Mush!!

     As we wrap up a significantly snowy season, I flipped through my memories of winters past.  The frosty stories whirled back with sparkling stills and vivid videos.  I landed (and that will be an appropriate term) on one from my childhood in New Jersey.  Yes, for about eight years of my very early life, I was a Jersey girl.  I often tell of waiting for the school bus seeing nothing but white, the snow from the shoveled sidewalk stacked well above my head.  This story, though, involves a dad-constructed SuperSled. 
     Our house in Irvington, lay almost at the bottom of a long hill, perfect for slipping and sliding, on purpose, of course.  Now, we had our own little group of kids (four old enough to play in the snow) and friends from the neighborhood, and we could all enjoy winter activities like snowball forts and fights.  Sledding, though, was like Noah's Ark, two at a time.  My dad, always up for something unique, something he could build (although that really wasn't his forte) pieced together that SuperSled which could accommodate five to seven squealing, flying, slightly terrified children at once.  We reigned as the neighborhood sledding amusement park! 
     One day, with thoughts of Sgt. Preston of the Yukon (a TV adventure show) rushing through my eldest-in-the-group head, I lined up my crew of six plus one, smallest in the front and me, the fearless leader bringing up the rear.  In true Sgt. Preston style, I gave the loaded sled a healthy shove and hopped on, STANDING upright steady hands grasping the steering ropes on both sides.  "MUSH!" I yelled imagining sleek, muscular sled dogs pulling us across the frozen tundra.  Down the hill we sailed, passengers screaming with delight and me proudly guiding the craft to its final destination.  Very close to our house, on the street side of the walkway grew a formidable tree whose roots often disturbed and rearranged the concrete.  Below the deep snow where no one could see it hid a virtual ramp formed by the broken sidewalk .  At the height of our swift-sledding joy, BAM, we hit with jarring force and stopped on that proverbial dime.  Well, my passengers stopped, that is.  I went airborne, the length of the SuperSled and beyond.  Actually, I floated breathless, silent, serene through the crystal-clear air in one of those slow-mo movie scenes.  Luckily, I did not land head-first but rather slammed into the landing pad of soft snow on my shoulder and rolled another ten feet or so. 
     Once I cleared the flakes from my eyelids, I glanced back to my stunned crew still seated on the abruptly-halted SuperSled.  I scanned the front porch, hoping my parents did not witness what had just happened.  Boy, would I be in trouble!  Not feeling the pain of bumps and bruises yet to come, I scurried to check the fear-frozen children.  All in one piece and now laughing hysterically at my flight and in their delight, they hopped off, grabbed the SuperSled, and shouted, almost in harmonic unison, "Let's go again!!"  My face said, "No way!" and my body paused with it...for just a split second.  Soon, our whole gaggle giggled up the hill, sled in tow, leader hobbled, spirits undampened.  We took the challenge of the plummet from the summit at least ten more times with me safely seated for each one and a strategic yank on the ropes just before menacing concrete ramp.
     I recall the incident with great glee, little thought to physical wounds or even the dread of parental reprimand.  Nothing will ever steal the sheer joy of swooshing down that snow-packed path and launching into flight, fleeting thought it was.  Isn't that the beauty of memories?  We get to choose what we remember and how we remember it.  "Mush," I say, "Mush, and let 'er fly!!"  Come on, you know you want a ride.