Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Winter Memories, January 27, 2013


Memories of winters past.
By Merlin Lessler (aka The Old Coot)

It snowed more and was a lot colder when I was a kid. Back in the 50’s. At least that’s what us old coots will tell you. But, in spite of our tendency to exaggerate, we really do know the truth about the weather back then; we spent all our free time out in it. We hated to be called home for dinner; our mothers had to threaten us with bodily harm. We couldn’t wait to go back out and spent the entire meal begging for permission. Our moms would eventually give in and say, “OK - but only until the street lights come on.” Which in the winter didn’t give us much time. We quickly bundled up and flew out the back door. 

                                                   my sister, Madeline, and me taking a break



And, boy, were we bundled up:  wool coats, leggings (snow pants), two pairs of socks, leather shoes crammed into buckle boots, knitted hats, scarves and mittens (mine came every year as a Christmas present from my “knitting” aunt in Connecticut). There was always a gap between the end of the mitten and the sleeve of my jacket leaving me with red, raw, frozen wrists. I never was able to convince her to make the mittens longer.

It was a wonderland out there, a real life, snow globe. My sisters and I were lucky; we lived near the top of Chadwick Road (though I never thought so when I had to push my bike up the hill when I came home from playing in the “flats” (the cluster of veteran houses and fields at the bottom of the hill). It was a steep slope, perfect for sled riding (as we called it), as was Denton Road, the next street over. We were a gang, us kids that lived on the two blocks that made up our neighborhood. A gang of winter Olympians.

After a snowstorm the city ash trucks would climb our hill, chains on the tires and a burly worker standing in the back shoveling ashes onto the road in wide swaths. We ran along side the truck begging him to leave a strip of snow by the curb. Usually he would. When the snow on the road melted we shifted our sledding to our back yards and the fields behind the houses on Denton Road. My house was blessed with a steep hill between it and the one next door. It gave us a thrilling ride that carried us across the flat part of the yard and down a second hill into the fields that have since been built over with a cluster of houses. 

We came down those snow-covered hills every way imaginable: face down on a sled, sitting up, standing and holding the rope and on skis with loops of leather as bindings. But, my favorite downhill racer was a flattened cardboard box. It could zip past the fastest of sleds. The Wall’s kids (Woody and Stu) had a toboggan, and like all play equipment back then, it was shared around the neighborhood. No words were spoken, no contracts signed; we just went to the owner’s garage, took the equipment and knocked on the window to let them know who had it. The Walls family had the toboggan, the Harris family had the stilts, I had the Irish-mail, a hand powered, four-wheel vehicle guaranteed to make you as strong as Charles Atlas. The Burtis brother’s back yard, at the top of Denton, was the access point to a makeshift ski lane that started on South Mountain in the woods above Moore Avenue. The slope was so steep we could barely climb it with our sleds. The trail was narrow; trees lined it on the right, thick briars on the left. I could never keep the toboggan out of the briars. As far as I could tell, it was un-steerable, in spite of all the leaning we did from side to side and our desperate tugs on the so-called steering ropes.

Not so, for the Barton brothers (Buzzy and Chickadee). They sometimes came over from an adjacent neighborhood with a wooden bobsled (the only one in town as far as we knew). It was fast and it could be steered. I never got to ride it; none of us younger kids did. We just stood off to the side watching in awe and sucking the moisture out of our sodden wool mittens. I'm envious to this day of that bobsled.

The snow we loved best of all was the wet heavy stuff. That’s when our neighborhood turned into an Eskimo village. Every yard had an igloo and the air was ablaze with hard packed snowballs. We were smart back then. Snow smart! You didn’t see us going around in flip-flops like kids do today. And, unlike the “four-eyed” kid on the ever popular “shoot-your-eye-out” Christmas movie, we knew how to unstick our tongue when we’d been double dared and touched it to a frozen, metal sled runner. If you don’t know the secret, you won’t learn it from me. I don’t have time. I don’t even have time to mention Joe Barry’s ski run and rope tow at the top of Stone Road, or the “bear trap” ski bindings that didn’t release when you fell. Or, the trains we formed with our sleds. Or, the army surplus skis we bought that were longer than we were tall. Or, the new fangled flying saucers that came on the market in the mid 1950’s. Or, the day a frozen rain covered the city and we ice skated on the sidewalks and roads all over town. I don’t have time. It’s starting to snow and I have to bundle up. It’s still a wonderland out there! (To me).


Me at age 1 with Madeline age 3
I guess we'd had enough!


My sister Madeline on left, Patsy on right




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