When we arrived at the base of the hill, Father was waiting. “Again?” he asked.

While Father embraced the snow, Mother was afraid of it. She cocooned in the house, wrapping herself with wool blankets and scarves, peering outside with suspicion. She found temporary solace from the cold in hockey, especially in cheering avidly for the Edmonton Oilers. Hockey carried her through the long, dark days, pulling her forward through the winter season.

During a game between the Edmonton Oilers and the Calgary Flames, the battle of Alberta, Bea and I giggled next to mother on the couch as she yelled at the television. Father came home from the picket line to find her clutching a pillow, shouting and gesticulating.

“Aya, why are you so worked up over a stupid game?” he asked.

“This is not stupid. They are professionals. What’s stupid is you freezing your butt off to slide down a hill on chopsticks,” Mother replied, shooing Father away.

Father laughed. “Why are you cheering for Edmonton?” he asked.

“We’re closer to Calgary.”

Mother looked at Father like he was a monster. “How can you say that? Wayne Gretzky, of course. He knows where the puck is going to be.” Father’s questions were distractions taking her away from the action, so she resorted to shushing him.

He turned to Bea and me for help. “Why are they blowing the whistle?”

“Because the goalie didn’t touch the puck,” said Bea.

“Why does the goalie need to touch the puck?”

“Well, a player on the other team could touch the puck, too,” I said.

Mother looked at me proudly.

“I still don’t understand.”

“It’s icing, Dad.” Bea rolled her eyes.

“Icing?”

Nobody responded. Just then, Gretzky brought the puck behind the opponents’net—“Gretzky’s office,” the commentators called it. He hovered, waiting for someone to make a move. Suddenly, he darted with the puck, shot it in front, and scored! I jumped up and gave Bea a high-five. We hugged Mother and danced around screaming.

“Did you see that, Dad?” Bea asked.

Father tried his best to follow the game, but he simply wasn’t interested. He retreated behind his newspaper but sat next to Mother, smiling every time she got excited. One day, he came home from the picket line with a gift for Mother. A key chain with Wayne Gretzky on it in his signature blue, white, and orange Oilers jersey.

“Just what I always wanted,” Mother joked. “A picture of my boyfriend.”

士Scholar

THAT YEAR, WINTER WOULD NOT RELEASE ITS GRIP on the land around us. The cold air followed Father home from the picket line, and the chill he brought with him climbed our backs. The strike had locked down the community, and it felt like the town had been overrun by men. Men crowded the post office, the mall, the streets, but mostly in their cars, smoking, and the Oriental Palace, as Uncle Joe was the only one who didn’t throw people out hours after they’d nursed their last beer. They would idle, pace, or make small talk with whoever was nearby. Some were drunk, even in the middle of the day, while others just chain-smoked. Some were off in the mountains in their snowmobiles, their wives at home worried about avalanches.