The night before a cold wind whistled through the cracks in the door, whiskery sounds of hard snow hit the window panes. Three days of blizzard conditions finally broke with the appearance of a brilliant sun in a crystal sky. The plows had been through and the country roads glistened with fresh packed snow. No salt or sand marred its surface, just four inches of glazed, ice-rink-hard white ice. Perfect for sleigh riding.
One year apart, my brother and I couldn't wait to rescue our three man Radio Flyer sleigh from the rafters of the garage. A pumice stone quickly rid the runners of rust, our tongues sticking out in concentration. Three layers of flannel shirts, woolen sweaters were topped by wool plaid anorak jackets. Double gloves, some with holes, insured against frostbite, stubborn metal catches on galoshes firmly locked against the weather.
The previous summer we roamed the country roads on our bikes, ranging as far as six miles from home. A few miles to the north, our road started to climb. Hinting at the first Kittatinny mountain tucked in the northern corner of the state, the almost imperceptive rise in altitude gradually segued into a hill of considerable steepness, culminating in a dangerous cut at its peak. Locally known as four mile hill, it probably boasted a continuous rise for only two and one half miles. The exciting flip side of the coin was the promise of a speedy fall from the heights on the downside of the hill. After lunch, no mention of this adventure passed our lips as we trudged our way alongside the road in the crunch verve. Unable to pass up every hill we saw on the way, our twelve year old bodies started to flag in strength.
Being brothers, there was of course some sibling rivalry. But our parents made a big deal out of sharing and taking turns, the only way of keeping the squabbling down to a low roar. So we took turns steering, even pulling each other on the level stretches, counting the seconds in a sing-song voice. We would pretend we were Indians, marking the trail for the way home with snowballs exploded on tree trunks. By now snow filtering down into our galoshes had turned our toes to cold granite, the pain slowly fading into numbness. Indefatigable in our climb, we leaned into the hill, our sled whipping behind us, tugged relentlessly by gravity. Once we let go of the rope and had a panicky moment floundering down the hill after it, ending in a heap at the bottom of a ravine. After that we were more careful. The final stretch loomed like a ski run in front of us. A setting sun turned the snow to orange, purple clouds coming up from the west. Soon it would be dark, reminding us of dire warnings of what would happen to us if we stayed out too late.
Panting, we rested at the peak, standing on the sleigh for a better view down the valley. No cars had passed us in the last half hour, so we felt safe in testing fate in the form of icy hill, gravity, and being late for supper. As soon as our breathy clouds diminished, we felt ready for the fast ride home. Suddenly, my brother flopped on the sleigh and pushing off down the hill with wind milling arms, quickly attained a speed of twenty miles per hour, diminishing in the distance. Stunned, I stood there screaming his name, shouting "Stop!, stop!, wait, wait! Admitting defeat, I let out a weak 'wait'. Stuffing my scarf into my coat and fighting back tears, I slowly marched down the hill, slipping and falling in the dusk, the sharp ice ripping through my wet corduroy pants. I was tired, cold, hungry and lonely all at the same time. Added to that was the hate I felt for my brother for doing me this terrible trick. Imagining all kinds of punishment for staying out after dark, I planned my revenge in the form of sand in his shoes, itching powder in his sheets and a good punch in the jaw when I got back. Later, after the remonstrances from my worried parents, all I had strength for was a hot bath and supper by the fire. My brother just laughed.
Reminiscing is a favorite pastime. |
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