What if the Hokey-Pokey really is what it’s all about?
Actually I took the hokey-pokey from my latest book, Roller Rubout.
If
you have ever skated at a roller rink, you probably know all about
the
hokey-pokey. But I doubt your rink was as exciting as the one in
Santa Cruz
where Josephine is painting a mural.
For some, the old Roller Rink has its charm.
Sometimes I hold real still,
close my eyes and
feel the memories. I picture the skaters
rounding the turn at
the far end of the rink.
The floor vibrates as the pack roars toward
me and turns,
rounding the corner in
complete unison like a school of sardines
chased by a hungry
shark. The roar dies
down for a moment, and then increases as
the pack takes
the curve again, close to
where I sit.
And then there is the sub-pack, younger and less astute
skaters who
wobble around the rink, clunkity clunck, sticking
close to the rails. One or two
rounds of plodding and they’re
bushed.
Funny how people clump together. I see a roomy rink, but
most of the
skaters are packed together, yet careful to
leave a bit of elbow room. And then
the final song of the
evening, the Hokey-Pokey. After the Hokey-Pokey, the
pack
disperses.
I recently watched Capitola’s famous rowboat races.
Two rowboats, each carrying
a couple half-grown
children, race each other around a buoy about ten
yards
away and ten yards back. What could happen?
Two little boats churned across a placid, duck
infested river. The boats
automatically bunch together
like Siamese twins, twisting their ores together
until they
come to a full stop. Yes, one
boat finally finished first.
But what fun would it be for the spectators
without
boat-bunching and ore-tangling?
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