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Centrepiece Online | Winter 2001
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| The Hill That Shrinks and Grows by Joe Wright ’79 The hill behind my mother’s house shrinks and grows. To many people it seems to remain the same size but I have seen it change. Mother lives in Warsaw, Ky., by the Ohio River, on a bluff. There is a slope of more than 200 feet to the water’s edge. The flat at the bottom of the hill is a wider expanse of another 200 feet. I clearly remember sledding down this huge hill. It was packed with more thrills than a 10-year-old could imagine. Any day there was enough snow, the kids from the neighborhood would gather. The first runs were slow, but speed and distance grew each trip, the runs going closer and closer to the river’s edge. We were careful to have the sled track turn and run parallel to the water. When a top-to-bottom run included the length and breadth of the hill, we were prepared for the racing. We often piled everyone on one sled just to see what would happen. Hours of spills, chills, and long trudges up through the snow made me ready for Mom’s hot chocolate. Ten years later, I had left home and was enjoying college life at Centre. When it snowed a tradition was followed. First a dinner tray was removed from the cafeteria (the Sigma Chis dutifully returned each and every one). A group would gather on the top of a knob above the intramural football fields behind the Cheek and Evans dorms. Though the distance traveled was similar to the riverbank, the steepness was more severe. This caused faster runs with unpredictable endings. The group went to the top of the hill and lined up vertically, linking legs through arms. The last tray rider in line pushed the train to a sufficient speed to guarantee adequate thrills. The long walk back up the hill, holding a co-ed’s hand and carrying our trays never seemed to tire me. The hill was sledding paradise. When I was at Mother’s house during winter break, I studied her backyard hill and was amazed to see how small it had shrunk. I could not imagine it holding any excitement. Another 10 years went by, and my new family was visiting and enjoying Christmas at Grandma’s house. A sudden snowstorm dumped more than five inches overnight. My five-year-old son was pleading, “Can I go sledding like you and Uncle John used to do? Can I, please?” It would be his first sledding experience but this little hill would be okay. After we had breakfast, Grandma had produced hats, mittens, and coats that I had forgotten existed. Temporarily not having a sled slowed us down, but we found my younger sister’s bright orange plastic dish. As we ambled to the top of the hill, I carefully explained to my son how to correctly ride the dish on the snowy incline. Suddenly I looked from my young offspring’s innocent face to the huge, snow-covered precipice. It looked deadly. I wondered what my parents had been thinking to allow sledding down this huge hill and into a river! My son’s enthusiasm could overcome my reluctance only if I went to the bottom so I could prevent the damage gravity and nature might do to him. His laughter filled the air on what seemed like a very long ride down to my waiting hands. After several runs his nose and cheeks got red from the wind and snow. He asked, “Do you think the hot chocolate is ready?” I said that I suspected it was ready for him to add the marshmallows. Walking with him that last climb, I knew I could not prevent all dangers in his future. But I felt better being part of this experience with him, instead of watching it. As we started toward the house I knew that a geographic land form’s rate of change is not detectable by the human eye, but when I glanced over at that hill, I noticed it growing again. Joe Wright ’79 has been a teacher for more than 20 years. He currently teaches sixth-grade social studies at Boyd County (Ky.) Middle School. |
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Centre College
600 W. Walnut St
Danville, KY 40422
Phone: (859) 238-5717
Fax: (859) 238-5723
E-mail: alumnews@centre.edu
or johnsond@centre.edu