seem incredibly old. However, that condemned tomboy method of sledding once saved my life.
I was zipping down one of the really steep hills in town when a junk man’s cart, pulled by a horse with enormous blinders, came out from a side road. The hill was so icy that I couldn’t turn and the junk man didn’t hear the squeals of warning. In a second my sled had slipped between the front and back legs of the horse and got clear, before either he or I knew what had happened. Had I been sitting up, either my head or the horse’s ribs would have suffered in contact—probably the horse’s ribs.
A Christmas letter to my father about this time began somewhat as follows:
“Dear Dad:
Muriel and I would like footballs this year, please. We need them specially, as we have plenty of baseballs, bats, etc. . . .”
Christmas came, and so did the footballs. Sister also triumphantly produced a little .22 popgun, which she had wheedled on her own. But what chances we had to use our new playthings were often spoiled by the realization our activities were frowned upon by those whom we cared for most among grown ups.
As for the gun, after a few short days of popping bottles off the back fence, it mysteriously disappeared. When it was hauled out of a secret hiding place some time later, the explanation that
