Friday, March 02, 2007

Sledding Down the Big Hill

Winter retreats slowly, like a glacier, leaving behind icy gray chunks on the curbs and cold rain on your shoulders at the bus stop.  Winter’s magic retreats, too, though some bits are captured in our memories.  Every year in snow season, when the first big flakes are gliding past the street light, I remember one particular snowfall from decades ago.  Nobody else remembers it but me.

We were living a little south of here, where we couldn’t count on having a good snow each winter.  That night, after my brother and I were tucked in bed and the lights were out, the big snow of the year started falling.  Soon the yards and the street in front of our house were blanketed. In one of the most brilliant moments of their parenting careers, my Mother and Father woke the two of us and invited us to go sledding. We gladly pulled jeans on over our pajamas, bundled up, and walked outside.

Cars were avoiding our hilly block, and several of the older neighborhood kids were already making sledding runs right down the middle of the street.  We joined them, of course, sliding past four houses and coming to rest at the bottom of the hill, then walking back for ride after ride through the pale night.

Now that I’m a parent I keep an eye out for serendipitous occasions like that one.  After the big February snowfall this year, when all the schools were closed, I drove the family out to the public golf course.  We followed a few sets of footprints across the snowy fairways to the slopes.  My kids, having graduated to new levels of daring, chose the steepest section for their first runs.  They flew down the hill; my wife and I watched from above.  Everybody was having a good time, but as the shadows lengthened I started to feel like a rather chilly lawn ornament.  Before the party ended, I wanted some of that gravity-induced adrenaline for myself.

First I climbed onto a sled with our oldest child.  We hit a small, spine-jarring bump on our journey down the hill, but it was a good ride, and except for being sore I was pretty happy.  Later, as the kids were growing cold, I took a ride with our younger child.  We aimed around the bump, then found ourselves heading toward a snow ramp left behind by the snow-boarders.  I leaned the sled to the side and we slipped past and slid into the smooth track of an earlier sledder.  We passed down the next bit of slope, picking up speed again.  As we crossed the snowy fairway, I started making calculations about the fenceposts just ahead. 

Kids had torn away the chain link, but the posts were still there, and we were zooming toward them.  I thought we might have to bail out, but I saw that our predecessor’s track passed between two posts and left the golf course entirely.  We held on, and soon we too were leaving the property, dropping down another slope and coming to rest in untouched snow, well over twice as far as any of our party had travelled.

It was the day’s golden moment, for me, at least.  But will the children remember?  I couldn’t tell you.  Those young mysteries who live in our house have had their independence for some time now.

Back home, I pulled off my boots and looked out the window at the prodigious piles of snow.  Up in our bare tree, two cardinals caught the reddish twilight; they were brilliant lanterns signaling something.  I finally realized what it might be.  If the British came that day, they’d come by sea.

Broadcast by Ken Smith on March 02, 2007
Customs & Rituals • Family & Friends • Nature & Outdoors • Sports & Recreation • Permalink • Printer Friendly
Google
WWW Michiana Chronicles