if these sleds could talk

These sleds have been around the snow mound a time or two. They first entered my life when we lived in Maine, so somewhere in the mid to late 80's or very early 90's. Two sleds shared between four kids. Bright orange so as to double as hunter protection.

If these sleds could talk they would inform you that they are in fact toboggans. They would tell you that their favorite rider was a little boy named Robbie and they especially thought it endearing when he used his hands on the sides as paddles and said "├índale" over and over again. 



If these sleds could talk they would tell you of the many hours spent turned upside down over a burrowed down Laurie as the snow fell gently on their backsides forming an orange tinted igloo. What she was doing in there only she knows.  



If these sleds could talk they would tell you of the days when three kids would carry them far from their home and climb over fences and jump over creeks to find a decent sledding hill. They may tell you of a time when one of those kids fell into a muddy (hopefully just mud) creek and had to trek the whole way home turning into a frozen brown mess. 



If these sleds could talk they would tell you of the time they carried screaming silly teenagers down a hill until someone got hurt in a certain nether region and all the fun ended in one whoosh of rushing air. 

And now, these poor old sleds that have earned their rest and their peace now find themselves brought out yet again, years later, carrying two little children that look vaguely familiar to them. I think they would tell you they sure enjoyed their rest, but missed the sound of laughing overly-dressed children. They've come out of retirement those sleds. And they don't mind it one bit. 




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