A few weeks ago Tom was traveling, so the kids and I went down to Franklin County to spend the weekend with my parents. There was a snowstorm a few days before our trip, and when we arrived there was still a bit on the ground, so my dad took David sledding.
I’m not a huge fan of snow, perhaps I’ve mentioned that before? It’s a mess and causes power outages and screws with my schedule. Plus, it’s cold. I’d like snow a lot more if it was warm. Maybe if there was some sort of exothermic reaction with the ground? There’s an idea, Mother Nature.
Snow, I will never ask you to sit beside me at the lunch table. I will never vote for you to be Miss Congeniality.
But there is this: nothing has ever taken me back to my childhood quite like watching my dad sled with my son.
Watching them in the backyard, on the same sled I used year after year as a kid, on the same hill I used to ride down. Seeing my dad scout the perfect track. Hearing him talk about longer and better routes if it hadn’t been so cold, or late, or if there’d been more snow, “If y’all had come yesterday there would have been enough snow to start up at the top of the driveway.”
Except when I was a kid the hills were steeper, the sled was lightning-fast, and the labrador was yellow.
And I can’t ever remember getting a ride back up the hill from the old man.
Thanks for the memories, Dad.