As you grow up you gain authentic blissful recollections, or more better known as memories. Your memories are like no one else’s, where you grow up has the biggest effect. Whether you grow up picking pineapples in Hawaii or riding bulls in Texas, your childhood is special to you. My childhood is based in Iowa, and my memories can never be replaced with picking pineapples over the sweet taste of corn. Iowa is a place known for country raised hardworking respectful people, however not all Iowan memories are picking off the golden tassels of the yellow corncob or herding the towering brown cattle at evening time.

It was a cold winters morning, and small white flakes of frozen rain were slowly being pulled to the ground by the flow of gravity. When I walked outside my skin felt the cold touch of an Iowa’s winter morning. A pale white wind was rushing through the air blowing the frozen humid air into my face as I walked down the short slippery wooden stairs towards the curb where the old blue recyclable bin was sitting upside down in a puffy white snow.

As I walked the bin into the house my family was sitting on the old tattered brown couch and chairs smelling of dusty wool that had sat in our small white living room throughout many of my child years. A familiar sound rose into the air, and echoed throughout the house. The phone was ringing with a sound somewhere along the lines of a cowbell. I then heard the metal clink of the closing recliner, as one of my parents slowly forwarded towards the phone. You could hear the thud of every step on the hardwood floor as it illuminated through the creaky century old house.

As the ringing ended, you could hear the joyful sound of my mother’s low toned voice start to speak. She didn’t even have to tell us whom it was for us to know what the phone call was for. We were going sledding at grandma’s house.

As we put on out scratchy winter coats the Velcro scratched our necks. We frantically searched for our winter gloves so thick we couldn’t move our fingers through the rough waterproof outside and soft red fuzzy insides. When I walked out the door Jack Frost reached down with his blue smile and touched my ears. I had forgotten my hat.

As I ran back through the house over the hardwood floor and into the big coat closet, knocking down several coats and scarves in the process, I grabbed my wholly pink Dora The Explorer hat that slid perfectly over my ears and ran out the door. In the five-minute car ride over with the four wheels quickly moving underneath us, we stared out the window at the falling white snow hitting the brown short stocked fields that had once been a beautiful display of the colors of green.

As we arrived at my grandma’s small brown house residing at the top of the tallest hill in the town, we looked at the surrounding steep hills and got anxious to jump out of the car. When the vehicle slowed to a stop we hopped out of the noisy old maroon car and ran towards my grandmothers squeaky screen door. We ran through my grandmother’s door causing a loud squeak followed by the large thud of the shutting door, to see that my cousin DJ was sitting on the big fluffy blue couch waiting for our arrival. I ran up to my grandmother and saw her bright, cherry red, smiling face, as I gave her the biggest bear hug my tiny arms could muster.

I went and sat down next to DJ on the soft blue cushions of the living room couch, and fixed my eyes on the old glowing blue box television. My grandmother soon brought me a hot cocoa to warm me up before the cold, and as I drank the malty chocolate liquid it warmed my throat leaving a hot pool of powdery water in the bottom of my belly.

As we got outside the tree sitting just off her driveway filled our noses with the smell of fresh pine and we ran towards the pile of sleds she kept in her cinderblock garage. I grabbed a bumpy long blue sled sitting in the crowded corner, and the smooth round purple sled in the middle of the pile knocking down more sleds filling the air with the sound of clinking plastic.

The boys went for the snowboards of which they could not ride, and two long tie-dye styled bumpy plastic sleds. We ran towards the steep snow caped hill with our sleds hanging on to us only by the small slivery brown rope connecting the sled to the giant gloves filling our hands with sweat.

The hill was so abrupt that it would send you flying down like a hawk diving for prey. At the bottom of the hill were two short wide white brick buildings, that we would glide ourselves between to avoid collision with the cold hard brick wall. When we reached the hill my brother and cousin started building a ramp that would only strengthen the danger of the hill. As they were building the factor that would surely lead to someone’s demise, I ran about four houses down passing a blue, then green, then a tall tan house all lit up to celebrate the arrival of an old myth, and knocked on the door of my childhood best friend.

We ran back past the bright houses to the monstrous hill to be met with the finish of the straight ramp made from the fluffy snow still falling from the sky. As we rode down the hill on our long colorful sleds we had grins stretching from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat. After about twenty minutes of a continuous repeat line of blue, red, and tie-dye sleds. I switched from my long blue sled to my round purple sled tugging it behind me by the plastic handles carved into the side. My friend had just slid down the long hill before me and I soon followed after riding the soft snow, as it became scratchy from the layer of ice forming on top by the snow melting beneath the line that the sleds followed through the snow.

As he reached the bottom of the hill he just sat in the large dent he made from hitting the bottom of the hill enjoying the soft snow surrounding the thick itchy snow pants. I was going fast enough for the wind to burn my face and pull my hood off of my head. He was just sitting in the runway path, and there was no way that he was going to flee in time. As I came swooping down like a plane on a runway he like a deer in the headlights had already lost his shot to get out of the way. I had to hit him or else I would surely be sending myself towards the thick brick wall, sure to cause a concussion.

I yelled with a booming voice carried away by the wind, “Get out of the way!” I was a tall trees length away from lifting myself off the ramp that would send the car flying over the icy road into the deer. Just before I hit the large ramp I kicked my feet out into the scratchy ice covering the soft snow and turned to miss him as the thin ice was jabbing through my snow pants and into my ankles. I flew myself to the right of my friend, and straight into the short white brick wall.

I woke up seconds later with the world spinning faster than I could see and three small chubby faces spinning with it. I looked up confused and tired, covered from head to toe in freezing snow now piled  halfway up the short wall. As I sat up they seemed to be extremely more relieved, but still had a look of worry as they tried to help me escape the grasp of the snow having an icy grasp on my arms and legs. They looked at me intensely and spoke togather, “Are you okay?” As I sat in the cold wet snow unknowingly icing the gargantuan mass that lay upon my small head, I sat up slowly. My mind rushed with a million thoughts as the smell of oily tractors and gravel flowed past the icicles dripping from my frozen nose. I looked up quickly then smiling I said through the headache that’s trying to explode my skull, “Yeah, that was fun!!” The bodies surrounding me gave an immense sigh of relief, and burst into a laughter that could carry feathers from the floor.

Growing up Iowa is not growing up on a farm, but instead it is growing up on a bed of a thousand memories.

Memories that continue to fuel the passion, dedication, and hard work that us Iowans are known for. We grow up with millions of memories, and take every opportunity we can to take new chances and teach others because
“The human species thinks on metaphors, and learns through stories”
     - Mary Bateson