A Slippery Slope

The backyard this morning

It has happened again; winter has dug her icy talons into my life.  I awoke this morning to yet another fresh coating of snow.  It was only a week ago that I saw the ground again for the first time in nearly a month. I must admit, the artistry was magnificent.  It was hard to see just how beautiful it looked at first since I was up before dawn to shovel the walks at work.  However, as the sun rose and burned its way through the clouds, a true winter wonderland was revealed.  It was one of those wet snows that clings to each branch and twig and paints the tree trunks white.  Such storms are like shooting stars - shining brightly for a brief moment but destined to fade quickly away.  By noon, the temperature had already climbed above freezing, and the warmth of the sun caused the snow to lose its grip and begin tumbling in wet plops to the ground. In a couple days, the temperatures will once again climb into the 50’s and the snow will vanish just as quickly as it appeared. 

I have tired of shoveling snow and ice this winter.  It has felt like a never ending assault, and my nerves have finally cracked under the pressure.  But that is not to say that I don’t like snow; quite the contrary.  I have always loved snow, from my earliest memories of standing patiently as Mom dressed me in layers, pulling on my coat, struggling to get my wiggly fingers stuffed into gloves, and tugging on my boots, right up to recent years where a steady snow falling on a still night beckons me out into the darkness to go for a walk. 

I love those quiet times where the only sounds are the crunch of my boots and the soft tapping of heavy flakes against my face and hat. But for sheer joy in the snow, I have to go back to pre-shoveling days.  In those early years, snow always held the promise of a day off school, although attending Indianapolis Public Schools meant that was a rare event.  For me snow was not measured by how much there was to remove, but by how easily it packed to make a snowman or a fort.  I can remember after a particularly heavy snow, hollowing out the pile pushed to the side of my neighbor’s drive, sliding in and watching my clothes steam in the warmth. Likewise, I recall how the bottom half of my jeans would always freeze, being stiff and frosted to the knees whenever I had been out playing.

I was not privileged to be born in a mountainous region.  Mid-westerners must travel long distances to ski, but we are well versed in sledding.  When you are young any hill will do.  In my first neighborhood, the properties on my side of the street were flat, but the neighbors on the opposite side lived on a gentle rise.  The goal was to find a neighbor who was not yet home from work and who had not cleared their drive, then you would hurry down and get in some quick sledding runs, making sure you didn’t shoot out into the street when a car was passing by.  Thankfully,  it was a dead end street, so cars were rare.

If you wanted to get a real thrill, you had to talk your mom or dad into packing you into the car and heading to one of the hot spots nearby.  For us there were three potential sites- the local golf course, the hill behind School 77, or Ellenburger Park.  Ellenburger was by far my favorite with the tallest, steepest hill of all three.  It meant a little more work climbing to the top, but the trip down was reward enough.  There were three different paths you could take down the hill.  There was the straight forward, regular hill.  It was long and fast and was the most used part of the park.  Just to the side of this was an area where the ground formed a series of steps that were to a sledder what moguls are to a skier.  I fancied myself a highly skilled sledder, so this was my preferred route.  On the regular hill, I would traverse the course in the age old, belly down position.  For fun, we might stack two or three of us together, but invariably, the stack would lean, and we would all tumble halfway down.  But I had mastered the ability to stand on my sled and ride it like a surfboard, and that is how I would traverse my stepped course.  I’ve never been given to much confidence or cockiness, but I’ll admit, after riding this difficult stretch, I sort of looked down my nose at all the little kids struggling with their saucers on the big hill.  

Eventually, I began to imagine myself as some sort of alpine rescue worker, ready at a moment’s notice to hop on my board and save some poor unfortunate soul. One day I got just that chance.  This time the sledding was occurring on the third area of Ellenburger.  A little past the bumpy hill was the path that wound through the pine trees.  It was a little less steep, didn’t include the bumps but required turning, which limited its use.  With a Flexible Flyer and a little skill, one could easily traverse the path between the trees, but all the poor unfortunate kids with discs and toboggans were forever stuck on the big, open hill.  On this particular morning, I noticed a mother encouraging her young son to go down the wooded path.  I was frustrated because they were blocking “my path” so I sat back and watched and waited.  The boy was obviously very nervous about making the run, and he tearfully argued with his mother.  But she held firm and eventually was able to convince him to give it a try.  Reluctantly, he climbed aboard his sled and with a soft push from his mom, began his trip down.  I was waiting for him to hit a tree, but he surprised me and managed to make the turns and remained squarely on the path.  What neither he nor his mom had taken into account, however, was the fact that at the bottom of the hill were all the discarded Christmas trees from the neighborhood, piled high for the upcoming bonfire for the 12th Night ceremonies. As the giant brush pile grew ever closer, the boy held his course and kept a firm grip on the sled.  I thought he would roll off or find some other way of stopping, but he just kept charging forward.  In amazement, I watched as he rammed full speed into the stack of trees, half his body disappearing into the pile.  He was stuck and immediately started calling for help.  Ah, my moment of glory had arrived.  I grabbed my sled, took a running start and dove down the hill holding the sled tight to my body.  I hit the ground with a breath jarring thud, but I already had good speed.  I angled across the hill towards the trapped boy, and just as I approached the trees, I rolled off allowing my sled to continue. I jumped to my feet and charged over to free the crying boy from his entrapment.  It wasn’t difficult, I only had to lift one or two trees before he and his sled were free, but it didn’t take anything away from the pride I felt in performing my first rescue.  I waited a moment or two for the thanks and praise that would surely be heaped upon me by the mother, but instead she just tip-toed her way down the hill and began another verbal assault on her son for not having avoided the tree pile.  It was as if I didn’t exist, so quietly I picked up the rope to my sled and plodded slowly away, my skills and heroism unacknowledged.

