I will blame the whole incident I am about to share with you on peer pressure; pure and simple. The year was 1962 and it was the typical, traditional, old fashioned winter, complete with school-closing snowstorms and abandoned mountains of snow that challenged ambitious and fearless children. It was a winter boasting snowbanks that flexed their muscles upward in a quest to surpass phone poles and thick power lines.
There on the edge of the playground of the Caribou High Street School, sat a mound of hard-packed ice, snow and golden brown sand, which I would climb each day accompanied by my agile, brave classmates. With no hesitation, they would drop to their bellies and launch themselves downward; their screams lingering behind. I was mesmerized, horrified, and destined to join them.
I do not recall the style or the color of my new ski suit but I know it was made of nylon. On this particular day, I was dressed for success and ready to face my bone of contention. I didn’t exactly drop to my belly; it was more of a gradual stoop. My classmates stood around me, silent and disbelieving as I gave myself a gentle push and began my descent.
The journey began hesitantly and I experienced great relief. Perhaps, because of my girth, I would be unable to complete this daring act! That thought was short lived, however, as I began to gain speed and momentum. Within seconds, I was well on my way to a record-breaking slide. I zoomed past the finish line, bounced effortlessly over the speed bump and continued right across the High Street School parking lot; finally gliding to a complete stop within inches of the bottom step of the school entrance.
It goes without saying that “the wind was knocked out of me.” I recall being pulled to my feet and led through a sea of admirers, pulled up the steps, and steered into the coatroom, where I was examined and re-examined by my first grade teacher. My new and torn ski pants were removed and within minutes, my mother appeared, asking my teacher why the children were allowed to play unsupervised on that “darned snowbank” anyway? The very next day, an orange plow reduced that fierce mountain of snow to tiny pellets of brown sugar that powdered the school premises and beyond. Long lost mittens and hats were scattered among the ruins, unclaimed and forgotten.
Spring arrived, gathering up the remnants of winter and replacing the bitter cold with moist, silent breezes. Youthful blades of grass blanketed the playground of the Caribou High Street School, and we traded our quilted outerwear for thin jackets, Chinese jump ropes, and smooth, multi-faceted marbles. My brief hero status had long ago crumbled with the demolition of the mountain but my ski pants, and my pride, mended nicely.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
