Sledding After Dark
My grandson stood at the top of the snow basin, dropped his sled, and watched it slide to the bottom . “Go on, Alex, just get on and go down.” “No,” he said, “I just like dropping it down.” Of course, no wonder. He’s from California and has maybe been sledding twice in his short, four-year-old life and he was scared. Frankly. It was eight at night and we were sledding under a full moon with my daughter and her daughter. It was late because by the time their plane landed and I finally found snow pants and boots and gloves for everyone and after we had eaten dinner, night had definitely come to the Salt Lake City park system. Over and over Alex dropped the sled, comfortably clinging to his assertion that he just wanted to watch his sled go down, more than he wanted to slide down. Over and over he watched it solemnly as it bounced over the bumps and skittered over icy spots. I admired his tenacity. His younger cousin, a girl, was whipping down the slope, on her saucer, whooping and l