Snowy Day

We were supposed to get three to five inches of snow last night with temps below 0. Well, we only got an inch or two of snow, but the temp was -2 when I drove to work this morning. Cold enough to give me that funny feeling inside my nose as everything freezes.

But the prospect of snow took me back to childhood winters in Pennsylvania. When it snowed, my brother and I would pull on the snowsuits and head out to make forts, throw snowballs and careen down hills. In fact, the only bone I ever broke was in a sledding accident.

My brother and I used to sled down this trail in the woods behind our house. By my recollection, it was a good quarter mile down before it made a sudden turn to the right. One day I was sledding with my brother and his friend Dave. We had those two-kid plastic sleds that are round at the front. We'd double up on the thing and take turns pulling it back up the hill. All afternoon I kept faking injury to try to get my brother and friend to pull me up the hill in the sled. On the fateful run, I was at the helm, my feet sticking out the front, with Dave behind me. When we reached the bottom of the track, we failed to make the turn, and my right foot hit a tree. Ow!

You can guess the rest. Though I moaned and wailed, the boys didn't believe I was truly hurt and left me at the bottom. It wasn't until they came down on their next run, and I was still crying, that they believed me. Dave, in one of those sweet little boy moments, was in anguish. "I'm so sorry," he kept saying. "I should have believed you. I'll never forgive myself." (Yeah, a little overdramatic, but his heart was in the right place.)

After I managed to crawl to the top of the hill, we went to the doctor and I got a cast for my foot, which was broken in three places. I must admit, I liked being the princess, and uttering soothingly in martyr's tones: "It's alright, Dave. I'm sure I'll walk again. I may even sled."

Ah, winter memories. I wonder if there are any good sledding hills around here.