I was twelve; my brother was thirteen; it was January; we had snow, and a long, bumpy pasture that led downhill to a broken-down fence. That Saturday was cold, clear, and sharp, and a blanket of cold had settled over the town. Five neighbor kids and a father had come over to sled our acre-long hill. The target was to go as far as we could until we had to bail before we hit the hog-wire fence that kept the cattle from straying.
We had no worries about the fence. In all the winters we had sledded there, no one had ever hit the fence, or even come close. Tall weeds and young saplings lined both sides of the wire, and the barbed wire lacing the top ensured limited entry. Although there was a hole near the locust post. We had only used it during the warmer seasons, when we wanted to explore the pasture and railroad tracks beyond.
Mr. Sam lived just five houses away from us, on the road from town. He was a large man, well over six feet, and probably weighing close to 250 pounds. We hoped he would pack the deep snow down and make the slope faster.
As we sledded, the snow got firmer and slicker, and even the small grass clumps caused no trouble. Our cotton gloves were soon wet and cold; our four-buckle arctics were collecting snow around our socks. We preferred these boots to newer, more fashionable ones, for they were a bit too large for our feet, but provided excellent traction and steering. When we belly-flopped on our wooden sleds, we could control direction and speed simply by allowing the floppy toes to drag in the snow.
We refused to go inside to the warm. We were young and indestructible, and the hill was fast. Faster than it had ever been. And we were positive one of us would finally make our goal of reaching the fence.
Mr. Sam finally called a halt – his six-year-old daughter was too cold to continue, and this was to be the last run of the day. Being the adult, his word was law, and we grumpily agreed. But we could each take a final turn on the hill. Jack, my brother, leaped on his sled and flew down the hill, aiming for the fence. His whoops of laughter joined ours as he sped closer and closer to his target.
None of us, including Mr. Sam, had taken a close look at the fence. Posts had rotted, barbed wire along the top was practically non-existent, and there was a rather large, rusted hole in the hog wire. As Jack got closer and closer, he made the decision that not only would he get to the fence, he would make it through the hole. It would be a feat that would live in the memory of any and all who had ever or who would ever sled on that hill.
We were waiting our own turns for the last ride and watching Jack. He didn’t seem to be slowing down. He wasn’t turning. He wasn’t dragging his feet at all. He was a streamlined unit of energy and speed. He was going to actually hitthe fence. His whoops of conquest quickly turned to screams as we saw only his pants and boots sticking out from the fence. He had made it through the hole!
We all ran down the hill, with Mr. Sam trailing closely behind. Jack had, indeed, made it through the fence, but only partially. He was stuck. Mr. Sam eased the sled out from under him, and pulled Jack out backwards. Jack’s huge grin was spattered with blood and clumps of snow. Time was called as Jack and Mr. Sam trudged back up the hill to the house. I grabbed Jack’s sled with my own, and the six remaining kids, including Mr. Sam’s daughter, Emily, walked slowly up to the house. By the time we got there, Mom had her coat on and was grabbing her purse and keys. Jack’s face was blood-spattered, but he had stopped crying. They headed into town to the doctor’s office. Our friends left, with Mr. Sam checking that I would be ok while Mom was gone.
Jack received five stitches on his nose and forehead, and a tetanus shot. But we never sledded that particular hill again.
INSTANT NOODLES 