I hope that I shall never forget the freshness of snow blowing against my face as I glided down the hill on my Flexible Flyer. If I was lucky, I would catch air mid-way down and experience what it was like to fly, if only for a few seconds. As the ride ended at the clearing, I would jump up and scurry off to the side to make way for the next kid that was rapidly making his way to the finish line.
Although it has been nearly four decades since my last sled ride, the memory is still fresh.
I was six years old when I first made my way out to that winter wonderland we called our back yard; bundled in snow boots, snow pants, and snow jacket with the hood tied firmly around my face; I was timidly excited at being allowed to play outside with my big brothers. I was so proud and happy of my new polished wooden sled with the bright red runners. My first day out I would slide down from the halfway point longing for the day I would be strong enough to pull my sled to the very top of that hill where my brothers seemed to rule the winter.
On the day that I finally made my way to the top of that hill, my brother saw the concern in my face, I felt as though I had made a big mistake by being there. With encouragement I timidly laid down on my belly, face forward, hands tightly on the steering slat, the toes of my boots firmly planted into the snow on the side of the sled as a brake. Lifting first one boot, then the other, then quickly smacking them both down again to stop. My first ride down from the top I dragged my feet along the side of the sled so as not to go too fast.
By the end of that first day at the top of that hill, my legs were bent at the knees, feet pointing skyward as I squealed with excitement. I sliced through the snow, frost spraying against face and into the space between my head and hood of my parka. I jockeyed my sled to the clearing,and skidded sideways to a stop against the snow bank that was also used as a fort for snowball fights, I rolled off the sled laughing with joy of the best day ever.
