Clanking Chains, Reving Engines, and Screams of Joy

The Old Man has heard that one of his old friends isn't doing so well these days. I hate that because I would love to have the opportunity to rehash some snow stories with her. It snowed here last night and into today. There are about 7-8 inches on the ground and the temperature is hovering around 19-20 degrees. Tonight should bring bitter cold, demanding that people of good sense draw closer to the fire.....just the kind of night the Park Street Battalion lived for.

Adults really seemed to miss out on the fun. Snow always brought clanking tire chains, engines roaring with "stuck" vehicles, and curses and general "bitchiness" all round. But to the Battalion, snow meant one thing....sledding. There were several hills in our neighborhood that could provide a pretty fair ride with little real danger. We usually stuck to these in the daytime to appease our parents who could watch from their kitchen windows. But then came nightfall.

Nighttime sledding happened at my friend's house. Her family had a small farm out past the cemetery, complete with a couple of killer hills. There would be 8-10 of us there from just after supper until either 11:00 PM or the onset of wet, cold, and miserable; whichever came first.

Now, keep in mind, this was Bedford.....not Squaw Valley. Fleece and GoreTex were not yet invented. We had long johns, blue jeans, and what seemed like 23 layers of shirts and sweaters, topped off with a (usually) plaid thigh length coat we called a Mackinaw. Top this off with a leather cap with these fake fur ear flaps and we were ready Teddy.

So....off we went. We trudged out through the cemetery, shortcutting over a few of the dearly departed, past the farmhouse and the barn until we came to the crest of the slope. First things first; we would build a fire. Then some repeated trips up and down the 'run' to prepare the track. No straight shot for us.....nosir. We had a couple of curves, a ramp, and a 90 degree turn at the bottom.........just before the creek.

It was usually on the second or third run when Kenny would go in the creek. You see, Kenny was sort of the unofficial daredevil of the group. The rest of us were wannabees. He would test himself each time he went down by waiting until the last minute before his hard right turn to avoid Armageddon. Most of the time he failed. Now you can see the importance of the fire.

Kenny wasn't the only one who needed to avail himself of the fire. Sometimes there would be three or four of us standing around the blaze, generating enough fog from our wet jeans (creek water seldom penetrated the other 23 layers) to present a hazard to air travel.

Somehow, we managed to pass many a winter evening without major calamity other than a few bumps and bruises, minor cuts, and sides sore from laughing. There was a simple and basic joy in that time that we adults seem very good at slipping under the rug for fear of looking foolish. I understand that my friend is now in a darker place, but I hope that at some level she can remember us all, standing by the fire, generating fog, and laughing hysterically, worrying about nothing other than whether or not we could get just one more run.