David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Hunt

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Hunt: The Hunt © The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as ...

The Hunt

The Hunt ©

The sudden spring shower earlier that evening was enough to get them moving. The grass felt damp on my hands and knees as I crept along in total silence with my flashlight. Above me was my second grade classroom, and directly above that was my older brother, Richard’s fourth grade room. I was in the front lawn of one of the oldest elementary schools in Dubuque. Audubon was probably one of the oldest schools in all of Iowa.

In my seven brief years of life I had come to know each and every square foot of Audubon playground. In the dark that evening in 1957, I was learning every square inch of the front lawn. My heart raced with excitement but my eyes were focused on the moment. I felt every muscle tighten in my little body as I crawled on all fours. It was the first time I had been invited to go night crawler hunting with my brother, Richard.

I looked behind as if to seek approval from him each time I dropped a juicy, slimy, seven-inch worm into the once empty, three-pound Folger’s coffee can. I saw Richard’s light at the far end of the lawn by the flagpole near Johnson Street and imagined he was having as much success as I was with the hunt.

I poked and prodded at my half-filled can and knew my brother would be proud of me. He could once again set his wooden sign against the front of our house at 617 Lincoln Avenue that read “Night Crawlers 25¢ a dozen.” A few days earlier he had sold the last of his stash to a fisherman.

I felt the eerie quiet of the evening. And that was strange because Audubon was anything but quiet in the daytime. Hundreds of children from surrounding neighborhoods played at Audubon year round.  The playground was the place where I learned to play baseball. In winter we played basketball on the snow-covered ground that earlier in the year was center field.

Every summer, the Dubuque Recreation Department offered playground activities for children of all ages. We played foursquare, tetherball, horseshoes, and Ping-Pong. We had coloring contests, played word games and assembled puzzles. Relay races and individual sprints prepared us for the all-city track meet. Those meets were a great training start for me becoming the fastest sprinter in all of Dubuque County while in high school.

Suddenly, a night crawler slid across the back of my hand and brought me back to the night. I lifted it with my fingers and dropped it into my can. That evening was a special time and place for me. And still is.

David N. Nelson

The Shade Tree Choir - Song: I'm Not Alone

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa: Nelson's Story Won in Dubuque Writers Guild Contest Traditions © By David Nelson The traditions we had a...

Ice Skating in Dubuque, Iowa

Nelson's Story Won in Dubuque Writers Guild Contest

Traditions ©

By

David Nelson

The traditions we had as kids have given us fond memories as adults. I like traditions, perhaps because there were lots of them when I was a boy. Of course, I didn’t realize I was creating memories each time I played a game or had fun with a sport. None of us did.

Growing up in the North End of Dubuque, Iowa during the 1950s and 60s, my favorite tradition in the winter was ice-skating. Each year the City flooded Comiskey Park with huge water hoses. The event was something hundreds of children anticipated. Some kids walked from miles away to play activities like Crack the Whip, Figure Eights and Tag. Some little children learned to skate with two blades on each skate and eventually graduated to one blade. Others learned to skate backwards or skate in circles large and small.

Those who walked to the rink often carried their skates across their shoulders with the laces tied together. Late at night on the walk home, the blades of the skates became weapons of protection from the Hoods looking to accost a girl or beat up a smaller boy.

Some kids walked in the snow banks from their houses wearing their skates, but I often skated the ice-covered streets to Comiskey venturing from one streetlight to another. All was well until I’d hit a dry spot and crash to the street like an ice cycle falling from a gutter on a house. It was all part of the fun.

Some kids snuck onto the rink after it was closed and skated passed house porch lights that lined the rink. When the rink was open, the music could be heard from blocks away. When it was closed, it wasn’t as much fun without that music.

I started skating at around age six and the music had no affect on me. It was just noise. I was more interested in throwing snowballs from my piled stash that I had strategically placed along Jackson Street. The passing bus was my target.  If caught peppering the bus, by the Skate Patrol, we might have been kicked off the rink for a week. Some guards might even have called the cops on us.  

The older I became, the more music impacted me. I’d stand at one end of the rink where the snow bank was three feet high in places. My modus operandi was like other boys I suppose. I watched for girls slowing down to make the turn by the barrels that acted as markers for skaters to turn and head the opposite direction. When one girl in particular caught my eye, it was fun to speed down the rink, catch up with her and take her mitten-covered hand in mine and begin skating. Most girls I knew, some I did not. And that didn’t matter to me. We skated to the songs like Barbara Ann, Return to Sender, and Donna.  I was ten years old when I began holding

the hands of girl skaters passing by. For some strange reason none of them ever refused to take my hand. Do you see now why I like traditions?

The colored pom-poms on the toes of the girls’ white skates snagged my attention. The yarn-like material blew in the breeze of the fast moving skaters and was too much temptation for a little boy, especially if the pom-poms were two different colors. I always suspected that girls who wore those were a little wild and probably more fun to know than the girls with plain pom-poms.

The boys wore two different kinds of skates. There were figure skates that were always black in color. Then there were hockey skates. I always wore figure skates. I could dig the serrated tips into the ice and sprint on my toes for twenty-five yards before my skating actually began. I was a fast runner and even a faster skater on the ice using this technique. I practiced my speed skating over and over in order to catch up with the girls.

The sub-zero temperatures drove me and all other skaters to seek warmth in the Clubhouse at least once or twice each day or night. Oh, the Clubhouse. No matter the age, everyone had to hold on for dear life to negotiate the sloped ramp that entered the “IN” and the “OUT” doors. The rickety, wooden rails were of little help in preventing some kids from falling. The rotted plywood base with gaping holes forced both kids and adults to walk with extreme caution. I made certain I never fell while going up or down the ramp. That would have been a disaster for a boy who tried to impress some young girl wearing colorful pom-poms, or an older, high school girl wearing stretch pants.

Pulling open the heavy wooden doors, the first impression was the smell. The warm stink blew into my face each time I entered. I grew up blocks away from the largest independent meat packing plant in America and was used to obnoxious odors. But, the piercing, pungent, putrefied air of the Clubhouse was almost too much to bear.

To me, it was a combination of urine, wet wood and sweat. It stung my nose to go into the Clubhouse. Some friends said the smell was like a barn or a locker room. The snow that covered the mittens and socks quickly melted, and as a result, the wooden floor was always soaked. That wet wood probably created much of the stink. Or, maybe it was the bathrooms at the end of the building.

Children who walked to Comsikey, and carried their skates, stored their street shoes inside the Clubhouse. There was a teen-aged Recreation Department employee who stood behind a closed half-door with an attached countertop. His job was to guard the large closet housing the shoes that were stored on shelves in metal baskets. He exchanged round, metal, numbered tokens for the individual street shoes from those same baskets. At the end of the night the exchange was made and everyone’s shoes were returned. At least most of the time.

Flat wooden benches lined the walls of the dilapidated building and more benches were placed in the center of the room. The benches were used for changing shoes or for simply resting.

 The slotted floor made walking an event that required strict attention. One misstep and a kid could easily sprain an ankle or take a tumble. The wood was soft and the sharpened sides of figure skates shaved slivers from the wood.   

Those childhood memories from Comiskey skating rink in Dubuque, Iowa, flood my senses when I find the rare opportunity to skate now as an old man. I no longer chase after white skates decorated with those colored pom-poms and filled with the delicate ankles of youth. However, I still hold the mitten-covered hand of a female. It belongs to my wife. She helps me keep my balance. After all, I sure don’t want to fall. While she would still love me, she would not be impressed.

Shade Tree Choir Song