1/26/15 New Hampshire knew no joy like an unexpected snow day, those wet frozen gifts from New England’s heavens. I recall waking after snowy nights and racing downstairs to stare at the TV with tired teenaged eyes. I readied for battles while blizzards added to the fog of war. My winter coat was a heavy armor cuirass; my gloves, low in dexterity, were frost resistant. The insides soaked with the sweat of sibling rivalry. My brother prepared beside me in the side yard, mounting red PVC-reinforced snow sled steeds. We lunged at each other full speed down hill and wrestled for leverage in short tests of courage and strength. We knighted ourselves the great Sledders of War, but the only casualty of our exhausting cause was the yew bush we trampled time and time again until our hands and faces were red with weather, not blood. Warmer seasons also brought us tides of war; we saw many battles back then- and imagined more. Our heads flooded with awe when we discovered an aged buoy partially buried out in the woods. We surmised it was a cannon ball from the civil war and dreamed up an elaborate battlefield of our backyard. Inspired, we searched for sticks to use in sword duels, dubbing the strongest and unbreakable branch Excalibur. The cracking sounds of wood on wood soon turned metallic as lacrosse sticks met basket hilt saber in later scuffles. Eventually, Excalibur met his demise in a vigorous brawl, lacrosse sticks were dented beyond repair, the saber rusted, the cannon ball tore open to bleed stale air from its hollow, the yew bush was trodden into a narrow brown pathway, and the plastic red snow sleds split despite their strengthened frame. Together Kent and I survived them all, our armory, allies, and imagination.
