I wish every boy could experience snow the way we do in the South. Since it’s a rare occurrence here, there’s a sense of wonder and excitement that always comes with the white stuff. When snow was in the forecast, I could hardly sleep. The first thing I did when I woke up was dash to the window.
Most of the time, I was disappointed. If there was any snow at all, it was usually just a few thin, white splotches — it looked like our front yard had eczema. Inevitably, someone in the neighborhood would scrape together a mixture of snow and dead grass to create the most hideous, pathetic, anorexic snowman imaginable. It looked more like a scarecrow.
But once in a rare while, when I pulled back the curtain, there it was — a pure, white, magical world where my neighborhood used to be. It was quiet, placid and beautiful. As far as I could see, everything had vanished under a big, clean, linen blanket. The thick layer of snow softened the sharp edges of cars, roofs and mailboxes. I was mesmerized. My heart jumped. All I knew was that I wanted to be inside that snow globe.
My mom was already up, pulling out pairs of beat-up jeans, sweatpants, sweatshirts, athletic socks, old toboggans and work gloves. There wasn’t much snow gear in our house — or anyone else’s, for that matter.
One thing we did have was a homemade sled we’d built during the last big snowstorm. It looked clunky, but the wooden runners had old curtain rods nailed to the bottoms, which made it surprisingly effective at sliding down an icy road.
Mom helped dress me in layer after layer of clothing and topped me off with a big winter coat. I felt less like a kid going out to play and more like the Michelin Man. I could barely bend down to tie my shoes.
Once I was deemed ready, she shooed me out the door and said, “Now, honey, come back in through the basement and take off all those wet clothes before you come upstairs.”
Then she headed to the cabinet to get a bowl and forage the back deck for snow. When she bought our milk and bread, she’d also had the foresight to pick up several cans of condensed milk. That meant snow ice cream, a rare delicacy in the South, was on the menu.
A cold burst of winter air slapped me in the face as I crunched down the steps. At last, I was in the snow globe. Within minutes, I spotted Mark, one of my neighborhood buddies. He announced his presence by hitting me squarely in the chest with a snowball. I ignored the indiscretion and made a suggestion.
“Let’s go up the big hill and ride the sled.”
His eyes widened. “Okay.”
We headed to the top of Hickory Drive, known to every kid in the neighborhood as the big hill. It was a 200-yard strip of asphalt pitched at about a 45-degree incline, flanked by houses on either side. On a normal day, it was perfect for a fast bike ride. But that day, the sheet of ice covering it from top to bottom had turned it into a makeshift downhill bobsled run.
Hickory Drive and a bobsled track had a few things in common: both were smooth, slick and relied on gravity to build terrifying speed. That’s where the similarity ended.
A real bobsled run is engineered for racing. Ours was a frozen street. A bobsled track has high walls and a flat racing surface. Ours tilted sharply from right to left into a ditch lined with mailboxes. I’ve watched the Winter Olympics, and I’ve yet to see any bobsledders dodging ditches or mailboxes. They have helmets, training and precision-engineered sleds with steering and brakes. We had no helmets, no training and a sled built from 2×4 scraps and curtain rods. Our braking system consisted of dragging our feet on the ice — or praying a snowbank would stop us before a mailbox did.
“Just do it,” a voice in my head whispered. “How often do you get a chance like this? You know how much fun it is on a bike. Imagine it on a sled.”
I agreed. It didn’t even look that risky.
Since it was my sled, I went first. I took a long look at our little suburban bobsled run. The ditch and mailboxes needed to be avoided like asparagus at dinnertime. So, I decided to start my run by hugging the right side of the road, knowing gravity would pull me to the left.
I lay on the sled, stomach down, and pushed off. Almost instantly, I was hurtling toward the bottom of the hill — and a mailbox. This had not been part of the plan. I tried to slow down by dragging my shoes on the ice. Nothing. I couldn’t physically turn the sled. I had only a couple of seconds before a guaranteed trip to the emergency room.
So, I bailed. I rolled off the sled just before it careened into a metal mailbox post and slid headfirst into the ditch. I tumbled, hit hard and lay there for a moment — embarrassed, cold, but otherwise okay. I’m convinced all that clothing I had on saved me.
I stood up, brushed off the snow and looked back up the hill at Mark, who was now clearly rethinking his life choices.
I wouldn’t trade that snow-globe moment for anything. Because every once in a while, life gives you a rare, quiet morning where the world looks new again. And even if you end up in a ditch, those are the moments that stick with you the longest.
Joe Hobby is a barbecue-loving comedian from Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: www.mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com. Follow him on Facebook at Joe Hobby Comedian-Writer.
