1

The day Aunt Iris called Daddy and told him to come home, snow lay thick and deep throughout Ellenton.  The weather was still deteriorating, and by dark, the snow that had fallen wispy and free all day long came down in wet clumps, dense as sludge icing the second after touching the ground.  It fell wet and sticky and fast making us all look rather abominable as we traversed yards made remarkably unfamiliar in the dark by the sparkling wintry coat.  Palmer Conroy, Lucky Luther, Billy Parker and Tommy Patterson converged along the alley that ran beside my house, and there we built a fire to warm frozen hands and feet as we battled the frigid night taking breaks from downhill runs that began in front of my house and ended in Palmer Conroy's driveway.

Palmer’s sled could carry six down the hill at incredible speed.  The only problem was we could not steer the thing at all.  Our slim, gangly bodies could not coax the sled to do anything but fly in a straight line, and so we grabbed hold of each other, the cold air whipping tears from our eyes blurring our world as we raced out of control.  On each daring ride, at the last possible moment, somebody would yell, “Jump!” and all would bail out rolling off the sled for lack of nerve to stay on.  Our bodies tumbled and slid through snow and slush as the unmanned rocket careened across Third Street and up Palmer’s driveway before crashing into the backend of the Conroy's still new 1965 Pontiac Catalina.