“Recollections of a Pittsfield Kid” is a series of vignettes exploring the author’s youthful days in the Osceola Park neighborhood of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, during the 1950s and early 1960s. At the time of these adventures, the author was between seven and 12 years old.
Despite the frosty Berkshire County winter weather, my friends and I played outside almost daily. We could have chosen to stay inside instead and yakked on the phone or watched TV shows like “American Bandstand” or “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” But there was something more enticing and exhilarating that pulled my sister Tricia and me in another direction. It was a large skating rink with a warming shed squarely situated within Osceola Park.
The rink was created by members of the Pittsfield Fire Department and maintained by volunteers, including my father. I remember him spraying water onto the ice on frigid, windy nights. From our kitchen window we could see the smoke rising from the warming shed’s smoke stack and watch the men come and go in shifts.
When Tricia rode home on the afternoon school bus, she’d shout out “See ya at the skating rink” as she disembarked. As she arrived home, she would just say “hi” to Mom, skim through her homework, wolf down a snack, and change into bulky warm, water-proof clothing. She’d grab her skates and hurry out the door to meet her playmates. Our dog, Lady, would usually join her in the one-minute walk to the rink, only 200 feet away.
With shovels or brooms in hand, many of the skaters would climb over the rink’s snowbank and clear off any residual snow or chipped ice.
Several neighborhood guys, such as Jackie and Jimmy Mallory and Brian Bordon, were skaters on rival high school hockey teams: Taconic, St. Joseph’s, and Pittsfield High School. They amicably bladed on one half of the rink while sharpening their ice hockey skills. Future Olympic figure skaters practiced their “figure eights” and twirling moves at the other end of the rink.
If someone became thirsty, he or she would sit on top of the snowbank, make a snowball, and lick it off of their woolen mittens. Simple pleasures.
Occasionally, the ambience was offset by a bully “brush up” which was usually quickly resolved, albeit absent any legal niceties. For example, I remember when Don Blare was innocently skating along by himself and the resident wise guy, Harley Bover, “accidentally on purpose” skated hard into him and sent him cartwheeling and landing with a terrible thud on the unforgiving ice. It seemed Don hadn’t been providing Harley with enough cigarettes recently.
Within a few seconds of this uncivil behavior, Gus Blare, Don’s older brother, skated at warp speed and smashed into Harley with such force Harley was launched into the air with the speed of a rocket fired from Cape Canaveral. He ended up being deeply submerged in the rink’s snowbank while sporting a mouthful of snow. Message received and understood.
That said, there were drama-free games occurring much of the time. One was called Crack the Whip and the aim was for each kid to hold on tight to the next person and skate quickly in a circular motion. If one became dizzy and lost one’s grip, centrifugal force would hurl one towards the icy snowbank. In one instance, I remember seeing Kory Kerriter’s clutch loosen as she screamed in fright, shot across the ice, gracelessly hit the snowbank and hurtled over it!
Another game was called Red Rover, in which two opposing rows of skaters faced each other about 50 feet apart with interlocked hands. A player’s name was called out and the goal was to break through a weak link in the arms of the opposite row. This person would then dig deep into the ice with their toe pic and shoot off “faster than a speeding bullet.” This dashing daredevil would either feel the thrill of victory by breaching the line or be duly labeled a loser if he failed.
To wit, I remember once crashing into one formidable, immovable line so hard I fell backwards, whacked my head on the merciless ice and saw unheavenly-like “stars” for a while.
As dusk creeped in, we’d all leave for home, and once there would defrost, eat dinner, and then return to the rink. Fortunately, the Park rink had bright night lights shining seven nights a week. Our breath froze as we exhaled, yet we played on the winter wonderland until we couldn’t feel our toes or fingers due to the chill.
At that point, we would glide into the rink’s adjacent warming shed, dubbed the shanty, for a respite. The heat given off by the wood stove felt nice instantly. We would take turns sharing the day’s highlights and soon return to the ice for more thrills.
The Park lights did eventually shut off at 9 p.m., and this decidedly dampened and darkened our night. “Lights out” was now an unavoidable reality for all.
In George Harrison’s song “All Things Must Pass,” which plausibly was about the Beatles’ breakup, he sang “none of life’s strings can last, so I must be on my way and get ready for the next day.”
Likewise, we wandered home with runny noses and rosy-red cheeks, knowing that we, like George, would be back again the next day.
