To the Editor:

My grandfather never shared many stories from his childhood, but sledding on Kirk Hill was one of few he did.

Sent by his parents to live with his aunt, uncle, and paternal grandmother in Altamont during the Great Depression, he found life on the five acres of land provided him and his two younger sisters more food than his parents could.

His late grandfather, the former Altamont President James E. Kirk’s orchards of apples and peaches, as well as the pear trees his Uncle Luther Warner planted and Aunt Margaret canned or carefully wrapped in newspaper and stored in the damp cellar, sustained the family with fruit throughout the year. The vast vegetable gardens they tended provided the rest of their produce.

But as a child his fondest memories of this fertile land came after the frosts and freezes. When the abundance of the coming season was interrupted by snow and cold. When the verdant land, fed by the silty, mineral rich creek, was covered with a thick layer of ice and snow.

Sitting at the dining room table, portraits of his elders lining the wall, he would recall icy mornings trudging up what is now Route 146, metal-runnered sled in tow. Whenever I see cyclists speeding down the hill parallel to the creek, I imagine my grandfather bundled in hat and mittens, a scarf whipping behind him.

Icy days on the street were the best, he said, but Aunt Margaret and Grandmother Kirk did not agree. And so he was relegated to the safety of the modest back hill, where he cleared a path among the volunteer saplings.

Luther’s pear trees were not so imposing then, and the maples had not yet become dangerous obstacles. This was back when Uncle Luther had trained the squirrels to bring him butternuts in exchange for peanuts.

I never understood why until recently. Now the squirrels bury butternuts on the hill with wild abandon, leaving still more obstacles for sledding.

But back then the hill was clear, and there was one time my grandfather managed to get so much momentum that he made it straight across Maple Avenue, a feat that seems as impossible as it was dangerous.

My grandfather was not a hyperbolic man, nor one known for his embellishments. If Grandpa said it was true, it was. Each time my siblings and I took turns sledding down that hill, we never managed to make it any farther than Uncle Luther’s line of pear trees.

Each year, my husband and I invite neighbors to continue the tradition of sledding on Kirk Hill, to fulfill a promise I made to my grandfather many years ago. He watched the neighborhood children dragging their sleds and toboggans, waiting for someone to break his record, but no one ever did.

Watching children on the hill transported him momentarily, back to when he was a carefree boy. Before going off to war, before Market Garden and the Battle of the Bulge. A boy who was somewhat protected from a worldwide depression because of the hard work and good fortune of his family.

The hope that anyone could ever beat his record seems as impossible to me as if Grandpa could have broken free from the suffering of war trauma. But he never stopped hoping, and neither can we.

Jen O’Connor and Eric Krans

Altamont

Editor’s note: Irk Hill is at 167 Maple Ave. in Altamont. Jen O’Connor and Eric Krans extend this generous invitation every year.