by Angela Sanford

I’m sure every generation of children has its cherished landmarks. For those of us near my childhood home, it was the “ball field” behind my grandparents’ house and “the hill” that overlooked it. The hill, a steep slope running alongside Northfield Road across from the McLellan’s, wasn’t just a hill—it was a gateway to adventure.
Getting to the hill was half the journey. We trudged through three hay fields, sometimes knee-deep in snow, before facing the steep but manageable climb to the top. Occasionally, someone with a Ski-Doo would offer us a ride up, but such luxuries were rare.
On any given winter day, kids of varying ages gathered there for our winter social. We came armed with a variety of sleds—crazy carpets, wooden and metal toboggans, GT snow racers, and more. Each trip to the hill brought a new thrill as we prepared for the day’s inaugural break away to the bottom.
The moment of sendoff was invigorating. The wind stung our cheeks as we gained speed, the scenery blurring into a frosty rush of snow. There were shrieks of laughter, daring races, and, of course, the occasional spectacular wipeout. My favorite memory involves one of those wipeouts—a near-disaster that, thankfully, ended with only minor scrapes and a lot of laughs.
We had tied together a “train” of three toboggans piled with kids, with a GT snow racer bringing up the rear. Our mission? To jump the brook at the bottom of the hill and set a record for both the number of riders and the distance reached into the second field. But the lead toboggan, weighed down by its load, collapsed into the brook, flipping its riders into a heap. The second sled, unable to stop, rammed into the pile, while the third brought up the rear, sandwiching everyone into a chaotic mess. Amazingly, one coaster made it across the brook—face first into the crusty snow, earning her a “road rash” we’d laugh about for years to come. Despite the disaster, we all ended up lying in the snow, doubled over with laughter, recounting the feat.
Eventually, the cold would consume our bodies, and we’d return home with frozen toes and rosy cheeks. Hot chocolate with marshmallows was our usual remedy, except for one night, after an evening run, the gang landed at our kitchen table, devouring a bowl of popcorn my mother had freshly popped. To our horror, at the bottom of the bowl, we discovered a few uninvited critters who’d apparently been enjoying the kernels before the heat popped them. That discovery ended our popcorn consumption for a while, though it became a story we’d retell with amusement, while cringing at the same time.
Looking back, tobogganing was about more than just sliding down a hill. It was about freedom, adventure, and the simple joys of childhood. It taught us to take risks, laugh at ourselves, and savor the moments.
As an adult, I still feel the pull of the hill, though I don’t go as often. The aches and pains that follow each trip are a reminder that I’m no longer a kid who can slide down and race back up without a second thought. But the memories, and the lessons, remain as vivid as ever.
Love reading these blogs. This one brought back some happy memories, from my distant childhood, of coasting down the "store hill" in Clarksville.💗