Left on the Sidewalk

The tradition began with a whim, and a whoops.

Snow had begun falling shortly after I arrived home from work and by 5:00, with the lights from street lamps and porches reflecting off the clouds, the neighborhood on the edge of town was eerily quiet. I stepped outside into the crisp air and let the flakes fall gently on my face. “Let’s walk down to Michael’s for dinner,” I suggested. I wanted to hear the crunch of snow with each step and do something that seemed almost quaint.

So we picked up our one-year-old daughter and bundled her in her blue snowsuit. We tucked her hands into the clipped-on mittens, tied the drawstring of her hood snuggly under her chin, and made sure she was good and trussed up so she wouldn’t get cold. All that was showing was her little round face. To make the adventure particularly sweet, we got the Radio Flyer sled out of the garage, placed her upright on it, and headed down the driveway and on to the sidewalk toward town, just a short half-mile away.

The sled glided easily along the snow’s surface. I checked a couple times to make sure our little tot was happy before easing into a conversation about what had happened during work that day. I thought about how cute we must look pulling our baby along behind us—a delightful sight, I was sure. The sled really was so lightweight. It effortlessly trailed along with virtually no resistance.

As we were about to turn left onto Main, I checked on our girl again and horrors, she was not on the sled. Poor little thing had slid off about 50 feet back and was lying face up on the sidewalk. I yelped, dropped the sled’s rope, and ran back up to get her. She looked up at the sky blinking at the falling snowflakes, not the least bit bothered or upset, trusting that all was well. I scooped her up and held her close before walking back down the sidewalk. By the time we reached Michael’s, we were a bit hysterical as we laughed about what had just happened.

We had a delicious Italian meal that evening. Our daughter was the center of attention for the staff who cooed at her and delighted in her attempts to pick up macaroni with her pincered fingers.

And, except for the part where she got left on the sidewalk, a tradition was born. Eventually we were a family of four that went to Michael’s for dinner every year on the evening of the first snow, enjoying the crunch of boots, the snowfall, and the beauty of reflected light.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015