Sharpen up our rinks with ‘wild imaginings’

There’s a big difference between Wallace Emerson and Jimmie Simpson skating rink houses. The first is a destination. The second is a place to avoid.

While twirling around skating rinks with daughter Lyla Burt, 4, pictured, Porter found dark, smelly rink houses—which could be community hubs. | Porter / The Star

Catherine Porter, The Toronto Star | Full Story | Wallace Emerson was the last rink house I visited this week. I barely made it. It was dark and the snow was whipping. I was on my fifth streetcar of the afternoon. It meant getting off and waiting for the Dufferin bus.

But it was worth it—even the delicate wobble over snow-covered ice around the building to reach the rinks at the back. (I later discovered the route through the community centre. Next time.)

There, behind the rink house doors, was something completely unexpected: Charlene Small and her 9-year-old daughter, Breanna, sitting on a bench by the front window, singing. Loudly.

No skates. They had just stopped by on their way home for a cookie and a few dreamy moments watching a kid push a chair around the teardrop-shaped ice outside.

They were practising a song called "(Where Do I Begin) Love Story" for Breanna’s choir. The lyrics are lovely, the tune aching. It could be in Les Misérables.

"She fills my heart with very special things/

With angels’ songs, with wild imaginings..."

Emerson was the fifth rink house I visited that day. If this song had greeted me in any of the others, I would have worried for my safety. But here, it was just part of the happy atmosphere. >>

Published 10.02.24 | Posted by Andrew Garib on 10.02.28 | |