Overwintering

snow, shops and a little reflection

A content warning: the third fragment in this series of essays contains references to infertility. If that’s delicate for you right now, please, stop when you get to the end of the ‘Mall of America’ story. I promise you’re not missing anything super important x

Ready, Sleddy, Go

We go sledding on a Sunday morning with the boys. They’ve been asking for a sled for several winters now, but we never lived near a good place to sled, quite aside from which, any time it genuinely occurred to us to get one, our timing was off and they were all sold out, and would only come back in stock weeks later, when the snow had started to thaw.

It is my bright idea, of course. I order sleds from Dick’s Sporting Goods and, on Friday morning, after a heavy snowfall which has rendered some of the roads borderline impassable, I slip and slide into the Dick’s car park and hit the “I’ve arrived!” button on my phone.

A young woman in a short-sleeved T-shirt comes out to load the sleds into my boot.

“I’m sorry I made you come out in the snow!” I shout at her. She’s already hurried back into the shop and doesn’t hear me or, if she does, doesn’t acknowledge me. Fair enough, I think. (It’s -15C.)