Dashing through the Snow

Did you go sledding as a kid?

The kids I knew in Dumont shimmied under a gap in the fence at the White Beeches Golf & Country Club, which is technically in Haworth. We entered from Prospect Avenue in Dumont, and somehow slid our sleds through the hole, too.

Haworth was a wealthier town. In Dumont, we knew nothing about dress codes, blue blazers or country club memberships. [I should clarify--my oldest brother, OB, worked as a caddy at White Beeches. It was all a mystery to me, except I do remember golf shoes with fancy leather fringe and a set of golf clubs, and maybe even some talk about tips.] I had no clue I was riding my Flexible Flyer at an elite destination, at a place that required dues and membership. To me, those perfect rolling hills were the best ride in town, really the only ride on our side of the tracks, and we all just called it the White Beeches Golf Course.

I'll never forget the fear and the freedom, the briskness, the bravado, the cold. I was pretty bad at learning to steer [Dumont High School driver's ed class is another story] so I made sure the coast was clear, that I could cut a safe path. Then came the icy thrill--the sled swerving and gliding, swoosh, whoosh, yes! It felt like it would never stop. And we were all equal then--just kids in jeans with jackets, hats, gloves and boots. We all ended up freezing when the snow stuck to our pants. It didn't matter who had a boyfriend, whose parents were divorced, who got in trouble at school and who never did. The snow was a great leveler. It was free, frosty, indulgent and belonged to us all.

Sometimes I would lay down on my belly and other times I sat up, holding the rope that moved the steering bar. The second way was scarier. I was sometimes unprepared for the velocity. And while the walk back up was long, it was not nearly as long as it has felt when I've sledded with the two young girls in my life, Fig and Punch & Judy. I always end up wishing I had taken more iron pills or Geritol or something.

Today, when I walked Sugar on Upper Mountain Avenue in this far more privileged town, it was like a Currier & Ives painting over by the Iris Gardens. Tons of kids in brightly colored snow gear, on saucers, toboggans, sleds. Their parents pulling them, then helping to tug the sleds back up. One thing was noticeably different: We didn't have parents with us at White Beeches. These were the days of kids heading out to play on their own, and no mom or dad was going to shimmy under that fence with us on a frigid afternoon. [Plus, parents probably could not fit.]

But as Sug and I approached our house, W., M., E. and S., four adorable little kids on our block, were swooshing down the icy, packed hill in E.'s front yard. Wow, were they going. Wow, were they laughing. What a beautiful thing. I'm sure their parents were watching from inside, but I couldn't help stopping for a while and just cheering on these two kindergartners, one first grader and one second grader, exclaiming over their spills and pile-ups, applauding their coasting triumphs, admiring the pink pom-poms on their hats and their nice, toasty-looking snow pants.

"Bye," I said to the kids when I was heading in with Sug, whose little 10-pound-self was shivering by then [even though she too has a warm, fleece-lined green coat]. "Be careful, you're ending up in the street, and I'm afraid the cars won't see you."

"Thank you! Happy Valentine's Day!" they hollered back.

Oh, to slice through the snow once more--what a stunning free ride it would be.