Death Hill

A big old pile of snow dumped on Evanston over the weekend. Which means three things:

1.     I woke up extra early to shovel  everyone’s walk in a pathetic attempt to win “Best Neighbor.”

2.     I lost my Apple Air Pod headphone in said snow as God’s commentary on materialism.

3.     We went sledding on Mount Trashmore.

Longtime readers of HamannEggs know Mount Trashmore is the local heap/hill featuring an Easy, Medium and Death hill. For the last eleven years, we’ve been content to safely glide down the easy slope. But this year, the boys and their cousins decided not to be big babies like the babies on the Easy hill and spent most of their time on the Medium hill with the faux snowboarders and other tweens.

I was not feeling well, so I sat on the ancient wooden fence/toboggan run and handed out witticisms to the other parents as a public service. My other duty was to tell Luca when it was clear for him to sled down the hill, as he was terrified of smashing into someone making their way off the hill. I feel ramming into a kid with your sled is a rite of passage, so I always said it was clear.

Sorry for this detour, but it was brutally cold. And there was one dad who just wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt. No hat. No jacket. No gloves. His manliness was a marvel. The rest of the dads all agreed if our wives left us for him it would be understandable.

Back to the story. After an hour or so of Medium hill, Elijah decided he wanted to head to the Death hill his cousin Finn. I assumed they would both chicken out once they got to the summit, so I said go nuts.

It’s called “Death Hill” because there are many, many signs posted by the city explaining there was a 100% guarantee of death from sledding down this hill in big red letters. Of course it was packed.  

Eli and Finn and I stood at the top of Death Hill and I awaited the back peddling. But no, they were determined. I gave them an out by saying Diana would be mad if she heard about them messing around on the guaranteed death mound. They simply said, “What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

I’m not doing the top of this hill justice. The wind was nuts. Huge swirls of snow and ice brutalized our faces. It was, at most, 6 degrees. And for some reason, dogs roamed around, unleashed. I guess their owners figured the animals had a better chance of survival on their own.

Eli and Finn decided to share a sled, so they gave me their spare. I looked at Finn’s thin little frame and realized I didn’t exactly have my brother’s permission to kill his son. I gave them some quick advice. Don’t put your feet down. Don’t turn. Don’t stop. Hold on for dear life.

They zipped off with shrieks of glee. They accelerated to collarbone breaking speed, but made it to the bottom of the hill without incident.

I found myself in a quandary. At the top of the Death hill. Too tired/sick to walk down. But I was also not interested in a trip to the E.R.

I decided to go the fast route and slide down. But safely. In control. Hamann-style. I sat down on the little plastic circle and scooched forward.

Without warning, gravity took its hold and I immediately forgot rule #1: Don’t put your feet down. The top of Death hill had been rubbed clean of snow revealing only dirty and gravel underneath. My attempts at stopping sent a rooster tail of debris into my eyeballs. I raised my hands to my eyes, which caused me to begin a death spiral (rule #2 and #4).

I was quite sure I would become another victim of Death hill, another notch in the Evanston City warning signs. But sooner than you can say, “Does anyone know CPR?” I was at the bottom of the hill.

I quickly convinced Luca that he was cold and we went home for hot chocolate.