The sledding path of my childhood ran through a giant cornfield, all the way down the hill to the bee-keepers pond at the bottom. When we finished packing, we carried buckets of sloshing water to pour over top. Influenced by howling winds and single digit temps, the water flash froze, making the trail — you guessed it — as slick as ice! We dried out and warmed up inside, waiting for dark, because sledding parties were always held after dinner and in the dark. The roaring fire at the top of the hill drew neighborhood kids like moths to a flame. We flew down the hill at speeds no child should be traveling at without helmets and protective gear, and invariably, someone always got hurt. But it was worth the risk. After all, school was out and storms like that only came along every few years.