Keller's Hill

The house was the oldest in the neighborhood. It would seem that the front faced our house since it was directly across the street. That was not the case even though everyone viewed it that way. The front was actually on the other side facing the neighbor’s backyard. The house was older than any of the roads and in time a few pieces of the property were sold off to others thus making the actual back of the house the new front. It was not the house, as grand as it was, that interested the children in the neighborhood; it was the long, sloping hill directly below the home that caught our attention. Where my house faced, the property was dotted with many trees, including a massive, ancient weeping cherry, and directly beside the house was another massive azalea that almost kissed the roof of the looming three-story dwelling. Directly behind the azalea was what we knew as “Keller’s Hill”.

George and Ann Keller and their two children owned the home and the large lot on which it sat. By the time I arrived, the two children, a boy and a girl, were older than most of the kids who flocked there each and every snowstorm to enjoy the marvelous ride that the hill offered. The older of the Keller children, a boy, had graduated college with an engineering degree and moved southward and the girl was in college, soon to land a job in the mayor’s office. By the time I arrived on the scene, neither was around during the day, even in the snowy wonderland of their property. The neighborhood kids were there, in droves, each and every time it snowed.

The owners did not mind the flux of sledders using their hill for sport; it was a simpler time when people allowed children to cut across their property or to use their hill for sledding and were comfortable knowing that the parents would not sue them should a mishap occur nor hold them responsible. In those days, the parents took responsibility for their own children.

There are many stories that emanated from Keller’s Hill, almost as many as there were kids using it. Several, though, have remained in my memory for all these years, resonating with whelps of laughter, whelps of pain, and whelps from a simpler time when “going out to play” was the mantra of the times. My most vivid memory of Keller’s Hill was on a glorious January day when the snows had recently fallen in such a manner that sledding was imperative. The snow was just right for a slick, quick, exhilarating ride. The sun shone brightly and the hill was dotted with no less than twenty kids, all with their own Fearless Flyer sleds, none named Rosebud, but that feeling was certainly in the crisp air.

We took turns careening down the hill; then the laborious task of walking back up, looking forward to the next ride. We were careful of each other, guiding our sleds to avoid collisions with others, even at times rolling off to avoid an accident. It was Louie’s turn and he, a typical adolescent boy, decided to take the ride bravely backwards. He mounted his sled with his back to the front, much like the mansion behind him, and faced the rest of us standing on the dock awaiting a clear path to our next trip. He kicked off and, as each of us had experienced on the slick hill, accelerated to an almost blinding pitch. He waved, happily, as he sped down the slope, and standing in the bright afternoon sun, we watched. It soon became evident that a disaster was about to occur. The trees dotted the upper area of the house, but there was one on the slope, one which all kids knew to avoid and thus would steer their vehicle away. Louie did not see the tree coming, he only saw the children with gloved hands frantically waving. His look of glee told us that he could not hear our screams of “stop” and “watch out”; he was only thinking of the thrill and speed that he could feel as he glided down, towards certain pain, if not more dire consequences. The crack came instantaneously with his howl of excruciating agony as he collided with the tree. We ran to him, he seemed lifeless, still yet somehow his cries emanated from his surely broken body.

As unlucky as it would seem, Louie had luck with him that day. As he cried out, a compassionate stranger was driving towards the train station on his way to work. He heard the cry as well as the agonized pleas of the rest of us and stopped and ran towards the site of the crash. He knew what to do; I seem to remember that he said he was a doctor as he instructed the boys to remove the gliders from the bottom of a large sled, and told the girls to not move the frightened boy. He quickly reviewed the damage and gently moved Louie on to the makeshift litter, with the help of the bigger lads, and carefully took him to his car, while instructing Louie’s brothers to notify his mother that he was hospital-bound. Louie recovered but he was not in school for quite some time. Keller’s Hill was still a fun place to gather on a snowy day, however, none of us ever ventured to take the slope without face forward.

On another occasion, my brother’s friend, George, a tall lanky young man decided to take me for a ride. At that time I believed that riding with a larger person would give the sled a decidedly quicker pace. I also thought that it would afford me a chance to take the entire hill without bailing before the end point of a small, cold spring that separated the hill from the road. I was mistaken on each point. As I happily hopped on in front of George he told me that we would have a terrific ride. I agreed. I was wrong. I believed that with George’s long legs at the helm that we could swerve and turn in such a manner that I could never dream. I was wrong. As the sled took off from the dock, we did move quickly, watching the returning children go by as swiftly as if in a speedboat. By the time that George mentioned that he had no idea of how to guide the sled, I wished that I was in a boat. He also asked me if I knew how to stop. No, I had no idea, I had always bailed out, but with this giant of a boy, there was no bailing. We came to a screeching halt as we careened into the cold, sloppy, wet creek. With clothes dripping wet, and hands turning to ice, we started the arduous walk up the hill. It was fun, even though our landing was a disaster. I headed towards my warm house with George close behind. We laughed all the way into the living room where we were questioned and both offered dry clothes. I never got on a sled with George again, in fact, I never even ventured into a car with him, thinking that perhaps he still hadn’t learned how to steer or stop.

There was still another occasion that stands brightly in my mind, chasing the shadows of childhood into adulthood. It was New Year’s Eve and our family invited some of the neighbors into our home to welcome the coming year. The young people consisting of Linda Keller and my brother, who were both of an age to cheer the New Year as an adult, my sister and myself decided to attack Keller’s Hill in the still hours just after Baby New Year was born. My silver, round sled was to be the chariot of the night as we headed across the street to the revered hill. Linda was bright and savvy, she had no intention to sled down the darkened slope, but she could entice my “idiot” brother to tackle it. As we toasted the night she challenged him to take the hill on my shiny, metallic, fast, unsteerable, sled, standing up. This was a feat that couldn’t be done in the bright of the afternoon, stone-cold sober by the flying Wallendas. Of course my brother was game. He stood and took off, he fell, and Linda baited him again. The scene repeated numerous times. Linda howled with laughter, the intrepid rider betted again and again that it could be done. He hadn’t even noticed that the girls never put a toe on the sled; we just watched and learned that men could be easily baited into foolish endeavors simply by telling them that it can’t be done.

As the years passed, new children came to the hill in the daytime, and the older ones took to it at night. I had one last ride as I entered adulthood and then it was quiet. Eventually, the Kellers moved away, George passed away, no longer tending to his beloved property, Ann moved closer to her daughter until she too eventually joined her husband. The hill did not remain; the lots were sold off to newcomers and one neighborhood “kid”. The old cherry tree was taken as was the giant azalea. The home still remains with new people, just as kind as the old, but a pool now graces the area between the lots at the true front of the house. The spring at the end of the hill has dried up, but the memories of Keller’s Hill still flow in the minds of the minions of neighborhood kids who danced across its icy passage.