As I grew, so did my center of gravity and soon the surfboard style of sledding gave way to more traditional approaches.  Eventually, sledding stopped altogether for me until one night in high school when a few of my buddies invited me to join them for a late night sledding adventure. Our destination was a steep hill in the woods.  Sledding through trees is actually a very foolish proposition, even in the daytime, but teenagers have not yet developed that part of the brain that registers fear or common sense.  (You can trust me on this, I’m a doctor!)  So one by one we headed off through the trees.  It wasn’t long before the crashes started.  Shoulders, heads, and fingers soon bore the marks of unexpected meetings with tree trunks.  I believe my friend Steve broke a finger and we questioned whether one of the other guys had hurt his collarbone.  After my first impact, I learned my lesson.  When I suspected I could not make the turn to avoid a tree I would simply roll off.  The sled would still hit the tree squarely, but I would at least be safe.  This plan worked fine until my coat snagged on a nail sticking out of the sled’s surface.  Instead of rolling off, I sort of pivoted around the nail and was turned perpendicular to the sled, yet still on it.  The tree hit me squarely in the stomach, and I swear my head and knees met on the other side of the trunk.  The wind was knocked out of me, as well as the rest of my bravado.  We called it quits for the night, and with the exception of one glorious weekend of sledding at our trailer at Raccoon Lake (that’s a story for another day,) I ended my sledding career.

Sledding with my son many years ago.

These days I pick my steps carefully on the snow.  I’ve taken more than a few tumbles this winter.  The old Flexible Flyer sat rusting in my parent’s basement for many years.  I don’t know what happened to it.  Perhaps my sister inherited it for her girls.  I limit myself to driving by our local sledding hills and watch the young ones having fun.  It is their time now, but there was once a time where I truly felt I was king of the hill.

The Newlyweds

Bess and Jesse Fifer 1917

It’s a prized photo.  A young couple stands in the shade of a tree in the yard of an Illinois farm.  She has her arm lovingly thrown around her partner’s shoulders.  With his hat clasped in his hand, he is dressed in his nicer clothes and not the overalls he usually wore on the farm.  Her bobbed hair and manner of dress suggests the time period is the 1920’s, but I know it is even a little earlier than that.  In fact the year was 1917.  The couple was newlyweds, and they were deeply in love.  The pride of their new-born life together and the hope and promise of their future was very evident on their faces.  Their names were Bess and Jesse Fifer, and they were my grandparents. 

They had reason to be proud of this marriage.  It hadn’t come easy.  After the usual courting period, Jess finally worked up the nerve to propose.  They went for a ride in the buggy and when the time was right, they stopped; Jess got down on his knees and “prayed” that Bess would marry him.  She played coy at first and said no, but finally she acquiesced and said yes.  According to Bess he was so startled by her reply that he fell out of the buggy, startled the horses and sent them running.  Bess quickly reined them in and brought the buggy back to see Jesse on his knees and rubbing his head.  He looked up and said, “Did you say yes or no?”  She assured him that her answer was indeed yes.

There is no wedding photo of the couple, however.  That is because there was never a traditional wedding.  Because Bess was not yet 18, the couple was not allowed to be married.  That did not stop these two love birds.  On a cold, cold day in February, 1917, Bess climbed out of the window of the home where she and her sister were staying, and she and Jesse eloped.  They were to be instantly tested.  February of 1917 was the ninth coldest February ever recorded in Illinois.  On the day they eloped, even Georgia and Florida did not climb out of the 20’s.  In central Illinois, the temps were subzero.  Family legend has it that even the trains were not running that day due to the severity of the weather.  Nonetheless, the young couple climbed into their buggy and began a 40 mile trip over frozen muddy roads from Arthur to Sullivan, Illinois.  It must have been brutal, but their love for each other and the excitement of the moment kept them warm.

