Do you remember early snowfall when you were a kid?
I vividly recall that in November each year we would have flurries several times, and then, all at once, usually overnight, it would dump about six to 10 inches of cold white snow upon on us. Even so, we still made it to school then. My mother says that when she went to school at Fort Hill, she had to walk to and from in hip-deep snow, and uphill both ways.
I guess there were fewer lawyers around in the ’40s. Nowadays if a kid slips and falls, its somebody’s fault for not cancelling classes.
I was about 8 when I got a pair of wooden skis for Christmas, and immediately went into the woods behind our house, and up to the top of the hill. Don’t panic when I tell you that I had no idea how to steer myself between the trees, but I managed to schuss my way to the bottom many times. We had fun in the snow, with snowball fights. Usually, our battle areas were up the road near Gary’s house. We also rode sleds and saucers down Mr. Clopper’s hill. It was steeper than behind my house, but there were no trees to plow into. Sometimes I wonder how we did survive childhood as I listen to all the “cautions” that are now stacked in the way of fun.
Kids today would rather stay inside and play video games. No wonder they’re overweight — they don’t get outside to run or sled down a hill. In the summer months, we played ball whenever we had enough for two teams. It wasn’t always baseball; we played tackle football without protective pads or helmets covering our hard heads. Yes, there were bumps, bruises and the occasional tooth that got knocked out. We went ice skating soon as one of us could walk out on the pond without going through the ice. Perhaps we were fortunate to have survived childhood, but at least we lived it.
We had a jitney with soap box derby wheels. That was fun! Gary and I had no sooner put the wheels on our flat, two-man racer steered with feet, and off we went down Weires Avenue — Gary driving, me on the back holding on for dear life. About halfway down the street, we saw a truck coming our way. Oh, I forgot to mention that we failed to put brakes on it. The truck was delivering up the same hill that we were descending. He didn’t slow or stop, and we couldn’t. Disaster was imminent. At the last moment, Gary steered hard left into our driveway at the bottom of the hill. The truck flew on by, and we T-boned a big brown rock. Our jitney stopped on a dime. The rear end went airborne, and I was catapulted over Gary and at least 10 feet beyond the crash site. Wow! We were going do it all again, but the racer had been broken beyond our ability to fix. Skiing was actually safer, now that I look back.
I truly don’t know how or why we survived childhood, but damn it was fun. I would do it all again in a heartbeat, but my wife Cheryl couldn’t bear to hear me moan and groan any more than I already do.
Joe Dorsey, a resident of Short Gap, W.Va., is a retired employee of the U.S. Postal Service. He writes occasional columns for the Times-News.
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