Rural Missouri in the 1940s offered challenges for a youngster. Our farm was separated from the nearest village (and paved highway) by four miles of dirt roads. Winter snows – and the resulting mud — often left us isolated. But winter also inspired new adventures. Being an “only child” had its advantages, but it meant having to do most of my “exploring” on my own.

My parents gave me the run of our farm at an early age, even before I was a first-grader. I recall one frosty morning I decided to take a walk in the snow with my sled, an ancient fixed-runner from my mother’s childhood. I think I may have taken my teddy bear as a passenger, and plodded about a mile, to a one-lane bridge. When my dad finally tracked me down, I was seated on my sled at the edge of the bridge, admiring the frozen creek about 20 feet below.

A year or so later, my dad announced he intended to walk into town to pick up our ’39 Chevy, that was being repaired in a local garage. Thinking he had left without me, I hurried to catch up. After a couple of miles, I began to assume my dad had too much of a head start, but I kept going. When I finally reached the garage, it was closed. Disappointed, I began my four-mile return walk to our farm, as the setting sun turned to twilight, and it began to grow dark. I got to the creek bridge I’d explored with my sled a year or so earlier when I met my dad, who was on horseback. After a thorough scolding, I was hoisted onto the horse, and he took me home.

Country school days

Black Oak School, not far from our farmhouse, had been improved since its construction in the 1870s. The pot-bellied stove had been replaced by a furnace, and a vestibule had been added, making room for coat racks, a tiny kitchen area with a hot plate used for community oyster suppers, and a few shelves of books in one corner that served as a library.

The things that didn’t change were two privies – one for each gender — located at opposite ends of the school grounds. On winter days a “nature call” often meant a snowy walk to an unheated privy. And sorting out the proper coats and overshoes in the vestibule could be a challenge at the end of the school day.

But a long hill near the school turned into a fine “sled run” that we were allowed to access on several snowy days. Our “noon hour” was sometimes extended a few minutes as we finished sledding and retuned to classes.

A sledding misadventure

When I was 8 or 9, my folks bought me a “Flexible Flyer” sled, a big improvement over the six-runner antique my mother had kept. Our farm was called “Hillcrest Farm,” named for the hilltop the house, barns and outbuildings occupied. To the west, a pasture area extended for about a half-mile, offering a challenging sled-run.

Earlier snows that winter had been disappointing, too skimpy for good sledding. But one day freezing rain covered the farm with a thin coat of ice. The roads were so slick our country school was even closed for the day.

My child-brain began to visualize a new adventure. The pasture west of the barn had turned into an epic sled-run. It would make the slope west of the schoolhouse seem tame. The fence at the bottom of the hill marked the end of the run, but there was a gap in the fence, offering a nice challenge for anyone wanting a longer run.