While I’ve had lots of outdoor fun this winter, my hands-down favorite happened just a few blocks from my home.
On the first in a three-day stretch of warm days, I ambled through downtown Greenfield. I hadn’t seen the streets so vibrant in months. The people looked as though they were seeing sunshine for the first time since childhood. Even the panhandlers seemed in good spirits.
The previous week’s snow still stuck around in places, and I made a note to enjoy it while it lasted. By the way the day felt, it seemed it was surely the last snow of the season.
There was something urgent I needed to do before winter was over. I just hoped there was still time.
The next day was another warm one. I picked up my son, River, after work, and made sure to grab his half-brother’s sled. Bounced with joy in his car seat as I wedged the sled into the back of my Jeep. We headed straight for Beacon Field, which was still white from end to end, though it had become grainy like finely ground ice.
Parking off Sanderson Street, I looked up toward the sledding hill. It was a little bare toward the top, but it would do just fine. River’s just a month past two years old, and it would be his first time in a sled. Seeing a jump at the bottom of the hill, I made a note to steer clear of it – I didn’t want to scare him on his first trip.
He was excited, but I think I was even more so. It seemed to take forever to get to the bottom of the hill, taking toddler steps all the way with his hand in mine. Once we were there, I scooped him up and trudged up the hill.
I plopped the sled down and held it in place with my feet, sat River down, and climbed in behind him. I counted us down, “One, two, three, go!” and we were off.
We picked up some good speed on the way down, cruising over the slick snow. We missed the jump by a mile, and kept going farther than I though we would, coming to rest near the tennis courts.
“Was that fun?” I asked.
“Mmph,” River approved.
We hiked back up for another run, starting just a little higher this time. I pointed the sled the same way we’d just gone, counted us down, and we were off.
We went straight for a second, then the cheap plastic sled wandered left. I tried in vain to steer us back on course. We were headed straight for the jump like we were riding on rails.
I put my hands under River’s arms and lifted him slightly up, so he wouldn’t take too much impact when we landed. The sled started to go out from under me, and I could tell it wouldn’t be there when we landed, so I shifted River so I could cushion his fall.
I went down on my right side, in a puddle that had accumulated in front of the jump. River stayed much drier, and he didn’t seem too startled.
“Want to go again?” I asked him. He said no. “Want to go home?” No again. So, I pulled him in the sled until he asked to get out.
Then he decided it was my turn. He took the rope, said “Daddy,” and pointed to the sled. He was determined to pull me, never mind the physics of it.
So I humored him. He proudly trudged through the snow, as I crab-walked with my hands, sliding myself along. Then, he saw some snowmen by the baseball backstop, and we did the toddler-trot all the way. After I pulled him back in the sled, he was up for another ride down the hill, so we shifted our starting point and made a couple more runs before we headed home for dry clothes.
Looks like I didn’t scar him after all.
David Rainville is a former reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at: daverain82@gmail.com