The outside temperature now says seven degrees. The sky is blue and today there is a little brisk wind from the west. There are waves on the upper river and walkers have left their dens for outside exercise. It is amazing what a difference one week can make in your outlook. While last week we were suffering large minus 30 numbers overnight, people had already begun looking forward to the warmth of this week. Optimism was in the air as we delivered papers to Rainy River last Wednesday.
Droplets of water are dripping over the eaves trough. It is a sure sign of spring. The roofs on the south side of our home are almost devoid of snow. My sidewalks are once again bare. Snow is melting away from the base of the trees in my yard. Today we met Henry Miller who was out for his walk. He has not missed a single day even through the most bitter cold. He told us that he had dug out some old clothes for walking that he had not used in many years to stay warm. I too had dug out a pair of Sorels that are almost 50 years old with warm felt liners for walking.
As a youngster and then as a paper carrier, the frigid cold temperatures never seemed to bother me or my brother. Our youth made us impervious to cold. Weekends would often find us at my cousins farm sliding down the hill hoping to make it all the way to the edge of the creek. We imagined that we were hurtling down the Olympic Swiss bobsled track. We would carve a couple of turns into our run down the hill. We even built in a toboggan jump with a couple of bales of hay that were built up with snow. We thrilled with our adventures and dare devil tactics. Whole afternoons would dissolve in a blink.
We didn’t admit to our parents about some of the risks we took.
Our parents would in the winter also take us to Stewart’s farm and we would slide down their hill. It had the biggest run and the only hazard were the frozen cow pies that littered the base. More than once, there was a collision resulting in a split lip. It didn’t seem to bother us until later in the afternoon when we stumbled back to the house and our mothers discovered the blood on our faces. By then the blood had dried or frozen onto our winter jackets. The lecture we had received prior to tobogganing was repeated with a “I told you to be careful” again.
There were no cell phones then to call home. And as long as we returned whole when someone drove to the farm to drop us off, everything was good. We never admitted to our parents the risks we took, understanding that what they did not know couldn’t hurt them.
Jim Cumming
Former Publisher
Fort Frances Times
