Years ago, the neighborhood would gather on Shaw's Hill and slide from daylight until dark during the winter months. I remember the couple of layers of long underwear and cordoroy pants did little to protect from the cold and wet. Once adjusted to the warmth of the house my legs would burn and itch, but the hours and hours sliding were worth it. Snow pants you say? I didn't own a pair until I was in Junior High School and certainly it wasn't fashionable to wear, but they kept you toasty and dry.
I had the old fashioned wooden sled with the steel runners. This relic manufactured in Paris, Maine offered great steering, but only good in packed snow and it was a little rough on the bumps. When I was in 7th grade I tore my ultra colorful winter jacket on a nail protuding from this sled. Secretly, I hoped that this would happen, but I never let on to my mother for she adored that jacket, that jacket wild with brushstrokes of pink, green, yellow and purple. When I wanted to just quietly exist among my friends as a thirteen year old, it screamed, "Notice me! I am here!" Later, walking home I reviewed the scene over and over in my mind reporting the news to my mother that the jacket was ripped beyond repair and was headed for the trash heap. Of course I had to act disappointed and sad or as penence she would force me to wear the ripped jacket. Nimbly her fingers repaired and soon I was off for the rest of the winter (and the next) as a beacon on Shaw's Hill and anywhere else I went.
Photos: December 2010 Kebo
