It was one of those strange weather days in mid-January 1974. As I stared out the kitchen window, it was lightly snowing and the thermometer reading was 10 degrees. Just the day before it was raining and the temperature had hit 45 degrees.
I thought to myself that the situation had created perfect conditions for runner sledding—a fast sledding experience familiar to an eight-year-old sledding enthusiast such as myself.
I could not wait to put my winter gear on and make tracks to the open hill that led down the old sand road from our Limekiln Lake home.
My boots were a tight fit. They cramped my toes as I made my way to the garage where my trusted Yankee Clipper hung from a nail over a giant pile of wood. I scrambled up the wood pile and pulled the old sled down only to find that its runners were pretty rusted.
I wrestled the sled into my father’s workshop and rubbed the runners with heavy grit sandpaper until they were silver and gleaming.
I found a paraffin candle in the drawer of an old dresser where my father stored odd tools.
I ran it up and down the runners for at least five minutes to build up a coat of wax that would help me break land speed records once I hit the hill.
