Lying on my ice cold belly atop the hand me down Flexible Flyer, weighted down by not only the freezing wet bundles of coat and leggings, but you perched up there with your tummy pressed to my back.
Swoosh, off we go down, down the snow covered hill, with icy crystals stinging our cheeks, you holding on for dear life, me trying to steer those stiff wooden handle bars with numb fingers tucked into frozen mittens.
Slowly the sled comes to rest at the edge of our yard. "Up again?" you ask. "No I'm goin in." I reply as I trudge up the porch steps, stomping off snow from my rubber boots.
As I open the front door, I hear Mom shout, "Close that door we're not heating the outdoors!" Then with her next breath, "Don't track that snow all over the house!"
After a half hour passes, Mom helps me bundle up again, replacing the wet mittens with a pair of heavy socks. As she escorts me to the door, she expounds, "For the life of me, I can't understand why you are going out into the cold again, only to be right back in here in no time at all tracking snow all through the house!"
Those were the days, when sleds were our only means of transportation on a day when school was closed, snow was fun, and socks were mittens!
Dedicated to my sisters, Irene, and Ruth Ann who were my sledding partners, when there was one sled and four kids.
© 2000, 2003, 2005, 2010, 2011,2012 by Diane Dunwell-Hoffman. All Rights Reserved.
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