The Wonderful Days of Sledding - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

The Wonderful Days of Sledding - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

This morning, I looked out at the dusting of snow and had a (very) brief urge to get to the cellar and take the Flexible Flyer off the hook. Yes, it is still there, waiting, beckoning, but to no avail. There it will stay. I will never part with it; not to my kids, not to anyone. There are too many memories in its blades.

The first sled I had was a Speedway, which I hated because it was difficult to maneuver the rigid handlebars. To experience the excitement of a quick turn was necessary for sledding, and it was in the flexible handlebars that excitement resided. The Speedway demanded too many weight shifts. I was thrilled that year I saw the Flexible Flyer under the Christmas tree.

“It’s snowing!” On went the snow pants, jacket, and clumsy, too-many-buckles boots. On went the toque. “Don’t forget your mittens.” Ugh. I hated them.

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I have an aversion to cold and a fear of injury these days. But those days were different Sledding was necessary, risk-free. The only question to answer was where to sled and the only hesitation we had was cold feet. Yes, those cold feet; the ones where your toes itch like crazy when you take off the boots and socks to hold your feet against the radiator.

The nearby sandbank was a favorite place because it was big and available (Roger Williams Park was for a Sunday morning). The sandbank was my soil in summer and my snow in winter. Drenched in white, it reminded me of the song, “It’s a Marshmallow World in the Winter.”

It was cold. I stood at the top of the hill and looked at the inviting trails which led to Valley Street below, snow snapping at my face. Which trail to take and how fast I could zig-zag now that I had The Flyer were important decisions. Initially, the powder was too good, so it would take some runs to pack it for speed. It may have become an icy deathtrap, but we never gave it a thought. It was about speed and beating friends.

The race ended at the recently plowed street below with a screeching stop and sparks flying from the runners. Breathless at the bottom; now to trundle back to the top. We did it, over and over. The cold was creeping through to my feet, the most vulnerable target that defined sledding time.

In a few hours (maybe), I was worn out, cold, and hungry. It was my last run. The hill was vertical on this final walk. Home. I pushed the bulky door to the entry, shook off the snow, turned, sat, and squeezed off my boots. I dropped the coat and mittens on the way to our third floor, opened the door to cozy warmth, and headed for the radiator to warm my wet feet.

“Edward, would you like a hot chocolate?”  Would I?

It was a good old-fashioned sledding day, and I was tired, warming, and pleased.

Ah, snow.

 

Dr. Ed Iannuccilli is the author of three popular memoirs, “Growing up Italian; Grandfather’s Fig Tree and Other Stories”, “What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner” and “My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High.”  Learn more HERE.