By Lori Steere
G
rowing up on a farm in rural Rhode Island didn’t offer me much in the way of learning to ski, but I did live in the northwest corner of the state famous for slightly colder temps, which equated to lots of snowy days and school cancellations. Our corner of the world was often referred to as “the sticks.” Naturally, my pals and I played in the woods, ran around in fields, sloshed through brooks, and climbed the biggest rocks we could find. The lack of mountains never crossed our minds—we had hills for miles. In the winter, we were serious about sledding. Waking up to fresh snow would mean sitting by the TV munching a bowl of cereal while blasting the morning news in anticipation. There was no getting dressed for school until the weather segment came on, fingers and toes crossed to hear that famous line declaring, “No school, Foster-Glocester.” This was all we had going for us in our quiet corner of the state, and we played it up. My friends and I were often the envy of all those sun-kissed beach kids headed to school along the coast. Snow did not last on the ground for long down there, so we had to get our sled runs in while it was fresh. Sledding for me meant my grandfather would wander over from next door in that khaki work ensemble he wore every day. He would open our front door, plaid wool barn coat halfway zipped, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his chilled nose—then call into my house with a hustle in his voice, “Bundle up!” The man was all business most of the time, especially for the important occasions: strawberry season, blueberry season, hay season, and a good snowfall. Actually, it was hard to tell whether he got more joy from work or from play, because he seemed to derive equal amounts of enthusiasm from both. As proof, he would certainly make serious business out of rallying
us kids together for some good sledding. Snow pants were slipped on over pajama pants—coat, hat, mittens—out the door I would go! I could always tell when there was fun to be had by his subtle and mischievous smile, a spark of adventure in his cool blue eyes. Lucky for me there was a decent-sized hill in our cow pasture, littered with rocks and a dozen Hereford beef cattle. This slope was reserved for the “powder” days, or anything over six inches—which in Rhode Island, is considered a big storm. On rare days like this, Gramp would dust off and drag out the old family toboggan from the tractor barn. Long enough to hold myself and three of my cousins, the toboggan was a masterpiece of wood and rope. The most desired and thrilling seat was, of course, at the front, where you could tuck your feet up under the wooden arc, or “hood,” for bracing. Everyone else would pile up behind you and hold on for dear life, legs woven together in some brilliant feat of elementary engineering, desperately hoping a cow would not dare to wander across our path. To prevent this, Gramp would shake out a bale or two of hay at the top of the hill, calling the cows for breakfast in his signature holler, “COME, BOSS!” One curious cow would slowly start to wander up. Another would follow along, as cows tend to do. Eventually the rest would catch on and saunter behind, tromping a hoof-pack into the fresh snow that was guaranteed to become a mess of mud by late afternoon. With the cows at a safe distance, we would spend an ambitious amount of time calculating the first run. In order to achieve the most speed and farthest slide, the path of the luge was critical. Aiming the sled carefully to avoid rocks and small boulders jutting from the hillside, the goal was to figure out which ones were safe
22 MWVvibe.com
