The Sled

In 2012, when I learned I would be moving to New Hampshire, it was time to get rid of a few things. While my apartment along the Atlantic was large, a sled wouldn't fit into it.

We have all things we cherish. This sled was one of them.  I bought it for fun with my spouse.  Little did I know, he wasn't as adventurous as I.  Not that sled riding is all that adventurous.  So, I took my little ones, bundled them up and sat them on the sled.  Since they were too young to ride down our high hill in Maryland in those days, I would pull them around the flat cul-de-sac.  It seemed to satisfy them greatly.

When we moved to upstate New York, we weren't there long enough to do any significant sledding.  The sled spent much of its time against the outer wall in the two car garage.

Another move took us to the flat lands of New Jersey.  There were no hills anywhere.  Still, I couldn't part with my beloved sled.  It moved south with me to the Smokies, where there are mountains everywhere.

My hill meets all the sledding requirements but one.  Traffic.  Since the S-shaped curve doesn't have the appropriate mirrors to see to the bottom of the road, I haven't been able to use it.

Two days ago, on my Main Street morning walk, I met the fellow, MJ, who bought the sled from me for his antique store five years ago.

"Do you happen to still have my sled?" I asked.

"I have about 4-5 sleds back there.  I'll be back in about 20 minutes.  Stop in and we can see what I have."

This was the longest 20 minutes.  The first sled was from the 1950s and quite worn.  Another one clearly newer was leading against a hutch.  It felt familiar but I remembered it being in brand new shape.  Two more were tucked away in the back.

"Here, take this one," MJ said.

He charged me less than half of the price he originally paid me for it.

"No one buys sleds anymore, " he assured me.

I put the sled in the back of my Subaru.  It was dustier than I remembered.  Some of the coating was wearing off the stainless handle bars.

I got it home, removing cob webs and years of neglect when it happened.  I turned it over and saw my last name, magic markered some thirty years earlier.

Flexi is once again home.  I told MJ, the shopkeeper about it just this morning.

"Oh, sledgate," he said.

Once again, the sled is propped up on the wall where it has lived for twelve years (plus the five left alone in the shop).  Warmth and joy fill my heart. And the gratitude for finding it is more than words can describe.