Nostalgia? No thanks, I’ll pass.

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

During a recent ice storm, I watched neighborhood kids sliding on the slope beside our house, sliding atop colorful snow tubes. Sliding on a bright blue toboggan, lightweight and made to zip down the slope. And wearing warm and water-resistant clothing.

 

Part of my brain went “Wow!” Another part of my brain got busy recalling the winter clothing and snow sliding equipment I had when I was their age and growing up in the Catskill Mountains. That part soon turned green with envy.

 

In the years after WWII, we made do with hand-me-down sleds. The narrow runners were prone to rust that had to be rubbed away with steel wool. One sled would accommodate only a single short person, or a taller person able to bend his knees in a snowsuit and stick his feet in the air if he belly flopped or draw his knees to his chin if he sat and steered with his feet. The other sled was longer and could accommodate two people, either sitting, or with one flopping on top of the other. Not much fun if you were the bottom flopper.

 Both sleds were more likely to give us splinters than smooth rides.

 Later we acquired a wooden toboggan. It was a varnished work of art. Four of us could sit on it. But unless we kept up with the waxing and unless the snow was perfect and the slope steep, it provided all the thrill of watching bread rise. Plus, because few slopes were free of stumps or shrubs or rocks, and steering was a joke, we often crashed or were dumped.

 On icy days, we slid on old cookie sheets and lobbied hard for those bowl-shaped snow sliders. I can’t recall whether we ever got one, but I expect it didn’t last long if we did. We weren’t especially gentle with our toys.

 Outside play was limited by the temperature, the layers we pulled on, and the water-resistance of our clothing. Back in the day, that wasn’t great. In fact, it was pathetic. Mittens and leather gloves got soaked through in no time. Snow sifted inside jackets without hoods, jackets that didn’t extend far below the waist. And, unless we donned those ugly black galoshes over our shoes and fastened them as tight as possible, our feet got wet, and our toes numb.

 All of that goes a long way toward explaining why, back in the day, I preferred to sit by the fireplace and read.

 And I still do.