by Meg Downey Hardy, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener volunteer

Today I witnessed a five-second sight of two boys at the top of a hill in their yard ready to launch down the hill using their scooters as sleds. Their inventiveness, purity, power, and childhood bliss caused an eruption of emotions and memories for me.

First, my mind filtered back to my own three children and the sledding adventures we had as a family. I thought of the dangers our kids had faced, just like the two boys on scooters with no helmets.

Then I was pulled to older memories that came from my young self. Memories of the good winters filled with snow, when no January thaw eroded our fun, our sled courses, and our wondrous outdoor universe.

My family lived on one acre in a neighborhood. Our yard had a hill, the best yard in the neighborhood when winter arrived. We wanted lots of snow, cold, and days off from school.

On that snowy hill, we were engineers, race-car drivers, and daredevils, independent of our parents, in our own world for as many hours as we could eke out of each winter day. We hoped for the rare nights when our parents would allow us to stay out to sled in the dark with just spotlights to illuminate our special world.

We created games and challenges endlessly, many which I don't remember. We purposely created "courses," pouring water on them to make them slick and fast. We tested each other. Who could make it to the end? Who could go even farther and launch over the snowbank into the road?

When we became bored with that adventure, we made other courses. One went straight towards trees, negotiating a swerving curve just before hitting the tree. If you couldn't steer, you had to bail out and give up on being one of the successful ones.

Sometimes for a change, we went over to Joan's hill across the street. But that one was boring, just long and straight and gradual.

I remember the endless wait to get the best sleds. Our flying saucers were duds; they went nowhere slowly. The wooden toboggan was only fun when everyone jumped on one by one in sequence, with the last person responsible for the final push and a running leap to fit onto that last spot in the back. The newest addition, those rolled-up rectangles of plastic, were a struggle and could only be steered by the hands or feet, like the saucers, but worse because you slipped off them so easily.

The classic wooden sleds, Flexible Flyers, were the best. We didn't want to seem too eager to take the old-fashioned sleds. Each family only had one. The oldest ones, the sleds our parents had used, were the best.

Peer justice was at work. Everyone took turns with the slow, spinning pieces of plastic that couldn't make it down the sleek courses we built. No one dared to take two runs in a row on the best sleds. Those had to be shared and everyone knew it.

On the Flexible Flyers we had to choose between sitting up and steering with our feet or running with the sled in our hands, throwing it down, and jumping on stomach-down, hands on the steering wood, feet useless to help once they were on the sled. My husband still talks about launching sleds on his stomach. I still think of how much I preferred sitting up. Something about going head first, face next to the snow as I sped along, made me choose the slightly slower technique.

Sometimes we'd try fitting two to a sled, either both sitting up or (sometimes) both lying down, one on top of the other, knowing that the journey would be short and filled with laughter, as we gained little speed and almost no distance.

As a shy little girl in a family of boisterous sisters, these outdoor adventures affected me the most. The camaraderie of kids against the elements in that self-organized universe of peer justice, childhood power, and autonomy created a magic that still persists.

My sisters don't share my idyllic winter memories and are surprised at my continued enthusiasm for snow and cold. But I feel lucky. Living in New Hampshire I got to sled, my children got to sled, and my grandchildren will get to sled. Memories of my childhood winters dissolve the drudgery of bundling up, plowing the driveway, shoveling the walks, and braving brutal temperatures as I head for the hill.

Photo by kjarrett. Some rights reserved.