The Hill

     

    Long past midnight hours before dawn 
    I jumped up from my bed and pulled my longjohns on. 

    Peeking out the window, the snow has stared to fall. 
    Slipping on my overalls, I raced quickly down the hall. 

    Rushing to the closet, grasping my old warp, 
    I throw it over my shoulder, give the button a snap. 

    Working all ten fingers, through the holes of much worn mitts, 
    I stick my feet into the boots that thankfully still fit. 

    Faster than is possible, I head straight for the door. 
    Behind me I am dragging a sled for years before. 

    The wind is loud and howling, snow is blowing all around. 
    Already what has fallen has covered the ground. 

    Tramping through the deepness, only my footprint to see, 
    I head straight for the meadow; the hill is waiting for me. 

    A few more steps, I reach my goal, as always in the past 
    I'll be the first to sled this hill, and I'll be the very last. 
 
    Breathing in the cool night air, I witness the year's first snow. 
    Perhaps this is my favorite spot, in all sights I know. 

    Holding tight in a world of silence, I shove off with my feet. 
    Wind is picking up my hair, snow hits against my teeth. 

    Traveling faster and faster, I struggle not to tip. 
    Stretching out my snow-damp legs, I lean from hip to hip. 

    What a big delight, this morn has given thee. 
    As all years before have done, when it's just this hill and me. 

    Now if I do my best to hurry, I can take another run. 
    The sun will soon be rising, the day will have begun. 

    But before that can happen, I must be back in bed. 
    For whatever would the children think. 
    ..if they knew Grandma used their sled! 

                          Betty J. Reid 
             from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul 
         Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen