Memoir
hey guys. this is it.
The Snowhill
This story is about the amazing imagination of little kids; the thrills they find in the simplest things. This is also a story about me. Looking back, some of my best ideas came and experiences happened when I was very small.
The story takes place in the tiny town of Lakeview, Oregon; a real life middle-of-nowhere. Every winter the amount of snow is amazing. So, mixing massive amounts of snow with a child’s imagination creates a wonderful tale:
“Vroom! Grrrrr! Mrrmmmm! Beep! Beep! Beep!” the giant tractor with the big scoop in front shoved the snow around like a bunch of my toy cars when mom tells me to pick them up. It drove around in circles in what my dad called a Cooldee Sack*, piling the snow into one HUGE heap in the middle.
“Mom,” I pleaded. “Can Michael and I play on the snowy mountain? Pleeaase.”
“We might go sledding this weekend honey,” she replied. “But not now.”
“No, look outside in the big turn-around.”
She turned. “Oh. Sure, but put on your snow bibs first.”
Michael and I hurriedly put on our over-sized snowsuits, for mom always buys our clothes big because, “ Don’t worry. You’ll grow into it.” We ran outside and stared at the gigantic mass before us.
“Race you to the top!” I yelled.
“Sure,” Michael said. “Ready! Set! Go!”
We scrambled and clawed our way up the monster until we reached the top.
“I win!” we declared at the same time.
“Race you down!”
“Go!”
I jumped without thinking and slid down the side of the hill. Michael tried running but tripped and rolled the rest of the way down.
“We should make some stairs,” Michael said brushing himself off. “So I don’t fall again.”
“I’ll get the shovels!” I said. We were so proud of our new plastic snow shovels that we had just gotten for Christmas.
I returned from the shed with our latest treasures handing Michael his red one. Mine was blue. We hacked at The Snowhill until we had created a line of crooked and winding lumps that resembled stairs. I let out a triumphant grunt and marched to the top.
“We need a wall,” I said looking at our mountain. So we set to work building a wall around the top of our fort. How much time passed I can’t recall, but I know I was sore when we were done. We admired our two-foot tall wall. It encompassed The Hill except for a “doorway” where the stairs were.
“Let’s have a snowball fight,” Michael suggested.
“No,” I said. “We still need a way to run. Let’s make a slide.”
“We can just slide down the side.”
“No’ we can slide inside!”
I ran to the shed and grabbed the pointed shovel then ran back up The Hill. I walked to the side opposite the stairs and begun digging. Michael must have caught on because he went and grabbed the other pointed shovel and begun digging the exit of the slide. When we finished our escape route, it was wide enough for both of us to slide through and it was perfectly slick. Next we dug a cave that was about four feet in diameter and five feet deep.
“Now let’s have a snowball fight!” Michael yelled gleefully.
“Not so fast,” a voice called from behind us. It was mom. “Do you realize how long you two have been out here?”
As a matter-of-fact, we had no clue. “No,” we said looking at each other.
“Well, you asked to come out here at noon. It is now six-o-clock. Time for dinner then bed. You both have school tomorrow.”
We both whined and fussed but all to no avail. As we walked home, I turned to look at our project one last time before bed.
The next day at school, all I could think about was our Hill. What if it warmed up and melted? What if the big tractor came and knocked it down? What if, what if…?
As soon as the bell rang to end the school day, I grabbed my snow gear and backpack out of my cubby and met Michael outside the school.
“Snowball fight!” we both exclaimed.
“First one there gets The Hill!” I said.
Michael won and exclaimed, “I’m the King of the Hill!”
“Not for long!”
I made snowballs and threw them up The Hill while he threw them down.
“Charge!” I ordered my imaginary army. I sprinted up the steps with hundreds of men in tow while being pelted by thousands of the enemies’ projectiles. I reached the top and tackled their leader. We wrestled until he yelled, “Retreat!” Then he and his men slid down the slide.
This went on for some time before Michael woke us from our imaginary battle.
“Grandma’s coming!”
Oh no! Grandma is babysitting! I thought.
I dived headfirst down the slide and crawled into the cave. Michael laid on his belly behind the wall.
“Boys! I know you’re there! Come out this instant! I’ve been worried sick! You know you’re supposed to come straight home!”
We came out from hiding like a couple of whipped dogs and were told to go inside, dry off, and stick our noses in the corner without a snack.
That night it rained and the next morning our masterpiece was no more than a glorified mound of slush.
The Snowhill was no more.
May 19th, 2008 at 9:03 am
[...] talented writer, Bryan crafted a memoir that only needs illustrations to complete its transformation into a magical [...]