by Salvatore A. Barcia Jr. (posted February 1, 2018)

I loved my sled.

An old wooden sled with requisite splinters, its metal blades could slice steak. You still might see these once in a while – daring riders to tempt current standards – but nowadays most are plastic. These probably weren’t the safest sleds. One hard hit could mean 15 stitches, but they were fine in the 1970s when children lived by different norms than today. We rode bikes without helmets, ate candy cigarettes, played in the streets unsupervised, and stretched out without seatbelts in the backs of station wagons. Perhaps we naturally learned a level of care, vigilance and responsibility? Or were we living in a reckless era? I’ll leave this debate for another time.

Frugality

Snake Hill, centrally located on a golf course in Staten Island’s “Green Belt”, was a prime sledding spot. Ironically this focus on greenery was coupled with the world’s largest garbage dump a stone’s throw away. The dump provided a scavenger’s nirvana: when my father dropped off larger trash, my brothers and I loved seeking out hidden treasures. Once in a while there’d be a discarded toy ripe for picking, but for the most part it was the joy of the quest. We oddly rejoiced at the idea of crawling through a pile of refuse.

To be clear this wasn’t a necessity for an average middle-class family. We weren’t eating caviar, wearing Armani suits and skiing in Aspen . . . but we never experienced the unfortunate want of poverty many must endure. Still, my family lived by today’s forgotten rules of frugality. Being the third son, I rarely had new clothes until my pre-teens. Hand-me-downs were standard, however cut-up jeans shorts with one leg shorter than the other eliminated any opportunity to be a fashion trendsetter.

We also had plastic on our couches to preserve them for the long term. In our house there was the playroom where we watched TV and – to state the obvious – played. This room’s couch was old and worn, full of scratch marks from our six cats (my mother is a die-hard animal lover and it seemed every neighborhood cat lived in our house or dined in the backyard). Another room, the den, was an office for my Dad. Translation: he had a big desk piled with papers and other junk.

Then there was the parlor (essentially a living room; perhaps the name harkened back to vintage room descriptions). Here we had a set of old-fashioned red and yellow couches with wooden legs, creating the atmosphere of a 1950s funeral home. Preserved in the same plastic we’d now use when packing away blankets, each cushion earned its own covering. Such plastic was not the height of comfort. Taking a seat on a hot summer day wearing 1970s shorts meant a pool of sweat forming a bond with the couch. Getting up was like ripping the cover off a fresh package of bacon.

As my mother explained, this plastic was leftover from the way things used to be: make things last; don’t waste; maintain something of value rather than replace it every few years. Those couches did in fact remain pristine until years later when we sold my childhood home.

Perhaps a valuable lesson for our contemporary disposable society.

Warmth

Ah yes, we were talking about a sled. Despite fond memories of those days at Snake Hill, it wasn’t always ideal. I was whiny on particularly cold days, warming my hands in the car while waiting for my Dad and brothers to finish. On those days I couldn’t wait to get home and relax by the heater. Our heat was only available as hot air blasting through a tiny vent. For whatever reason the strongest vent was in the kitchen. When we got home it was a race for this prime seat.

Then I would indulge in a hot cup of tea or warm bowl of pastina, the only pasta acceptably served with butter. Pasta equals red sauce. Every Wednesday meant spaghetti, and every Sunday some version of macaroni (through the eyes of a child, all American homes followed this dinner pattern). On cold mornings, though, a toasty bowl of pastina with butter hit the spot.

Speed

On better days the sledding was great. Snake Hill provided a steep slope for acceleration. Probably not as menacing as I recall, in my mind it was a double-diamond in the Rocky Mountains. One afternoon an ice sheet formed, well worn from the day’s adventures. Only the most daring tempted fate. It was a NASCAR racing strip, with people lined up and down the slope watching as kids risked their existence for a run down the sheet.

A bit frightened, I took my turn. Staring down the path I nervously threw down my sled and jumped on with my head leading the way, drinking the exhilaration of the moment as I rapidly gained momentum. About halfway down I lost control and careened across the track, my sled slipping out from beneath me. Another rider screamed behind seconds later, causing me to roll away from the track for dear life. My father recalled his happy amazement when I immediately got up and walked myself unfazed to the top for my next run. He never seemed perturbed about my near-death experience, indicating my memory may have elevated the urgency of the moment.

While I cannot quantify the effects of such experiences, I’d like to think they blossomed into an ability to meet challenges, get back on the horse after falling, dust myself off and get back out there . . . (insert additional clichés here). Yes, clichés are sometimes useful since they enter wide use for a reason.

Innocence

Now I go sledding with my son, meeting his friend from around the block and enjoying the snow at the nearby park. Like any kid he loves the snow, and – while I admittedly grit my teeth at the problems a snowstorm causes – deep down I am eager for snowball fights, snow angels and riding our new plastic toboggan.

The plastic toboggan works just fine, but I sure loved my old wood and metal sled. While I don’t foresee uttering its name as my last word on this earth, thinking of it brings back warm memories of cold days when I was younger and much more innocent.

Perhaps we could all use a little more innocence in our lives once in a while.