Our grandparents lived in Aylmer, Ontario, and we visited them about once a month. Back then, the 401 wasn’t built yet, so our three-hour drive meant weaving through side roads and little towns. We’d usually leave on Friday evening and head back home on Sunday.

On one such trip in the winter of 1957, we woke up Sunday morning to an ice storm. The world outside was transformed, glistening under a thick coat of ice, but the roads were treacherous. Grandma insisted we stay another night—it was simply too dangerous to drive home. She reminded us of the previous winter when we’d slid into a ditch during a snowstorm on our way back.

Eventually, my parents agreed to stay, though neither was pleased. Dad grumbled about having to call Ford and explain he wouldn’t be in for work on Monday, and Mom wasn’t thrilled about us missing school. But my brother Robert and I were overjoyed. An unexpected extra day at Grandma’s was a rare treat!

That afternoon, we begged to go outside. Grandma hesitated, saying it wasn’t a good idea, but Mom relented, warning us to be careful. We decided to head to the soapbox derby hill a few blocks away. Aylmer had far more hills than Essex County, where we lived, so this was a thrilling adventure.

When we arrived, we stood at the top of the hill in awe. The entire slope was coated in a thick layer of ice, steep and long—a perfect but perilous playground. Robert cautiously started making his way down along the edge of the pavement.

“Be careful!” I called out. “You might slip!”

I should mention I was wearing my new beige vinyl coat and bright red boots—boots that, as it turned out, had absolutely no traction. Just as I was turning to walk away, my feet betrayed me. Down I went, sliding uncontrollably.

Robert, startled, watched as a beige blur zipped past him. That blur was me. The slick vinyl of my coat turned me into an accidental human toboggan. I couldn’t stop myself, and the ice made the ride faster than any sled could.

By some miracle, I made it to the bottom of the hill in one piece, albeit breathless and wide-eyed. My relief, however, was short-lived. Now, I had to climb back up the icy hill. It was a Herculean effort—climb and slide, climb and slide. After what felt like an eternity, I finally reached the top.

When we returned home, everyone was frantic with worry about where we’d been. Once we shared our icy escapade, the room erupted in laughter—well, everyone except Mom. She wasn’t thrilled about the condition of my brand-new coat, now scuffed and less pristine.

Even now, decades later, we still laugh about that day. It’s one of those cherished memories that stays with you—a little slice of childhood adventure frozen in time.

Carolyn