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Carol Perkins: Hills of Snow

Previous Column: Falling Out

By Carol Perkins

I've stopped. I've given up watching the radar or listening to the local weather. Snow on Christmas will not happen. I've concluded that living in a winter wonderland is not in my cards. Oh, maybe a flake or two, but nothing sled worthy.

Kentucky grandchildren will never know the art of dodging trees as they appear out of nowhere as their sleds glide down a rough hillside. They won't recognize sledding that doesn't end with a mixture of mud. They, however, won't know the difference and will be forced to listen to our "back when I was a kid" stories.

Sledding was a mandate of a good snowfall when I was a kid. (Here I go.) Henry (my brother) and I had one sled between us.

Not even the most lavish families had two sleds back then. Eventually, my dad rigged up a second type of pipe sled. I was never crazy about riding down a snowy hill. Fear consumed me even before I eased myself onto the sled. My cousins, Bobby and Roberta, traveled down those slopes with us. Half the time, our parents didn't know our exact location. We wandered over the hills behind our house that belonged to our great uncle, Frank Reece. We always stopped by for a visit before roaming the hills behind his house.

Uncle Frank worried about us, a fact we didn't know until we were grown. Sometimes we'd see him in the yard, looking our way, but we thought he was getting wood from the rick leaned against the weathered shed. He and his wife had no children, so my aunts and uncles on the Reece side were almost like his own. We lived closest to him, so we all checked on him when he was trapped by the snow. Dad trekked through the fields in the deep snow to ensure he was alright. Then Uncle Frank would follow my dad halfway back to make sure he was okay!

When we kids returned home, my mother would often make snow cream. "Get clean snow," she'd tell us. Like most everything involving milk, I never liked snow cream. However, I did lap up plain snow sprinkled with a little sugar, burning my tongue as I sought the bottom of a bowl.

Christmas season is when I missed those days of youth, running the hills with my brother and our cousins and heading home before dark. I also remember dragging that sled up the hills for the thrill, even as dreaded as it was, of soaring to the bottom "one more time" and have one more "good" snow.

You can contact Carol at

This story was posted on 2022-12-08 11:48:46
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