Dirt Clods and Other Swell Stuff
    				  Sledding

	The first big snow of winter in Ritzville was exciting.  The City would close
off three blocks of Jackson Street to make way for sleds.  It was the steepest hill
carrying the fastest sledders in the world.  Wow, that was fun!
	Sometimes there were so many kids coming down the hill at once that
we all had to wait at the bottom for the hill to clear so we could plod back up to the
top.  Sleds not only came down the street but the sidewalks as well.  It was bedlam,
sheer chaos, close to life threatening, with unsurpassed and unforgettable terror
and excitement.  
	Today, an event of this character and magnitude would require a standby
ambulance, perhaps even a priest.  There were no cowards on Jackson Street and
I do not remember one serious accident in all the years that “Boot Hill” existed.  The
nickname was assigned to the hill because of the hundreds of kid's boots it
collected over the years.
	Boot Hill was nine blocks from my home so I was fortunate that my friend,
Gerry, only lived a half block away from it.  We could go inside whenever we needed
to warm up, dry out, use the bathroom or get more hot chocolate.  It was very
convenient to store my sled in his garage until the winter games were over.
	Racing and other contests were held daily.  One of my favorite events was
“stacking.”  Since my sled was one of the longest it had more runner length which
meant more surface area in contact with the snow.  This was critical to maximum
stacking.  My sled held the record for the most kids stacked on top of each other
making it all the way from the top of the hill to the finish line without losing a single
passenger.  
	Speed was not important, stability was.  The largest kid was on the bottom,
then one a little smaller, then one more a little smaller, etc, until we had six stacked
on my sled.  Of course, the littlest kid with no fear was placed on top.  That would be
Sis!
	The kid on the bottom had to be strong enough to handle the weight, so
four-foot ten-inch 98-pound Raymond was our first layer.  His nickname was “Mule.”
Then came his brother Richard.  Then his other brother Randy.  Then came me,
Gerry and finally Sis.  You had to go slow to maintain stability or the pile would
topple.
	Our first attempt to make the entire course intact failed miserably because
Mule farted, startling his brother Richard into a sideways move that dumped the
rest of us.  There was a short delay before our second attempt while the “brothers
three” played fisticuffs over the incident.  Gerry, Sis and I took a short break for hot
chocolate.
	Our second attempt was a smashing success even though Sis told me
later that she farted just before the finish line.  Who knew?  I say “smashing”
because the sled started to veer near the finish line and Mule’s over-correction
ran us into a power pole.  Nobody was hurt and the crowd cheered wildly.
	One morning after a slight snow melt followed by a quick freeze, Boot Hill
was ready for Gerry and I to set a new speed record for the two-man stacked luge.
The hill was so slick, we moved the blockades at the bottom of the street another
full block.  This gave us a downhill run of 2 ½ blocks long with 1 ½ blocks to stop.
	The record for the stacked luge over 2 ½ blocks on Boot Hill was 12
seconds flat.  I climbed on the sled and Gerry jumped on top.  Our start was
slower than normal but momentum quickly evolved.  
	By the time we passed the end of the first block we were flying and my
eyes were blurring.  Only one and a half blocks to go.  I couldn’t see anything so
I concentrated on keeping the sled as straight as possible.  When we blew over
the finish line I knew we had the record.  Now all I had to do was drag my toes in
the icy snow until we stopped.  My right foot apparently dug into the snow more than
the left causing us to change direction.
	Boom!  We suddenly stopped.  Well, I suddenly stopped.  Gerry was
launched over my head at breakneck speed, slid on his belly across the inter-
section and bulldozed a corner mailbox. 
	When we had moved the blockades the extra block beyond the usual
location we forgot to fill in the drainage ditch at the last intersection with snow.
The sled and I came to an immediate halt in that ditch.
	Bad news.  The right side of the steering bar had broken.  My sled was
retired.
	Gerry was okay.  We were excited to hear our time so we ran to Benny,
the official timekeeper.  
	“What time?” he asked.  “I thought you were just practicing.”
	What could we do?  Benny was the only one of us that had a watch.  And
now, the sled was broken. 
	If you ask Gerry or me if we broke the record we’ll say, “by a mile.”  If you
ask anyone else they’ll stare at you puzzled and reply, “what record?”