It was considered unusual at the time — a flat-to-the-ground piece of waxed wood, curving at the front, an outsider in a world of Flexible Flyers. But it provided a better, faster ride in a climate where deep snows were rare, which meant a sled’s runners couldn’t get much traction. The path we most often took ran alongside the Monaghans’ property, next to the wire fence that separated it from the Pfeiffers, an older couple with the most beautiful and well-cared garden I had ever seen. The path ended at the base of a large evergreen tree, which was significant in local lore because it was where Joey Monaghan had almost lost his thumb when older brother Michael was trying out his Christmas knife. (A “Christmas knife” didn’t seem such an odd gift at the time.) Joey, so the story went, was holding a target to the tree when Michael threw the knife, Ed Ames style. Or maybe Joey threw it at Michael’s hand? No, it makes more sense for Joey to be the victim. At any rate, the Monaghan boys all had their thumbs.
Better sledding could be found on Sekots Lane, a two block stretch that dead-ended at the foot of the wooded hills that divided the backyards of our street, lower Wetheredsville Road (imagine learning to spell that when you’re 7) from Tucker Lane. But it required a look-out, even though Tucker Lane was a dead-end. And there was, of course, a “Suicide Hill,” but it required driving.
It snowed almost six inches in Baltimore this weekend. That toboggan would have come in handy. I took a ride on a plastic saucer, down a very steep hill that required one to aim between two rows of parking meters. When I climbed back to the top of the hill, I was breathing very heavily and no one seem to realize that it was from the terror/adrenaline of the ride, and not from the challenge of the walk. I didn’t risk it again. Was it a steeper hill than I had ever known? Or do I just know more about physics and the inherent risks?
Best ride down a snowy hill? Fastest? Worst? And for those who grew up in warm-weather climes — do you have a first memory of snow?
I grew up in Brooklyn, where there were few hills…so my most memorable sled ride was just last winter, when I hurtled down a steep hill overlooking the Hudson River in Westchester County, my son in front of me, screaming happily, and my daughter clutching me from behind, making almost the same sound, but in terror. You can learn a lot about people’s personalities by sending them down an icy slope on a piece of plastic.
There was a Scandinavian family there too. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying (I think it was Norwegian they were speaking), but I sure could understand the meaning. “Look at these Americans! They call this a hill? Back home, it’s barely a bump!”
Williams Drive, West Paterson, NJ. No fear: Overmount Ave.
Jeanne
Last Sunday in the Wyman Park Dell on a round trash-can-lid-looking sled with Rebecca on my lap, she forty pounds, I one-seventy. We toppled. She said that when I rolled over top of her, it pushed her face into the snow. Her lower lip was bleeding a little. Even so, she said the ride was fun and asked to go again.
Pittsburgh. It’s got to be Pittsburgh. The city is a mountain between the valleys of the Mongahela and Allegheny rivers. When it snows, and your a kid, it’s all down hills. Funny how I don’t seem to remember pulling my American Flyer with the bent back right runner back up those hills. Just the ride down and the searing sound of the steel blades on the crust of the snow inches from my ears.
On school nights we, all boys, gathered at the top of Barnsdale St. which descends three whole blocks from Northumberland at the top to Wilkins Ave, a busy bus route, at the bottom. We all had sleds but Dickie Levison had an old bobsled with a dented red cowl on the front, a steering wheel and a hand brake in the back. The Levisons had the biggest house in the neighborhood with a lighted basketball hoop on their garage and the oldest boy had a 1953 Morgan and Everly Brothers records and they went fishing with their Dad except when they didn’t want to which I could never understand. There was cold back then but no cool. There were the Levisons. I only got to ride the bobsled a few times and always as a middle man.
On Saturdays we dragged our sleds down Beechwood Blvd. to Mellon Park, the public park and gardens next to the Scaife mansion. Who knew about Andrew Mellon, Richard Scaife, capitalism or conservative politics. Who cared. The Conover Road girls would be there all bundled up soft and furry. Who would ride with whom? Prone. Astride. Girl on top. Girl on the bottom. It was a different kind of rush. Not so pure and unalloyed.
Then there was the night, only one, on Sandy Nieman’s toboggan on the Frick Park hill. The Frick Park hill is to other hills as Everest is to the Matterhorn. It starts in the street-lit golden aura of Beechwood Blvd, the dodgy end, and descends too steep for trees into an absolutely black abyss where malevolent trees, first growth primordeal
giants waited to turn us all into Ethan Frome as the wages for our adolescent sins. Toboggan + Smoking at the wall in high school + all those unpure thoughts = A LIFE-TIME LIKE ETHAN FROME. There wasn’t a lot of competition as to who would go first. Finally five of use got on and unenthusiastically pushed off down the hill. The light faded behind us and the darkness seemed to suck us in. Against our wills or desire the toboggan accelerated down the hill. It was so quiet, too quiet. It was taking forever. Then somebody screamed, “Bail out.” Some tried to bail left and some right. The toboggan kept going straight.
“I thought I saw a tree.”
“Somebody has to go down there and get the tobaggon.” Sandy and Patti went to retrieve it. We all new why as we trudged back up the hill toward the light.