When you picture someone's doting grandmother, unless they are the matriarch of one of those famous clans known to dominate the world of automobile racing, you do not think of a person who claims to have a need for speed. In fact, the general slowness of granny drivers is often recounted by both famous comedians in comedy venues and frustrated coworkers around the water cooler, lamenting being delayed en route to their destination by some geriatric, snail-paced motorist. My mother's mother was this kind of driver, slow and steady, careful and cautious. She occasionally let a few cuss words slip when someone cut her off in city traffic, but that was the extent of her aggressiveness behind the wheel, safely contained within the interior of the car. On the other hand, my father's mother was a straight up lead-foot. Interestingly enough, my father had painstakingly taught both of them to drive. It was quite the contrast, both death defying experiences in their own right. He went from slithering around the city streets with his mother-in-law at the helm, a veritable slow moving road hazard, to holding on for dear life as his own mother hit the hammer down on the highway, looking for other dragsters to challenge on the short track. One of her nephews was a race car driver and she always used to tell us that someday she hoped that he might let her drive a few laps in his race car.
Her need for speed was not exclusively limited to her endeavors behind the wheel of an automobile. Despite the fact that she was already in her sixties at the time, I clearly remember sled riding with my paternal grandmother and I can assure you that she was no slouch on the slopes. The idea of riding a sled with your grandmother may or may not seem like a good idea to you. I suppose it depends on the kind of grandma you happen to have. Luckily, I enjoyed both kinds. For example, the idea of sled riding with my maternal grandmother was completely preposterous. Anyone that knew her and has just finished reading that sentence is probably giggling to themselves right now at the thought of plopping my mom's mom on a sled. Even long before she endured a quadruple bypass in the early 1980s, she was no snow bunny. Despite her heart condition, her endurance levels were unparalleled when it came to all day shopping marathons. Unfortunately, beyond the safety of the mall, and without the lure of a great bargain, I am afraid she would have petered out rather quickly. On the other hand, I don't think I ever remember being at a shopping mall with my paternal grandmother, but sled riding with her was something we eagerly looked forward to every winter.
We lived on a chunk of property that was as flat as a postage stamp. There was not a single hill in sight. The best we could come up with was the sloped entrance to my neighbor's barn. The barn was built on a little stone foundation and a man-made ramp of earth led up to the barn doors on the second level of the barn. You couldn't sled down the ramp itself as that would shoot you straight out into traffic on a 55 mph highway, but you could get a good six feet of sled riding in if you went down the left side of the ramp. That was the extent of our sledding at home. We had other winter adventures like flooding the backyard to make an ice skating rink, building enormous snow forts and elaborate tunnels but little to no sledding. I mean how many times can you make your way down a six foot hill before the thrill is gone?
Luckily, at my grandmother's vacation home, the entire front yard was a great big hill perfect for winter sledding. I would have been content to gently ride down the hill in front of her house on my little plastic roll-up sled, but my grandmother assured me that this would never, ever be fast enough. The first problem was that I had the wrong kind of sled. From some secret location in her basement, she dug out a few vinyl cushions. Because my family were not the type to attend local sporting events, at the time, I didn't recognize these strange flat cushions. They were actually old-school stadium cushions, but the slippery vinyl alone was not enough to achieve maximum velocity. Grandma scurried to the kitchen to mix up a special slippery concoction that would serve as a kind of homemade ski wax assuring that the fastest descent possible could be achieved. She then carefully coated the underside of each cushion with the mystery mixture. Finally, we could get to the much anticipated business of sledding.
Not quite yet. Grandma explained that in order to go really fast, you have to construct a launching station at the top of the hill. She personally identified the front porch as the perfect starting point for our speedy downhill ride. Relying on the massive amounts of snow available, we all worked together to create a kind of bob sled track starting at the front door, sliding down a snow chute built up over the stairs and then continuing down the rest of the hill. At the midpoint of the hill, you had a choice of two diverse routes. If you wanted the fastest but shortest route, you stayed straight. For a longer but slower ride, you could bear to the left. The choice was yours to make and no one ever harassed you about your decision, but it was guaranteed that grandma never chose the one on the left. Finally, after working together to prepare the fastest sledding track possible, we were ready to go.
My brother was the first to test out the newly constructed speed track. Grandma gave him a big, solid push off the front porch and down the snow-covered stairs. In a move that he and his snowsuit would later regret, he selected the speedier downhill route. At the bottom of the hill was a large flat space where you normally slid to a gradual stop. At the far end of this large flat expanse was a steep cliff-like drop off that led down to a second flat cleared area. This area was a small shooting range set up in order to sight in hunting rifles. It was not so much a cliff as a really steep, short hill. It was the first line of defense in keeping anyone from accidentally wandering into the line of fire on the shooting range. The second safety measure was that wild briar bushes had been allowed to grow out of control on this particular part of the property. Their purpose was to keep any dopes who were drawn to the sound of gunfire from getting sprayed with wayward buckshot. Below the shooting range was a forested hillside that stretched as far as the eye could see. Knowing the lay of the land becomes essential to the rest of the story surrounding my brother's super speedy descent.
