A Christmas lesson

My older brother received a Flexible Flyer for Christmas, and I got a full case of envy. Our mother thought a similar value for Gary's sled and my new cornet made Santa's gifts of 1947 equal. Mom got that wrong. For a ten-year-old boy a lip-quivering difference separated a Flexible Flyer from a cornet.

Gary's new sled was the Sea Biscuit of the slope, sleek as a racehorse and just as fast. A cornet was work. Mom's daily mandated practices meant suffering through the complexities of sharps and flats, while trying to reach the unattainable high 'C.” From outside I could hear the frolicking kids of Guthrie Center taking advantage of the nearby blocked-off Main Street Hill, set aside for their sledding pleasure.

In Bible School I asked my teacher the meaning of the word 'covet” as mentioned in the 10th Commandment. 'It means to strongly want someone else's possession,” she replied.

I didn't understand the Commandment, but I certainly knew the wording applied to my brother's new sled. Oh, how I coveted his Flexible Flyer.

The day after Christmas when home alone, I found Gary's unattended prize on our back porch, rested and ready to go. I grabbed the rope rein and led the red-runner steed across our snowy lawn toward the starting gate at the top of Main Street Hill.

'Hey, is that neat sled yours?” my fourth grade classmate, Judy Riaski, hollered from across the street.

'Yeah, well ... er ... kinda,” I boasted. 'Wanna go for a ride?”

After a four-block climb I looked downhill at the racecourse, a steep and icy hard slope. A multitude of slipping and sliding kids pulling sleds made their way up the precipitous track.

My intended route looked scary. But I had reached the point of no return and misdirected pride kept me from backing down.

I took the driver's position with my feet on the steering bar. Judy climbed on behind and wrapped her arms around me. 'Are you ready?” I asked.

'I ... uh ... think so,” came an uncertain reply.

I pushed off.

The Flexible Flyer accelerated faster than I anticipated and gained more speed than I wanted. Wet snow flakes splashed against my glasses and blurred my vision. Judy clung to me and screamed in my ear. I couldn't see; I couldn't brake; I couldn't control. Our thoroughbred had become a runaway. We skidded and lurched and careened, scattering hill-climbing kids like bowling pins. One fleeing friend swung his following sled into our path. We crashed into it, hit an ice-caked curb, and went airborne. A telephone pole loomed dead ahead. I ducked to the side and took a glancing blow that sent the two of us cartwheeling into a bank of snow.

Judy and I were stunned, but in one piece. The Flexible Flyer wasn't as fortunate. The once proud sled had become a pile of kindling and two useless runners.

Dazed and wobbly, I walked with Judy to her home and then across the street to face my mother, waiting at the kitchen door with a grim face. 'I see your brother's sled is missing. Might you know its whereabouts?” she asked.

With head bowed, I muttered a tearful confession and awaited my punishment. Instead of the sentence I anticipated, Mom remained silent for painful moments before finally pronouncing, 'I guess you can just stew in your own juice.”

And I did, moping about the house for several days in head-drooping shame. Mom kept my angry brother at bay with a promise of a new sled, one I never thought of touching. In the meantime, and with no further complaint, I practiced daily on my cornet in solitary confinement, going through my Bill Mason music book, lesson after lesson. But the most lasting lesson of the Christmas of 1947 didn't come from Bill Mason. No, that one was taught by a very sturdy telephone pole and a forgiving mother.

' Carroll McKibbin is a native Iowan who now lives in San Luis Obispo, Calif., as a retired Cal Poly dean. Comments: cmckibbi@calpoly.edu