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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
December 14, 2008
Published as Family History
in a Gramma Letter dated December 8, 1998.
© 2008 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Boy With Icicle, 1987
© 2006 by Bud Grossmann
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ROSEBUD REDISCOVERED
Tuesday, December 8, 1998
Dear Gramma,
Do you have snow? My parents have told me about the high temperatures your part of Wisconsin has been having. The trees have shed their leaves, I hear, but the fields have not yet put on a winter coat of white. Perhaps by the time this letter reaches you, the familiar chill of December will have arrived.
In a warm December a few years back, my family and I traveled from our home in Hawaii to my beloved Rio, Wisc., and stayed for the holidays with my parents in their home just north of town. (That’s the house, of course, where my sister and my nieces live now.) There was snow, but not a lot. The streets were bordered by berms built by the snowplow—gritty, gray mounds not much more than knee-high to someone walking in the road. During the sunny days, snow melted on the rooftops; water in the eaves troughs sang like a shallow brook. There were no icicles to be seen.
My son David, four or five years old at the time, asked me to take him sledding. I told him I’d like to, on the hill behind the high school, but we’d have to wait for the sun to set so the slope would have a chance to ice over. In the meantime, Dave and I borrowed a car and drove to your farm to find a sled.
We found several. Discovered a toboggan, too, with the front curl splintered beyond any reasonable hopes of repair. I was delighted someone had saved it (instead of feeding the wood to a furnace) because it brought back memories of terrifying rides—and a certain sudden stop against a pine tree—on the steep slope beyond the east boundary fence of your back forty.
One of the sleds we found was almost fit for service. I recognized it as one I’d used many years before. But—my!—now it looked so small! We took it back to town, burnished the rusted runners with emery, and waxed them with a candle stub. Where one of the maple slats had pulled free from the metal frame, my father replaced a rivet with a brass bolt and nut. The tow rope was fragile and frayed; Dad found a length of heavy, braided cord to put in its place.
By then—almost suppertime—the sun was out of sight. A chilly breeze was blowing. The rain gutters no longer sang their song. Ice began to glisten in the tiny “ponds” that boots had formed in snow. David, bundled in a borrowed snow suit and all but anonymous beneath a huge stocking cap, trudged beside me as we carried the sled the several blocks to the high school. We saw no one along the way.
I say “the high school,” but of course by that I mean the old one, the brown brick building on Lyons Street where I’d attended classes twenty-some years before. My grandpa had gone there when it was new, in the second decade of this century. By the 1980’s, when Dave and I hiked the hill, the old edifice was still standing, but it was meekly awaiting the wrecking ball.
My son and I took a couple rides together, from halfway up the hill below the town’s water tower. The slope was rutted and wavy, and so slick we had trouble ascending it. For our third trip, we struggled all the way to the top. By then we were navigating by the light of the moon. We set the sled on the “launch pad” and eased ourselves onto it. David sat in front; I sat behind him with my knees painfully held high so I could hook my boot heels below the sled’s steering arm. I held the tow rope like reins.
“Ready, son?”
“Okay, Dad.”
Down we went.
It was as swift and glorious a ride as any I ever recall. At the bottom of the hill, we went off the icy path and patchy snow and onto the pavement of the school’s parking lot.
Sparks flew, and the sled abruptly stalled. Man and boy went airborne and came down hard, but no bones were broken. We dusted iceflakes from our faces and headed back to my parents’ home, to a warm house and a hot meal, two happy tourists from Hawaii.
Gramma, we plan to see you soon.
Love,
Buddy
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