I lived in North Central Indiana for many years, a very flat farming area. On the occasion of the first decent snow there, we wanted to find a sledding hill. The only one around was a small dip on a golf course. The kids seemed to enjoy their time, but I was bit disappointed. I remembered the great hills that surrounded my elementary school in Moline and a real Radio Flyer sled with runners. Those were great sledding days! And where did all those lost mittens go?
The locals here
use two inches as an excuse
to cut through the cemetery,
to ride the ridge,
the one by the creek
on that par three fifth,
dropping twenty feet in a saucer
to the squealing delight
of four-year-olds
who climb back up,
unconcerned with the dangling clip
and a missing mitten
or its remaining widow.
But I am a transplant here,
grew up in the shadows of McKinley
and we knew hills
where only the brave
climbed into the trees,
cutting the snow with runners,
racing by saplings,
curving hard left
to avoid an oak monster,
back again quick
to skirt the trap dip
that jarred many a rider free
to be buried in powder
without a marker
until their soul rose again,
laughing in the face of the devil,
chasing down their wayward sled
and taunting Dead Man’s Hill
with another assent,
one hand still gloved,
one hand stuffed naked in a pocket
for warmth at twenty degrees.
| Copyright © 2021 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He also dabbles in short fiction and may be onto some ideas for a novel. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. In September 2020, he started the blog “Disturbing the Pond.” |
Reminds me of the time I went skiing for the first time. Got on the largest hill in Michigan, went skiing down, found it was nice and easy, fast and beautiful--until a kid slipped in front of me and it was either me running him over or veering to the left--and then I was on a great jump going into the air like you see in the Olympics, a good thirty feet off the ground. God does look after fools cause I landed perfectly, no problem, first time skiing, first jump. I decided to do it again. God really doesn't look after fools twice. I took to the jump without a problem, fell too hard fifty feet further down, came in so hard the sirens began blasting before I stopped rolling, three men with a stretcher running to me--so much fuss. It's OK when you're twenty-two. I stood up, waved everyone away, and skied the hill many, many more times that day--but never attempted a jump again--not until my thirties, and that one was only a mini of the great one when I was twenty-two.
ReplyDeleteBrings back some memories here, too, though less precise. Winter at 4,000 feet in the western slopes of California’s Sierras, in the logging camp Johnsondale (1953-54).
ReplyDeleteBut did we both miss something in editing – shouldn’t the tense of the verb in the line “until their soul rises” be past: “rose”?
Nice catch! Apparently I changed tense for the entire last stanza—note the “now” later on. I think I will change to “rose again”, then drop the “now” and combine the line with the next one for any future publication.
ReplyDeleteWe can make those changes for THIS publication, if you want....(with or without a note, which could just quote your comment perhaps). Please advise. Editing in real time, in public. How brave we are!
DeleteIf you feel up to changing it on the run, we can both be brave!
ReplyDeleteBefore I made the two changes you specified above, the final stanza read:
Deleteuntil their soul rises,
laughing in the face of the devil,
chasing down their wayward sled
and taunting Dead Man’s Hill
with another assent,
one hand still gloved,
one hand now
stuffed naked in a pocket
for warmth at twenty degrees.