Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, February 2, 1995 TAG: 9502020025
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CHRIS HENSON SPECIAL TO THE ROANOKE TIMES & WORLD-NEWS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
I'll be 32 soon, and while that doesn't bother me too much, I have to admit last weekend's snow got me thinking: It'd been more than half my life since I'd wrestled a Flexible Flyer down a good, long hill. I better do something quick before I get old.
This was the plan: On Monday morning, I told the boss I wouldn't be in until 2. At about 11:15 Matt, Gerry and I stuffed ourselves into the cab of my pickup and headed for Wal-Mart.
We were hitting the slopes as soon as we bought some sleds.
We searched aisle after aisle. I asked an employee where they kept the sleds. He pointed to a conspicuously empty row of shelves 40 feet long and eight feet high.
"Sold the last one, yesterday," he said. "Getting a late start, ain't you?"
I hadn't counted on this at all. I just assumed that they would have a sled, or dish, or snow-boat for every man, woman and child in the valley. Gerry bought a snow shovel, they had plenty.
We tried Play It Again Sports. Nothing doing. "Sold out yesterday."
Long about noon we were pacing Tanglewood Mall. Brendle's didn't have any - not today, not ever. We even thought of checking Leatherhous.
Hill's was sold out way before 12:30 when we got there. The people in Kroger thought we were crazy.
We stopped at a hardware store across town. Maybe THEY had some sleds?
"No," said one man. "We must've sold 50 of them in three hours this morning."
"You sure you don't have a few in back?" I asked. "Just one?"
"Nope," he said. "Do have this snow saucer here." He pointed at a dangerous-looking bright green disk. "Last one."
"How much?"
"$7.69," he said, casting a glance to his co-workers. Behind him sat a still-smoking pricing gun.
We decided to stop at Matt's parents to see if there was an old sled in the garage. "No," his father said, "but your sister might have one. And while you're out that way would you take this bag of old mittens over to her? Can't have too many old mittens."
Sure.
"And bring me her snow shovel, the one with the green handle."
Sure.
12:50. On the way we saw countless sleds and disks and toboggans sitting unguarded in yards covered by tiny shoe prints. Very tempting.
We hit pay dirt at the sister's house and were at the base of a hill on Valley Avenue in Wasena by 1:15. The slopes were packed down and slick. Children teemed over the hillside with sleds blazing.
Snow still fell, and as we picked up speed it became impossible to see. On our first descent we each hit a ramp and became airborne.
I wrenched my spine, and Matt may have bruised a rib.
I tried a couple more times scooting desperately down the hill, slowing at the bottom and falling to one side.
As we walked home Gerry turned to the kids on the hill.
"Those poor suckers," he said. "They have to keep going for a few more hours. Look at us! It's 2, and we're already through! We can nap!"
That night I took my dog Cody to the famous hill next to the Memorial Avenue bridge. This is where the serious sledding goes down.
Eight people crowded onto a tractor inner tube. Kids rode down the long grade on trash bags, card board, anything.
Cody chased them all, down and up, barking as if they were doing something unnatural.
After watching for a while I began to think sledding thoughts.
Danny Bass, offered me the use of his tube. After a strong push I flew downward, spinning and laughing. As Cody caught up with me he nipped at the tube.
There, at the bottom, beneath the ``Jesus Saves'' sign and the long shadows of exhilarated children I could hear it, the ominous hiss of air rushing through the hole Cody had just poked in this stranger's inner tube.
"That's OK," Danny said later. "My neighbor drives a Mack truck. I've got plenty of tubes."
They had just started a bonfire, and began collecting the stray mittens. We got in the truck and headed home.
When I squint into the deepening white of each year's first snow I am searching for my inner child - the one with a cold nose, red cheeks and waxed-up runners. And I'm sure he's at the top of one of those hills, not over it. So I will not stay at the bottom. I'll try again and hope that the slide is worth the climb; that these moments are worth the years in between.
They are, I think. When the snow is deep and crunchy. And you've got your own sled.
Chris Henson is a Roanoke free-lance writer.
by CNB