My earliest childhood tobogganing memory was not a pleasant one.
It was mid-winter, probably early 1988 or so – the exact year is likely lost on me due to the resulting concussion that I may or may have not sustained as a result of the incident. But we’ll get into that… right now in fact. My sister and I were scooting down the little hill adjacent to our first family home in Britton. All I recall vividly is Krista giving me a hearty shove down the hill, with the expectation that I would coast gracefully to the flat snow plain in front of our porch. But things don’t always go according to plan, especially when you’re four.
My flight path somehow deviated to a direct line with the porch itself, which isn’t surprising given that the small plastic blue sled had no steering mechanism of any kind. I likely would have sailed relatively safely right under the porch had I ducked, but again, I was four. My head connected with a cross plank, opening up a decent-sized gash that required a few stitches. I can still see the scar in all its glory today when I pull my hair back.
My sister and I still joke about it to this day, although I still not so secretly maintain that she did it intentionally. Anyway, deep harbouring childhood resentment aside, you’d think that something like that would maybe turn me off toboggan thrill seeking in the years that followed. Not a chance.
I didn’t have much time for the physical and psychological trauma-inducing blue sled after that, and a couple years later my parents upgraded me to the coveted Noma GT Snoracer, still one of my all-time favourite Christmas presents. Sleek, fast, and red and black. A beautiful vessel. That GT served my sledding needs well for the next decade or so, until the time when every teenager starts eyeing up the folks’ car keys rather than the more rudimentary snow conveyance gathering dust in the garage.
After moving to Fordwich in 1992 and looking at the town geographically, I thought that its hilly terrain would be a sledding paradise. And in many ways it was, certainly lots of options for a grade-school chap with a need for speed. But any Fordwich hill that was worth sledding on was typically fraught with danger in one form or another.
The most obvious (and likely most dangerous) first choice was the steep grade on Louisa Street East, not far from my childhood homestead. The main issue at hand was that it was indeed a road, and the primary route for local gravel trucks that made regular runs outside of town down the Gough Road. But covered in snow, that was one wicked rip. A spotter at the bottom was typically needed, and even without any of that pesky traffic to contend with, a GT – complete with its revolutionary braking system – was required so that you could stop in time before you wound up in the icy winter waters of the Maitland River. Still a thrilling ride, albeit with a heavy asterisk attached.
Part of the same hill and just a tick northwest around the corner was another prime sledding locale. Most of its danger lay not with the end bank that would launch you onto the street without fail, but with its owner. He chased us off that thing more times than I can remember, and that was perhaps part of the thrill.
At least he never called the cops to report the trespassing, I guess he preferred the more direct approach. Perhaps chasing us away helped him chase away the winter blahs – something to do, keeping the local riff-raff in line. Not a whole lot going on in Fordwich in late January, probably why the local LCBO outlet does such great business. Who are we kidding here, it does great business year-round. City of Champions, indeed!
Easily the biggest risk/reward sledding option in Fordwich during the early to mid nineties lay towards the town’s western border, on Louisa Street West. And just to clarify for those who don’t frequent the jewel of Howick Township often, Fordwich does have more than one street.
This youth sledding utopia had a particularly steep, long grade, which we would often build jumps into for added thrills. Unfortunately, it was also the private property of a rather unpleasant woman who would enthusiastically call the police if we didn’t leave post-haste after her first warning. Let’s just say we were slow learners. But knowing the distance the cops likely had to travel from either Listowel or Wingham to intercept us, it still gave you another solid 5-10 runs down the hill before having to bolt.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I chose to ramble about this particular subject this week, and of course it has to do with my kids. Both received their first GTs this past Christmas from my folks, who maybe now regret those purchases after reading what I did with mine as a lad. They already knew, no question about it.
While it hasn’t been an ideal winter for sledding since the turn of the calendar into 2023, we’ve still been able to get the tykes out a couple times on their new vessels. It brings me great joy to see their faces when they hit that peak speed down the hill, or if the snow flies up just right from the skis to give them a chilly blast right in the face. Grins for days.
It instantly takes me back to a time when there were no responsibilities, no deadlines and virtually no cares. When the only priority was getting in as many runs down the hill as possible before supper. Or before, of course, you heard the inevitable holler out a back door of, ‘Get off my property!’
Thanks for reading and I’ll see you back here in a fortnight.
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This is a bi-weekly opinion column; for question or comment, contact Dan McNee at dmcnee@midwesternnewspapers.com.