On that particular day, my brother had chosen to wear a purple snowsuit with golden stripes running down each side. It was cinched in the middle by a purple snowsuit belt with a big silver buckle. After my grandmother gave him a hearty shove, he became little more than a violet blur with an occasional gold and silver sparkle. When he reached the first landing, it became clear that instead of slowing down, his momentum was actually increasing. Before we could comprehend what was happening, we watched in awe as he flew off the little cliff above the shooting range and immediately dropped out of sight. We ran to the bottom of the hill expecting to see him, but all we could see was a freshly broken trail through the snow, some scraps of purple material, and a few bits of white fuzz on a low hanging tree branch. We had lost visual. We frantically scanned the horizon in search of our speeding, out of control sibling, sailing down the tree-lined slope on a slicked-up stadium cushion.
It was then that we noticed a small purple lump far off in the distance. Could that be our broken and bent brother? He had actually slid off the far side of the shooting range and continued his wild ride deep into the middle of the forest. It was too far to tell but from where we were standing, it seemed as though he was lying in a motionless heap of mangled limbs. His death defying descent had taken him through a fairly treacherous tangle of old growth timber. If a tree had stopped his slide, surely he would need medical help. Just as we were about to call for a backboard, his arm popped up from the snowbank where he had landed. "I'm alright!" he shouted. We jumped up and down and shrieked like crazy, thrilled that he was unharmed and wowed by his maiden voyage. As he dug his way out of the snow heap and made his way towards us, we noticed something strange about his appearance. Unfortunately, we were still too far away to pinpoint the exact nature of the problem. As he drew closer, we realized the gravity of what had happened. His entire snowsuit had been shredded into hundreds of thin ribbons of purple fabric. The only thing that was keeping the cruel winter wind from ripping the remaining tattered shreds of fabric from his body was hits trusty little snowsuit belt. He looked like he was wearing one of those fringed flapper dresses from the roaring twenties, only there were little bits of white snow suit stuffing peaking out between the long strips of swaying purple fringe.
"What in the world happened to your snowsuit?" we laughed. It turns out that the wild briar bushes had been completely concealed underneath deep piles of fluffy white snow. Who knew that during the dormant winter period, they still remained razor sharp? When my brother flew off the little cliff, he raced right through a patch of brown dried-out briars. Despite their dead, lifeless appearance, their ability to slice and dice was completely intact. He's lucky he walked away with all his fingers. This didn't deter my grandmother from taking on the challenging descent herself. After all, now that my brother had smashed down all of those pesky briar bushes, you could enjoy an even longer ride. Just be sure to keep your arms close to your sides to avoid any remaining pricker bushes.
After her first trip, she made her way back up to the top where we were anxiously waiting to hear her review of the ride. She already had a few structural changes in mind. First of all, we needed to go down the hill a bunch more times in order to pack down the snow into a more icy chute that would allow us to go even faster. Second, we needed to create a jump at the bottom of the hill. If you were able to get enough air, you could totally avoid that tricky bit of the track that was completely surrounded by those pesky flesh shredding brambles. We quickly set to work applying her carefully calculated design changes. I can't remember where my parents were on this particular day, but I am sure that they were not observing our death defying descents. This was one of those things that your grandparents allow you to do that your parents would never, ever agree to if they actually knew it was happening. My grandparents normally had safety standards that were even stricter than the ones my parents upheld, but in the quest for the ultimate speed sledding adventure, some calculated risks had to be taken.
I can still here my grandmother's joyful whoops as she sped down that hill eagerly trying to snag an even faster time during each downhill run. If you felt daring, you could follow down behind her in a train of speeding cushions. For the more delicate little ones like me, you stuck to the solo action, where you could attempt to apply the brakes if the wild ride got a little too scary. You also had the option of dumping your
Just when you got to the point where your tootsies started to get a little numb inside your winter boots and the snow started to melt through your mittens to make your frosty fingers lose their feeling, Grandma would take us all inside to warm up. She would make us each a steaming cup of homemade cocoa from scratch on the top of her avocado colored stove. She always plopped two big, fat marshmallows in each toasty cup of warm chocolaty goodness. Our mittens and winter clothes would be draped over drying racks in front of the baseboards in the kitchen. If they dried out in time, we could squeeze in a few more speedy night runs down the snowy hillside between dinner and bedtime. We could even hit that jump if mom and dad weren't looking. I hope someday, when I'm in my sixties, I'm still sled riding with the grand kids just like my grandma did with us.
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