The Sled

It is said that when a family first acquires an object it is nothing more than an assembly of raw materials – in my case wood, metal and rope.  If it loved enough to be passed onto a second generation it begins to develop a personality.  If it survives and is cherished for a third generation it begins to acquire a spirit, comprised of special moments and memories.  Looking at me you probably don’t see much, just an old beat up sled with a back that no longer sits straight and runners that have begun to rust.  But step a little closer, put your hand on my side, hold my rope in your hand and I will tell you a simple story.

My life began in the 1940s, but sadly, I don’t remember much about Gary Sr. when he was a young boy.  At the time, I was just a simple sled.  I hadn’t been around long enough to know that individual moments can be priceless.  I was just a toy fashioned to pull kids in the snow.  I didn’t yet know that all children are different and that their interactions with me, the snow and the world were unique.  If only I had known some sixty plus years ago that anyone would care about my memories, I would have made a greater effort to record and remember the little details, the rides, the games and the adventures.  But Gary Sr. was just a boy like any boy and I never dreamed that one day I’d be carrying his grandson the same way I carried him and that a legacy of sorts would be born on my back.

In the 1970s, I belonged to Gary Sr.’s children – first Elizabeth and then Gary Jr.  The tiny boy who once went for rides on me had grown up and become the man holding my rope, pulling his own children through the snowy streets.  Elizabeth loved me best.  Always eager to be outside, on snow days she couldn’t wait to get her snow clothes on so she could go out in the snow and have fun.  Gary Sr. worked during the week, so when snow kept him home it was a special treat.  After shoveling, he would take me out and sit little Elizabeth on my back.  Together we would ride through the city streets.  Streets that were usually busy were practically silent as the snow kept most people inside.  Eventually, we would end up at Forest Park where Elizabeth would run around in the snow and have fun until her cheeks were red and her fingers nearly frozen.

In 2010, Elizabeth had a son and the following year my spirit was born when Gary III took his first ride.  With the birth of my spirit came a sharper memory.  Gary was apprehensive at first, not liking the cold wet snow that fell on his face.  But during every snowstorm Elizabeth took him out loving the snow as much as a mother as she had loved it as a child.  The really special moment came the day Elizabeth and Gary III went to visit Gary Sr.  While the third generation sat contentedly in the sled – no snow was falling to freeze his little face – the first generation pulled him, giving him a tour of Juniper Valley Park.

Today, the snow seemed to fall forever, thick and wet it coated the streets.  Gary III – now almost too big to fit on my small frame – took me out of the garage and asked his mother to take him for a ride.  She - always happy to go for a walk and to spend time with her son - eagerly obliged.  Gary III still doesn’t care for the wet snow upon his face, but he has learned how to turn his head away from the wind so that the snow bites less bitterly.  Elizabeth pulled him to the playground where the snow reached the bottom of the swings and Gary III practically had to swim through the snow to get to the swings.  Despite the depth of the snow, he wanted to be pushed on a swing, so his mother pushed him, the two of them laughing while his feet, dragging in the snow, continuously slowed his momentum.  From the street, I watched the two of them play, their love and laughter warming my spirit. 

Yes, you may look at me and think I am only a sled, but with the love I have experienced, I am so much more.