HOT
Just the Memories
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli does it again. Another brilliant column that takes us to a wonderful place:
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’s handlebars that excitement lived. The Speedway demanded too many weight shifts. I was thrilled the year I saw The 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.
I have an aversion to cold and a fear of injury these days. But those days were different. Sledding was vital and save for sticking your tongue on the sled’s metal, mostly 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 wet socks to hold your feet against the hissing radiator.
The sandbank was a favorite after-school place. Roger Williams Park was for a Sunday morning.
It was cold. With snow snapping at my face. I stood at the top of the hill and looked at the inviting trails drenched with the splendor of white that led to Valley Street below. Which trail to take and how fast I could zig-zag now that I had The Flyer were the most important decisions. Initially, the powder was too fluffy, 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 winning.
The race ended at the 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 time.
In a few hours (maybe), I was worn out, cold, and hungry. It was my last run. The hill seemed more vertical on this final trudge. Home.
I pushed the bulky door to the entry, shook off the snow, turned, sat, unbuckled the frozen resistants, and squeezed off my boots. I dropped the coat and mittens on the way to our third floor, opened the door to our cozy tenement, headed for the hissing radiator, lay on the floor, unfurled the socks and toasted my feet under its warmth.
“Edward, would you like a hot chocolate?” Would I?
It was a good old-fashioned sledding day, and I was tired. Oh, but those innocent 50s with The Flyer.
PHOTO: US Army