Down Hill Fast

Down Hill Fast

An Iowa childhood means lots of memories of snow. I'm further south now, but the last few years we've had our share of the white stuff. One of my favorite memories of winter growing up was sledding at Brady Hill, the one street in the Quad Cities all the marathoners in the area trained on because nothing else would be half as hard.

After a big snow, along with hundreds of other folks in brightly colored ski wear, my father, brother, and I would take assorted sleds, including a huge toboggan to the face of the hill accessible from Vander Veer park. While I remember the thrill of steering the silver saucer sled on my own all the way down the hill, the toboggan was the big lure. Nobody else had one--Dad had gotten ours at some long-forgotten garage sale. We used to take a few runs and then let other folks borrow it, often in exchange for shared cocoa or snacks.

That toboggan was something else. The combined weight of the three of us made it go much faster than most of the sleds, and the only steering was the pressure of our legs out to the sides, which is to say, not much.

The trust involved in riding it down hill fast was probably a lot like what it takes to tandem parachute from airplanes. But we were kids, I was 10 or 11 at most, my brother 7 or 8. Dad thought it was reasonably safe. Mom refused to participate--but she never thought anything was safe anyway. So we went for it. Over and over again during the harshest winters of my childhood.

I only remember one troublesome incident where we hit a rock and jolted all of our spines, fell off the thing in different directions and still had to fetch it from the bottom of the hill. I remember being sore that night, so much so that it wasn't until we'd had Tylenol and big steaming bowls of soup that we were willing to climb out of our gear, Mom torn between concern for us and concern for the couch, even though she'd draped a tarp over it to keep our melting outer coat of snow and ice from soaking into the upholstery.

We don't have pictures of us tobogganing. No one to snap the photos. And no safe place to stash a camera. But from those same winters, we do have pictures of us out on the jungle gym, the snow chest-high and our faces obscured by scratchy wool-blend facemasks. Awful as the conditions were, including the roads we took to the park and back, there was something magical about holding our own in such weather, and seeking something not just good, but joyful from it. A certain willful resilience.

My Dad had a heart attack 10 years ago. Though he's recovered and is physically doing well, he's developed severe anxiety and depression issues. Different kind of down hill fast.

Left to myself, I've never been especially adventurous. Curious yes, but more likely to let caution have ultimate sway. My brother's not much different. Growing up, we relied on my father's sense of adventure to push us beyond our comfort zones, whether that was tobogganing downhill, chatting up strangers, or exploring the great outdoors. It's been hard to watch Dad pull in this last decade, shrink back from even routine encounters with the world.

These days, my brother and I work to hang onto that toboggan. To help Dad do the same.