"Bill? Time to come in.”
“It isn’t that late, Mom. Just one more. Please?” At this time in summer, we had a good 90 minutes until sunset. But in the heart of winter, not three weeks after Christmas, night ruled.
Mom knew this. “OK, but this is your last sled run, understand?”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Everyone loved our sled track. Crossing parts of three yards and a vacant lot, we built up equal measures of phenomenal speeds and adrenal rushes.
I trudged up the hill to Foster’s front yard and paced almost halfway through it. Assured of a good running start, I took off, slammed my sled on the ground as soon as I cleared their driveway and sped through my front yard, felt the familiar butterflies in my stomach as I went airborne in the vacant lot between my house and Williams’, then turned hard toward Williams’ backyard. When my sled hit the ground again, I saw something that chilled me more than the midwinter temperatures. Car headlights, coming down Farley in front of Williams’ house.
Judging by my speed and that of the car, I’d cross the street at the same time it drove past. Even at that age, I knew who’d win.
No sled came with brakes, and I had to do something.
The large oak tree in Williams’ backyard became my only hope, and I steered toward it, bracing for the impact. My judgment was sound and the sled stopped with a soft thunk.
I, however, did not, and slid over the decking, hitting the crown of my head on the textured bark. Fortunately, I’d had my mouth closed and didn’t bite my tongue. As it was, a bump on my noggin was the only memento of my close call, not even enough to divulge to Mom.
A lifelong resident of the Kansas City area, William R. Bartlett lives in one of the more charming areas inside the city limits with his Fayre and Gracious Wyffe, his two grown sons, both on the autism spectrum, two young dogs and a rather pompous cat.