Slide For Live (standard:non fiction, 1046 words)
Author: Lou Hill	Added: Mar 22 2002	Views/Reads: 3404/2323	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Remebering the crazy fun we had in wintertime in Vermont

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

little damage, Wendall Corron and I left some of our young hides on the 
blacktop when we slid	 down the Center Road hill on his Flexible Flyer. 
I was in my early teens by this time, older but no wiser.  We used to 
drag Wendall's sled, a large Flexible Flyer to the top of the hill to 
make our run. 

Wendall would lie down on the sled.  I would push us off and then plop
down on top of him.  Fortunately, he is from hardy stock and my bulk 
crashing down on him didn't impair his	 steering ability too much. 

By this time (the early 1950's) the main road had been paved and was
heavily salted during winter snowstorms so that it was usually bare 
blacktop. We would come rocketing off the side road onto the main road. 
The natural laws of physics dictated that when the steel runners hit 
pavement, they stopped.  Unfortunately, our bodies usually didn't! 

One night we almost lost more than some skin on that road. It had been
snowing pretty steadily and the town plows had been out since early 
afternoon.  The back road was in perfect shape.  The plow had been 
through several times	 and the blade had packed the snow.  Since there 
had been little or no traffic, the stones hadn't worked up through the 
snow, so we had nothing to slow us down. 

We pushed off as usual and slued around the Grange Hall corner moving
faster than a turpentined dog.     As we came down the straight-away to 
the end of the run, I looked up and saw one of the town plows passing 
my	 grandmother's house and headed in our direction. 

Wendall spotted the truck at the same time and instead of steering us
out into the middle of the main road as he usually did, he managed to 
hug the edge of the road. 

They say God protects	 fools and little children; you can decide for
yourself which	 category we fit into.  The scowling driver sped past us 
with an angry blast of his horn.   As we slowed to a stop, we collapsed 
in gales of laughter, triggered by relief or exhilaration--or both. 

Then we trudged back up that hill. 


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