Remembering: There Was A Time In Fairfield . . .

I have been sitting by the window watching the snow.  It is coming down sort off sideways because of the wind, but it’s a nice snow, gradually blanketing the road below, filling in spaces in the woods opposite me and every now and then gusting off the roof  in a dense flurry. I like it. 

And I am remembering.

Remembering that before World War 2 when a snow like this appeared, as soon as it lessened, our childlike excitement would build. Soon my uncle would show up at our house with my two cousins and we would go sledding. Not your normal sledding down a hill as one might expect, although we did that, too, on nearby Brown’s Hill, but instead, a particular sledding experience that I think my father and my uncle, devised themselves in their creative, fun-loving way.

What we did was this: Using a thick rope, Dad and my uncle would lash our five sleds together forming a line of sleds. Then Dad, at the wheel of our 1935 wooden Ford station wagon, would tow us along the unplowed roads, while Uncle Goodie, watching us, would sit on the open tailgate, wrapped in hat, parka and scarf, his legs swinging over the snow.

How I loved my wooden Flexible Flyer with its shiny natural varnish and bright red lettering and runners. We all had them and they were prized possessions. The youngest kids—my brother and one of my cousins-- would be in front. I suppose that was thought to be the safest position. And my sister and I and our other cousin would be staggered toward the rear. We had to lie down on our sleds facing forward. We were pretty low to the road on those sleds and we laughed as snow blew up into our faces.

Dad drove slowly enough to be safe but fast enough so that we had to pay attention and steer. Around the Green, onto Unquowa Rd, and Pine Creek. Few houses then. No one else was ever on the road. A white, hushed emptiness: it was magical. Except for the slight rumble of the Ford engine, all would be silent.

I remember this as one of the highlights of my childhood winters in Fairfield. I remember the feeling of the cold against my face, the smooth slide of my sled along the streets, our calling out to each other: my father and his brother wreathed in smiles as, together, they gave this pleasure to us. I remember the mugs of hot cocoa topped with plump, soft marshmallows that Mom would hand us when we came inside, all pink-cheeked and shivery.

 I remember the feeling of family: the five of us kids joined in play as we so often were. Dad and his brother having fun with us.

My father and my uncle are gone. Two of the five of us are dead now. It’s so hard to believe. 

How grateful I am for this memory that today’s big snow surfaced for me.

I imagine that in these days my father and uncle would be marched into court for child endangerment. There was a time when Fairfield, indeed, this entire country, was a simpler, quieter place.