I happen to live in a city that has a perpetual identity crisis. Which is really not that surprising as the entire state has an identity crisis. Summers start out like a normal midwest temperate climate and suddenly the state panics and decides that it is somehow depriving us if the mercury isn't boiling. So one day it will be nice sunny weather and the next fountains of brimstone are bursting forth from the pavement and evilly cackling imps are demanding payment before they will ferry you across a river of lava. Fortunately the latter mostly happens in front of the DMV. In winter we have the exact opposite happen where the state seems to think it is supposed to be warm even in winter time and in December I am often still mowing my lawn in short sleeves. Then January rolls around and the state suddenly remembers it is part of the midwest and snow is dumped on my lawn like an arctic rottweiler. I'm not quite sure if my state is schizophrenic or if it just procrastinates, but this year it decided to break form by having winter arrive early and, by that, I mean on time.
This past year December was actually snowy and for the first time in years we had a white Christmas rather than a brown and frankly rather muddy Christmas. While that is great for all those who rather enjoy sliding across wet ice while fully laden down with fragile presents in seizure inducing nightmares of psychedelic paper, the more important aspect of this was we actually did our winter shopping at a useful stage. For some odd reason the department stores in the area tend to sell winter supplies when the calendar says winter will be here rather than when it really arrives. Winter clothes pop up in late fall when it is still a balmy 68 degrees and then spring fashions are trotted out in the middle of a blizzard. I actually had the heat go out on me in late January and had to search all over town for a space heater because most stores had stopped selling them in favor of swim suits and water slides. As such, even though my front yard is an absurdly steep hill, the kids never have gotten to try sledding on it until this winter because we have never thought to buy sleds for the two weeks they are in stock in the stores because the kids are still wearing shorts. This year, though, the seasons and the stockpile in the stores miraculously lined up and we got to sleds for the kids. Two weeks later a coworker of my wife's gave us sleds for the kids so now we have twice as many sleds as we have kids. Even better, the donated, used sleds we got for free the kids like much more than the new sleds we shelled out for. I'm not entirely sure why I bother some days.
Watching my children play with their sleds has been, at least for me, an educational experience. It is fascinating to watch how children will spend two minutes in preparation for a 10 second thrill ride. I also discovered that two kids on sleds can clear a half inch of snow off a hill in less than an hour. Most sled days have come to an end not due to cold or exhaustion but due to my children unearthing the green lawn below the snow. If only I could get them to sled on the driveway I might not have to get out the shovels. I also discovered that the two burning bushes that we had planted at the base of my driveway several years before the kids were born were exactly one sledwidth apart. Too bad the burning bushes didn't learn the same lesson as the kids widened the path between them a bit by repeatedly mowing down one of the bushes.
After the last major snow the kids had wore the white stuff down to a nub so that, when it did get above freezing for a few days, my house once more had a green lawn and they reluctantly had to put away their sleds. Then yesterday it began snowing lightly and school was let out early. I picked up my children and began driving home. In the half hour it took me to drive home a light snow became heavy, a clear road became slushy, and a steep hill became an almost impassible slope. It was like trying to go up an the ski jump in the Winter Olympics. The kids looked out at the piling up snow and looked at me with expectant eyes. An hour later, I had them ready to go outside.
While the kids are playing I like to stand around and keep a watch out for oncoming cars. The road isn't that busy at the best of times, but that also means that most people drive up the hill assuming that the road is clear. However, as I noticed that most cars were spinning out and getting stuck and the snow was still coming down heavily, I began to relax. I began to relax so much that I began watching the kids sliding down the hill and recalling my own brief experience with sledding.
I did not have a sled for most of my childhood and my mother lamented that we ruined a large number of garbage can lids as we corrected this oversight. A garbage can lid does not offer much in the way of speed nor is it very good for control. But, if nothing else presents itself, it will work. But then one year I got a brand new saucer sled (it was the winter before we moved to the tropics so, there you go, but that is another story) and I was excited to try out getting some serious speed off this one.
