Winter of '63

I did not know, aged eleven, that the winter of 1963 was particularly harsh. Three memories linger.

With snow piled beside the pavement, I am astonished my mother did not intervene when I thought it amusing to take a handful of snow and post it through the slit in the pillar box.

In the eventual thaw, I spied a gun through the melting ice as I walked from school. Knowing from the public information films one should not pick up devices discovered from the war, I kicked it home, assuming I was following the warnings with due regard. We should test information aimed at young minds with the children themselves!

But the stand-out was the toboggan expedition with my father. He drove his motorbike (“BSA Super Bantam 175cc” became my learned-off-by-heart mantra), the sleigh strapped over the paniers behind, with me as pillion. With superior quality sledge we tore down the hill, as he tried to slow us with an extended foot, only to crash into a concrete post, part of the wire mesh fence at the bottom. We recovered, shook ourselves down, took one more ride on a more gentle slope to regain confidence, before he drove me home gingerly along icy roads. Very soon his leg swelled, the ambulance was called, and his limb fed into an air-filled protective plastic affair. His broken ankle set poorly, half his leg encased, and his repair took many months. I often thought back at how perilous that homeward motorcycle journey had been.

My father bought toboggan - class;

first bobsleigh run next Saturday.

He motorbiked, me pillion,

BSA Super Bantam wheels -

tyre slalom to St Martin’s Fields.

Soft crumble over skate rink glass,

hill chock-a-block with cheap tin trays,

flat hardware float; cut runners deep

through powder, sheen fast underneath,

like crevasse-covered scenic glow.

Peak summit, set launch down laid scree,

a pristine wooden sledge with rope,

quite unaware how brakes applied,

though knew to steer, extended leg.

And so we crashed at breakneck speed,

for hurtled down to chain-link fence,

struck cement stake, bold sentry post.

Crash helmet domes crowned overhead -

where else to store our cycle ware -

as we were thrown to concrete edge,

Dad’s footbrake striking pile, full force,

his gauntlets thrown down, foot of strut,

as if a challenge to stockade,

a break out hope beyond the pale.

So stunned with shock, we weakly smiled -

more gentle slope slide final sop

to expedition’s grand intent;

poor rescue, battered dignity.

We returned home, he driving bike,

me passenger along with sleigh,

his swollen foot, leg puffed out fast,

a broken ankle, knee-high cast.

So such our swift decent on pack,

our trudging back, clamber high tump,

our Super Bantam icy road,

175cc return.

It took long months for his repair;

I posted snow, slit pillar box,

then hold-up gun revealed by thaw,

which I kicked home - from pickup warned,

as I kept letter, posters’ lore.

’Twas winter, ’63 indeed.