My First Sled Ride

Ever since I can remember, I've loved snow. We don't see enough of it down here in the Old North State, but my childhood is chock full of memories of that cold white stuff falling from the sky and piling up in mountains of fluffy winter wonderlands.

My first recollection of snow is so early that I don't actually remember it happening, but I have heard about it often enough that it is fixed in my memory nonetheless.

Our family had just moved to La Crescent and I was two and one-half years old. We were renting a house way up at the top of one of the town's several hills, and in front of the house the street rolled downward and downward and downward before leveling off in a nice straight run where it then crossed Main Street and a couple of other streets before heading on out of town.

On a snowy day that winter, some neighbor kids were out sledding and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Apparently Dad thought it was high time that he took me out for my first sled ride. I imagine his discussion with Mom going something like this:

"Oh dear," Mom protested, "Don't you think it's a bit dangerous at this age?"

"Honey," Dad replied, "He's pushing three years old."

"Dear," Mom replied, "I'm talking about you. I don't want you ending up in traction again in the hospital for weeks and weeks."

"Honey, that was a fluke. How was I to know that Mrs. Ufta's Great Dane would dash across the road just as I came racing by on my Red Flier?"

"Dear, anything can happen out there in the snow and ice as you're speeding down the mountainside on a mass of metal and wood."

"We'll be careful, honey. I used to do this all the time as a kid."

"Right ... out in western Nebraska. Didn't you have to tie your dog to the sled and have him pull you around town because it was so flat?"

"Well, yeah. But we'll be careful."

"Well ... okay."

He bundled me up in layers of pants and shirts and sweaters and socks. After all, at my tender age, he wanted to make sure I'd be safe from catching a cold. He put snow boots on my feet, buried me in a light blue fuzzy coat, put a stocking cap on my head, and put warm wool mittens on my hands. I was ready!

We went out to the garage where he found our trusty sled, and he no doubt waxed the runners so that they wouldn't stick in the snow (this makes the sled faster but also safer, as the runners are less likely to stick on one side and veer off in the wrong direction). Dad wanted this to be just right for my first sledding adventure.

We walked to the crest of the hill. Dad set the sled down so that it faced the crest, and he placed me on the sled.

Now that the sled and I were "ready and chompin' at the bit," all he had to do was finish getting ready himself. The snow was still falling, softly.

"Ah, such a pretty time of year," he thought to himself. As he pulled on his gloves, he glanced up at the apple orchards in the hills above the house.

"Maybe," he whispered speculatively, "We can find a trail up there to sled down. Not today though. One hill at a time."

As he finished his preparation, his thoughts were interrupted with the excited yell of a little voice that was quickly growing more distant.

Dad looked down at his feet. The sled was gone!

Dad looked down the street. The sled was zooming down the hill, straight as an arrow, and I was sitting on top, a little bundle of blue flying at breakneck speed.

Dad must have set a human land record as he sprinted down the hill, trying to catch the sled. As he ran, he was thinking three things. First, he was praying that the sled would continue a straight path down the middle of the street, avoiding the cars parked along the side. Second, he was praying that the sled wouldn't get hit by any cars if it crossed Main Street. And third, he was praying that Mom wouldn't kill him when she found out what had happened.

The first two prayers were answered on the spot. The sled ran a perfectly straight course, leveling off at the bottom of the hill and then flying through the Main Street intersection unscathed before finally stopping just before the next intersection.

When Dad reached me, he found me laughing and saying, "Again, again. Daddy, again."

I don't know how much more sledding we did that afternoon. I also don't know how long it was before Mom found out what had happened. It might have been that afternoon, or it might have been years later.

What I do know is that Dad was shaking his head, looking at this little ball of blue fur that was his first-born son and wondering what he had gotten himself into.