Finally, they arrived in Sullivan and still had one more obstacle to overcome, Grandma’s age.  No problem.  Bess was not going to be put off by the fact that she was still a few months shy of her 18^th birthday.  As she explained it, “I wrote down the number 18 on a piece of paper and put it in my shoe.  When the judge asked me if I was over 18, I said yes.  And I was…I was standing right over it.”  Problem solved. 

That hand is still on his shoulder more than 60 yrs later

And that is why the two people in the photo look so happy.  They had conquered the weather and they had conquered the law to start on what would be a 67 year love affair.  It was a life tested by two world wars and the Great Depression, but their love carried them through.  In 1983, just a week shy of their 67^th anniversary, Jesse suddenly died.  Grandma Bess, who had always been so full of life and playfulness, became just a shadow of herself.  Although she would fight back, she never fully returned to that carefree person I see in the picture.  What carried her along the next five years was the belief that they were still together in spirit.  Grandma would often disappear into her bedroom, and we could hear her talking to Grandpa.  Love never really dies.  That’s why I’m sure that on that morning in March of 1988, when sipping her morning coffee at the breakfast table Grandma collapsed and passed, there was a scene in heaven much like the old photo.  A couple was again snuggling together, their arms wrapped around each other, and their faces once again illuminated by those big, beautiful smiles.  Yes, love never dies.

Rain

It’s raining outside.  Not a heavy downpour, but a cold, wet, chill-you-to-the-bone kind of rain.  I haven’t decided if I’m happy about it or not.  After weeks of snow followed by inches of ice, I’m happy to have any precipitation that is not solid.  And the truck did need a good rinsing to remove all the salt.  But last week tempted us with the sun and warmth of spring, and I’ll admit, I was instantly spoiled.

I’ll also admit I’ve had a love/hate relationship with rain my entire life.  My earliest thoughts of rain go back to those days in early elementary school.  Rain meant dressing in my yellow rain slicker (the inside of the hood clearly marked with my name in black marker lest I confuse it with the dozen or so identical slickers hanging in the classroom closet) and my big goulashes.  It always took me a while to load on all of this gear and one by one close the fold-over snaps.  If it rained too hard it mean Mom would load us into the station wagon and drive us there.  The atmosphere of the classroom was always different on a rainy day.  It always looked so dark outside when viewed from within the classroom.  It made me tired and slow.  Lord help the teacher if there was thunder, because everyone’s attention was then focused solely on the windows.  For some reason, I remember the rainy days and not the sunny ones.

I can remember one summer around 1969 or ’70 when I got to join my sister and her friends as they played outside in the pouring rain.  There was no lightening to make it dangerous, just a good old fashioned gulley-washer of a shower.  My gray ISU tee-shirt from my older, collegiate sister lay black and plastered against my body, and my hair dripped over my face.  We got permission from Mom to head out past the dead end and take an excursion to Sally Sundae's ice cream shop on busy Arlington, where we treated ourselves to a frozen treat.  I suspect I had a slushy.  What surprises me is that I don’t remember being cold, even with an out layer of wet clothes and a pile of lime-flavored ice in my belly. 

 

I’ve always loved the white noise that rain provides.  For many years we owned a trailer at Raccoon Lake where we spent every weekend and spring vacation.  There is nothing like the sound of rain on a metal roof to lull you to sleep.  Crawl a little deeper under the blanket and just listen to the pitter-patter of the raindrops.  That same scenario could be turned into quite a tense night if you threw in some lightening and wind.  A little trailer surrounded by huge trees in a storm gets your attention pretty quickly.  Those same trees liked to play with us during the day time.  You could sit outside under the trees in a light to moderate shower and never get wet, their canopy was so thick.  You could hear the rain, and you could see it hitting the nearby lake, but there you sat nice and dry.  But they had a sense of humor, too.  A half hour after the rain ended and the sun broke through, a light breeze might blow through, shake the leaves and dump all the stored water down on you in great big drops.  It usually felt good, and it would always make us laugh.

Rain to an adult is totally different than rain to a child.  Now I look out and think how I can’t mow the lawn or plant the garden.  My wife laments the fact that she just spent half a day washing the windows, only to see them again splattered and dirty.  We have to think about things like sump pumps and flood insurance.  The basement at my childhood home once flooded.  The water literally sprouted from the walls and shot into buckets a couple feet away.  Eventually it covered the floor, so furniture went up on blocks.  I would carry up buckets of water and toss them out the back door, never realizing that they were just soaking back into the ground, ready to leak in again.  Dad blocked the basement drain with his bowling ball because the water was backing up in the sewers.  Eventually, the rain stopped and the water went away.  I got a few wet books out of the adventure, but no real damage.  Like I said, rain is not nearly as fun when you are an adult.

That's why I want to go back to when a long walk in the rain was a summer adventure.  When puddles called me to jump in them or ride through them on my bike.  When flooded yards were a place to wade and not worry about basement damage.  I want to fall asleep with the rain gently striking a metal roof, and I want to pull the old yellow blanket up just a little further and just drift off.