The Vintage Sled

I know I said that I would write about Hanukkah today, but I am going to wait until the weekend. Due to a last-minute family schedule shift, aside from lighting the Menorah each night, we have put the festivities on hold until the last night of Hanukkah, which is Sunday. I would rather wait to write it about it so I can include some photos too.

In yesterday’s post, I mentioned a vintage sled. If you look closely, you will notice that it is propped up on the fireplace hearth.

The sled has been in our family for a long time. It originally belonged to my dad when he was a kid. It is probably around 70 years old. When I was in junior high, Dad brought it back from his childhood home in Northern Missouri and gave it to my sister and me. I do not know why it caught his eye on that particular trip up north. Perhaps he had been helping my Grandma clear out some junk, or he may have been looking specifically for the sled. Either way, once he brought it home, he wiped it clean, took some steel wool to the runners, and he gifted it to us.

There was never much snow in Missouri, but there was plenty of ice. Because there were no salt trucks, the streets would ice over and only brave or crazy people made it to work some winter days. My dad was a mail carrier so, he made it to work. He developed mad driving skills.

When the conditions were perfect, just once per winter or so, and my Dad was up for it, he would drive me to the secluded, hilly backroads at night, and I would scream down an icy road on this sled while he followed safely behind me lighting the way with the headlights. Then, he would drive me back to the top so I could do it all over again. and again. He would make a guess about how fast I was going. “You were going at least 15 mph, I think. I was driving around 10, and you were going much faster. I had a hard time keeping up!” He seemed quite proud of my fearlessness. It is one of my happiest memories with my dad.

Once I left home, the sled was forgotten. I asked about it a time or two over the years, and my dad said that it was “still around here somewhere.” In 2013, after my dad had been gone for over a year, we passed through Missouri on our way to our new home here in New York. It was perfect timing. Mom was clearing out things in preparation for moving, and we had a U-haul with some extra room. I found the sled in the pole barn, partially buried in the dirt, and far rustier than I remembered it. Andy took one look at it and deemed it a “death trap.” With memories swirling around in my head, I laughed off his remark.

Flash forward to present day, or last winter to be precise. We live in a place with North Pole proportions of snow, and I could not wait to show the kids how awesome this sled was. Sure, the wood was decaying a bit, and the runners were rusty, but in my mind, it was pure perfection.

I dug the sled out of storage, wiped off the cobwebs, and scrubbed the runners with steel wool, just like dad. Excitedly, I showed it to the kids. S. immediately called it a “death trap.” I am certain that Andy put him up to that. I told them the icy backroads story. No helmet! I was going at least 15 miles per hour! That is faster than I drive down our street! None of them could believe that Grandpa had let me engage in such an unsafe activity. Kids these days.

The road in front of our house was completely covered with snow and ice, and I encouraged them to take it for a spin. No one would. I decided that I needed to show them how it was done. Clearly, they were judging the sled by its looks, and I would show them that their concerns were unjustified.

I held the sled out in front of me and I took off at a dead run, I dropped the sled, plopped down on it just like I did in the old days, but instead of gliding across the surface like I remembered, the runners bit into the snow, the sled stopped cold, and I flipped “ass over teakettle” as they say in Missouri. At that moment, sprawled out on the road hearing the kids laugh and laughing at myself, I knew it was time to retire Dad’s sled. It would never be able to compete with those newfangled plastic disks. Its time had passed.

So now it sits on the hearth, resting and bringing back memories. My kids will never know the same kind of fun I had, but I will never forget it. Thanks Dad.