My house at that time was near the top of an extremely long and extremely steep gravel road. At the bottom of this hill one was supposed to make a ninety degree turn to immediately turn upon a narrow bridge or else they would fall into the creek. This is where I decided was the best place to try out my new saucer sled. I'm not sure what my plan was when I hit the bottom of the hill in a mostly uncontrolled slide and found myself flying towards the frozen water below. Fortunately, I suppose, I never had to find out thanks to rather poor choice in family pets.
Now, don't get me wrong, I am not saying that Old English Sheepdogs make bad pets. Far from it. They are a lovable breed and actually very good with children. Actually, in most respects, they are a wonderful breed for families. The problem is, and it is not exactly a problem in most respects, is that sheepdogs are a working breed. The compulsion to herd things is encoded into the very strands of their DNA. They can't help it. So, sure, if you are prone to letting your children run wild and unsupervised a sheepdog can be a great way of making sure they don't try to escape the immediate grounds. The problem is that a sheepdog, apparently, can't quite tell the difference between sliding down a hill on a plastic saucer as a means of entertainment and a daring daylight escape attempt.
I took off going down the hill and I was doing great. I had tucked my legs in to reduce drag and I was leaning backwards to make myself more aerodynamic. I was accelerating and the world was narrowing down to a white blur. I was having fun. From behind me I heard the sounds of distant barking and ignored it. Dumb dog was always barking for no reason. Ten seconds later I was past the half way mark and going faster than ever. The wet scraping sound of the plastic sliding over wet snow had become a constant whistle and wind was whipping my numb cheeks. I was so happy and . . . was that barking louder? I looked to my left and saw the dog was now keeping pace with me. Wow, she could really move when she wanted to. Well, fine. I would race the dog and . . . why is she pulling in front of me?
The dog, in her oblivious canine way, foolishly seemed to assume I had some modicum of control over the device and was trying to force me to pull over so she could herd me back. I yelled at her to get out of the way and in that moment we both failed to take the hint the other was providing. In such a situation, the conflict is most quickly resolved by the member who has some control over his or her speed and also happens to be equipped with sharp teeth.
The dog bit my glove, gently, mind you, as she was only trying to pull me and not hurt me, and yanked on it to get my attention. As sleds work by exploiting the near frictionless properties of snow and ice, this resulted in me spinning around and I was now facing backwards while still sliding towards my eventual icy doom. Now that I was facing the way she wanted me to go, though, the dog felt encouraged and started tugging on me more incessantly. Thus is the reason I blame for why I went off the road, crashed into the bank, and wiped out in a ditch moments before hitting bottom. Getting run over by an overly enthusiastic sheepdog seconds later was just a nice way of topping an already memorable encounter with gravity.
Back in the present I was watching my kids enjoy themselves and remembering my last time when I went sledding and thinking, heck, it can't go nearly as bad as it did then, right? I'm sure I was thinking at the time I grabbed one of the saucer sleds and joined my kids in the snow. I'm just not sure what I was thinking. I know they were laughing hysterically and, I think, that was part of the reason I joined in. But I'm not certain what I was planning on doing after they laughed. I pushed off in the snow and went sailing down the hill.
When I prepared my kids to go sledding, I had padded them with lots of clothing to keep them warm, dry, and to soften their landings. They each wore knit caps and thick hoods as makeshift helmets. I, on the other hand, had dressed for standing out there. I only recalled this difference after I crested the top of the hill and saw just what I was plummeting down.
I hit the road and began spinning out of control in a shower of snow as I plowed into the neighbor's yard. I found out that they had, indeed, salted the road and I made that discovery by taste as I gulped down some of the salted spray as I was trying not to scream profanities in front of my children. As I came to rest, narrowly avoiding running into rocks, and slid into the driveway of my neighbor my son came running up to me and yelled "Again, daddy, again!"
Yes, I did it again. I never said I learn from my mistakes, now did I?
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