I’m from New England, practically as far north as Santa himself, so I should totally have a bank vault full of sweet, snowy holiday traditions and memories, right? I’m sure I do, buried somewhere deep in the gray matter, but I have to admit, the prevailing image I have when I think of childhood holidays is the iconic red sled “¦ specifically, how I did not somehow suffer a red-sled-induced death before I graduated.
We lived in a lovely Colonial house situated smack-dab in the middle of a hill, so the sliding was pretty epic, though we didn’t use that word back then. We’d start way up at the edge of the woods, fly through a chute between the chimney and the pool, and launch over jumps, trying not to land in the stream at the bottom. We sometimes succeeded.
But here’s the thing I’ve never understood, ever since I took Physics in high school. The velocity with which we careened down that hill, combined with the width of that chute we had to hit, were a made-for-the-Darwin-awards combination. How none of us never missed and hit the chimney instead is still a mystery to me. How none of us ever landed in the pool is another one.
But night after night, no matter what the temperature, out we’d go with those red sleds, slogging uphill in one-size-too-big boots (because Mom said they’d last longer that way) and awkward, swishy snowpants, looking up at the sky with our mouths open to catch snowflakes. We’d settle the sleds in a line, hook ourselves together, and with a whoop, head down the hill toward certain death.
Or not.
Maybe the fear of our own demise was what made sliding so delicious. I can still remember the exhilaration of flying through the chute beside the house, then hitting the jump and flipping through the air, landing in a laughing pile of tangled limbs.
And then I got older.
And one particular boy came over to go sliding “¦ a lot.
Sliding became flirtation, and a different kind of exhilaration as we threw off the junior high manacles and flew down the hill like childish monkeys. We laughed, we doubled up on my tiny sled, we fell into heaps “¦ sometimes purposely.
My first kiss came during one of those giggling, freezing evenings, and it was as sweet and magical and perfect as a first kiss could ever be. The night was still, snowflakes danced in the porch lights, and I’d never been so cold and so warm at the same time.
So although I’m all grown up now and have serious Florida-envy when the temps dip below freezing for months on end, there’s just something about the sight of a red plastic sled in a hardware store window that makes me smile. Long evenings, first kisses, and hot cocoa combine in a nostalgic Norman Rockwell picture, and at times, I wish I could go back to those simpler times “¦ as long as someone could guarantee I’d still make it through that chute without dying.
Noah Drake was that guy–the one always on the lookout for his next adrenaline high, so it was no surprise when he took off across the world, seeking adventure as a travel writer. But one thing he could never escape was Piper Bellini, the girl who got away–the girl he let get away, a fact he’s never let himself forget. When he returns to Echo Lake to see if there’s any chance the flame between them can be rekindled, he never expects to spend the night holed up with Piper in a roadside diner while a blizzard rages outside. It’s exactly the kind of situation that sent Piper running years ago. But this time, Noah may have been handed a Christmas miracle, and he intends to make all of his and Piper’s wishes come true…
To add to your holiday cheer, I’m giving away two digital copies of Snowflake Wishes. If you would like to win one of these copies tell me about your first kiss.
Meet Maggie
Maggie McGinnis is a USA Today bestselling author and Golden Heart Finalist who lives in New England, vastly outnumbered by both children and cats. She writes sweet romances set in Montana and Vermont, and feels extremely fortunate that through her books, she gets to fall in love every single day. She’s a sucker for romantic comedies, popcorn, and the perfect green pen, and if she wasn’t an author, she’d totally be rocking a Nashville club in her pink cowgirl boots. It’s probably good that she embraced the author thing, because her singing skills are better suited to the shower, and really? Pink cowgirl boots?
Leave a Comment