So I threw my customized '67 wood-paneled toboggan into reverse and started back up the hill. It was getting real icy now under the purpling 5 o'clock sky. Sure enough, she was sitting all alone on that cold white crystal blanket, sniffling.
She wore a pink one-piece Gimbels snow-suit with bright red Buster Brown boots, and she wiped her eyes with Sky King and Penny mittens. Her Flexible Flyer had flipped on its side, her Howdy Doody lunchbox spilling Mary Janes and Necco Wafers into the glittering snow. "Just my ticket," I thought.
Shifting the wad of Bazooka bubble gum into my left cheek, and swishing back the coon tail on my Davey Crockett cap, I said, "Climb in, Sweetheart, I'm taking you down the hill for some hot Ovaltine."
She hunkered her knees around my rib cage, snug as a bug in my toboggan, and we swooshed down fast. Soon we were in my kitchen, the windows steamy, the hot water radiators clanking up a cozy storm. My Mom made us drinks in Walt Disney mugs with melting marshmallows on top. Mine was Pluto, a dog who was not too bright. Hers was a waltzing hippo from Fantasia, a movie that was in Technicolor.
Mom left the kitchen. She had to go into the den to turn on Popeye Theater for my little brother David, who didn't even know how to work the TV. Meanwhile, those red boots were sagging in a puddle by the radiator, the girl rubbing one wet white sock against another with her feet. I didn't even know her name, but I told her I loved her: and if she'd give me half her candy, I'd take her back up to fetch the sled. That was the deal.
It was my first date. In those days, there was snow by Thanksgiving. Real cold outside. But real warm in the kitchen.
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