fast as our legs could carry us. Charlie stashed the BB gun in his garage and headed north toward Eight Mile road and I went lickety-split to the south toward State Fair.

The next day I heard that some of the other parents had tried to get the ashes off the pond, but to no avail. The ashes Mrs. Carboni spread must have been hot so they melted the ice and ended up frozen right in. Thanks to Charlie, she didn’t get too far along with her little project. Only one small corner of the pond had to be blocked off so the skaters wouldn’t fall.

The pond was still usable, however, Charlie didn’t fare quite as well. Mrs. Carboni did call the police and sent them over to Charlie’s after his parents came home. He wasn’t going to be able to leave his house except for school for a week, his BB gun was taken away and he couldn’t play hockey or skate any more that winter.

The incident must have backfired for Richard as well, because we never saw him at the rink any more while we were playing hockey.
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