Sledding in Mordor
This observation tower sits on a small hilly rise on land diagonally across from our house. It’s actually called Hastings Heights, which is named after the man who owned most of land around the neighborhood, but we prefer to call it Mordor.
Ours is a Revolutionary-era town. Paul Revere tore through Medford in the sooty night of April 18, 1775 to warn colonists of British forces en route from Boston to Lexington. Who’s call was it to march soldiers through the woods wearing bright red coats? Element of surprise, thy name is not His Majesty’s Royal Brigade. Anyway, we know about this from a commemorative plaque placed on a nondescript block along our downtown business district somewhere between a Dunkin Donuts and an acupuncture place. We also know this from the Paul Revere Restaurant, a diner no bigger than a mouse’s nook within walking distance of our house. Even patriots need to make a buck. Thanks, Paul!
Our neighborhood evolved over the course of the 1800s; our house dates from 1890. There are no ghosts, that I’ve met yet, but there is some kind of horsehair plaster behind at least one wall. Hastings Heights is another relic from this time period. Evidently in between waging a Civil War and inventing nearly every type of convenience we enjoy today, nineteenth-century folks really got their kicks from climbing high places and looking around. And you thought you were hard-core. A neighbor who had lived in the area for more than 30 years told us that the tower was open until sometime in the late-1970s when the city was forced to brick it up because youth were all up in there doing all of the drugs and naughty premarital things with one another. I say, if Mordor is rocking, right?
I love Mordor in all seasons. In the fall the oaks and maples scattered around the grounds throw their color over the drab stone. In the morning the sky behind it is often brilliantly and breathtakingly lit with blazing magentas and golds of sunrise. But I especially love Mordor in the winter when it turns into the neighborhood sledding hill.
As a kid, playing outside in the snow holds a singular kind of magic. It’s your regular, boring outdoor world suddenly turned into a whole other planet and you are its little god.
In my childhood home there was a side yard pitched at a decent angle that bottomed out in a patch of woods. That’s where my older brother and I could be found on any winter day with enough snow to disappear the dirt and grass and turn the side lawn into our own personal luge track.
Our sleds were these thin pieces of cheap plastic, slightly thicker and more rigid than a shower curtain lining. Two hand holes were punched through at one end. That was it. My nephews have rugged inflatable crafts that could probably withstand class six rapids. I like to think our rustic gear made us more intrepid and heartier. You haven’t endured until you’ve been whacked in the face by a sheet of frozen plastic six or eight times over the course of an afternoon. Nevertheless we would double up on our sled like members of a toboggan team, trying to steer ourselves directly into the gnarly patches of woods and bushes or else throw our weight in one direction in a terrific spin-out. Let’s just say there weren’t many laws of physics that snuck past us. My brother and I happily drained the hours out in the cold, wet, white world. If we were on the verge of hypothermia, we didn’t notice. Our mom would eventually usher us into the basement through the garage where we were practically chiseled out of our icy, snow-covered jackets and snow pants, boots pried off and left to thaw on pieces of newspaper. We’d climb up the stairs into the warm house to put on fresh clothes, fuel up, and start badgering mom about when we could go back out and play. Some form of joy on loop should be the divine right of every kid.
This past week the snow started a little after lunch time, coming down hard and fast, erasing the world with blinding efficiency. It was that pasty wet kind of snow ideal for builders and sledders alike. By about 3pm there was a decent pack and still falling. School was out. I watched as kids and families made their way from the surrounding streets over to Mordor. Puffy pink and red coats moved like little barges trawling neon green and orange sleds. They cut determined tracks through the thick snow to the top of the hill, pilgrims of a certain kind of winter delight that lives in the hearts of kids of all ages.
Reminds me of winters here in Michigan. Beautiful memories! Thanks for sharing. :)