Snow. We Brace

Should I get out the Flexible Flyer

“We brace for a snowstorm,” was the headline. I wondered why we braced. Well, I drove by the market and the gas station and saw millions of people bracing, gearing up for cold temperatures, rain, snow, and ice sweeping the country.

These bracers were fortifying the home and mind against wind, snow, and cold. A snowy tradition that was part of my lifetime, and I imagine everyone else’s.

Monet’s ‘Snow at Argenteuil

When I played sandlot football, I braced for something unpleasant, like being hit. But you know, since I was a kid, I never found storms unpleasant; difficult, yes, but not unpleasant, and not a hit.

In Mary Oliver’s poem, First Snow she writes,

. . . .

its white

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why,
how,

whence such beauty and what

the meaning; such

an oracular fever! Flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb,
never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally
ended.

Yes, a mysterious, prophetic fever
flowing past . . .

I’ve always liked the excitement of this fleeting fever.

The storm came, and as I slippered from window to window to
admire the deep, high white mounds, I felt a brief urge to take the old Flexible
Flyer off the hook. Yes, it is still there, waiting, beckoning, but to no
avail. There it will stay. I will never part with it. There are too many
memories in its blades.

I imagined the neighborhood kids outside, building snowmen and getting their sleds ready, maybe waxing the runners.

The first sled I had was a Speedway, which I hated because
it was difficult to maneuver the rigid handlebars. To experience the excitement
of sledding, a quick turn was necessary, and it was in
The Flexible’s handlebars that excitement lived. The Speedway demanded too many
weight shifts. I was thrilled the year I saw The Flyer under the Christmas
tree.

“It’s snowing!” On went the snow pants, jacket, and the clumsy,
too-many-buckles boots. On went the toque. “Don’t forget your mittens.” Ugh. I
hated those.

These days, I have an aversion to cold and a fear of injury,
but those days were different. Sledding was vital and, save for the risk of
sticking your tongue on the sled’s metal, mostly carefree. The only question to
answer was where to sled, and the only hesitation we had was cold feet. Yes,
those cold feet; the ones where your toes itch like crazy when you take off the
boots and wet socks to hold your feet against the hissing radiator.

The sandbank was a favorite after-school haunt, while Roger
Williams Park was for a Sunday morning.

Yup, me, under the grape arbor

It was cold. With snow snapping at my face. I stood at the
top of the hill and looked at the inviting trails drenched with the splendor of
white that led to Valley Street below. Which trail to take and how fast I could
zig-zag now that I had The Flyer were the most important decisions. Initially,
the powder was too fluffy, so it would take some runs to pack it for speed. It
may have become an icy deathtrap, but we never gave it a thought. It was about
speed and winning.

Each race ended at the plowed street below with a
screeching stop and sparks flying from the runners. Breathless at the bottom;
now to trundle back to the top. We did it, repeatedly. The cold was creeping
through to my feet, the most vulnerable target that defined time.

In a few hours (maybe less), I was worn out, cold, and
hungry. It was my last run. The hill seemed more vertical on this final trudge.

Home.

I pushed the bulky door to the entry, shook off the snow,
turned, sat, unbuckled the frozen boots, and squeezed them off. I dropped
the coat and mittens on the way to our third floor, opened the door to our cozy
tenement, headed for the hissing radiator, sat on the floor, unfurled the socks,
and toasted my feet under its warmth.

“Edward, would you like a hot chocolate?”

Would I? It was a good old-fashioned sledding day, and I
was tired.

Oh, those innocent ‘50s with The Flyer.

© 2026