A Sleigh Ride by Larry Frank Fields
(Based on true events.)
{“Reddy Freddy! I’m gonna kill you!” I yelled.
Reddy Freddy, who had red hair and red freckles, was on my back piggy-back style. Right then, his antics were making me see red as we roared down Bull Mountain at a frightening clip. He wasn’t content just to ride. Rather, he was placing his gloved hands over my eyes . . . and then jerking them off . . . just in time for me to steer the sleigh from certain calamity. There was nothing I could do at the time because both my hands were needed to guide the sleigh. But, the ride had to end eventually . . . and Reddy Freddy could expect a beating when it did.}
The pre-Christmas storm had been joyously received by my friends and me. We lived in a coal camp community called Harman, in rural Southwest Virginia, located about a mile below Bull Mountain. Thanks to the snow, all we could think about was sleigh riding. Now it was dark, with a full moon, and Monopoly and Chinese Checkers were fighting a losing battle trying to hold the attention of four twelve-year-old boys.
“Hey Cochise!” (my nickname). “Let’s go all the way to the top of Bull Mountain . . . and ride back to your house . . . without wrecking”, Reddy Freddy snickered, palming a marble. Mom wouldn’t have liked it had she heard, and Dad surely wouldn’t have liked it – but he worked on the hoot-owl shift and wouldn’t be home until daybreak. A three mile ride without wrecking would be nearly impossible – but we were game for any challenge. Sheriff and The Dago Kid (Teddy Osborne) were already putting on their boots....
The road to Bull Mountain was one of the few paved roads in 1950’s Buchanan County. We chose it as our playground over our postage stamp yards and the cinder track across the creek. We deemed it safe because there wasn’t much traffic, except when there was a shift change at the mine. (Not many families owned even one car, and if they did have one, it was primarily used as a work vehicle.) So, we were familiar with the road to Bull Mountain, and on this night we loved the highway department. They had scraped our playground – but hadn’t salted it. The road was slicker than the rag rugs on Mom’s waxed floor!
“Hey, Mom, we’re going outside to play!” I half-lied from the front door.
Pied-pipering our way up the road, the number of sleigh riders steadily increased. It wasn’t hard to woo boys from their homes since television was a year away from infringing on our outdoor activities.
By the time we arrived at the summit, we were pretty much tuckered out. Walking sideways, while pulling our sleighs with a rope, was tedious work. Looking back down the valley, standing out in the shimmering light of a full moon, we could see the three switchback curves that would be imposing obstacles to our success.
One by one, the sleigh riders departed by belly-busting onto their sleighs. I was waiting to go last because my sleigh was bigger. I was bigger, too, and bigger meant faster (as we had discovered on numerous occasions by rolling big and little snowballs down a hill.) That’s what my seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Laura Harman, said too. No one doubted her word.
“Reddy Freddy”, “Where’s your sleigh?” I asked when I discovered he was sleighless.
“No got” Reddy Freddy laughed. “I’m ridin’ with you Cochise. . . piggyback!”
Reluctantly, I stretched out on my sleigh and Reddy Freddy started pushing me bob-sled style, jumping on my back when his running feet could no longer keep up with our ever -faster sleigh. Actually, it was a Deluxe Flyer . . . and flyer was the right word for it that night. Flying down the mountain, we had just charged to the lead when Dead Man’s curve stared straight ahead.
“Steer it Cochise!” Don’t wreck us!” Reddy Freddy yelled as he once again lifted his hands from my eyes.
Headlines flashed before my eyes as the reality of our situation unfolded – Tree Slays Sleighers—Boys and Sleighs Splintered on Tree.
Someone else must have steered us clear of that lofty Oak. We flew on out into smaller saplings that graciously bent, slowing and stopping us. However, the danger didn’t pass immediately – for other sleighs and sleigh riders were crashing all around us. Just like in the cartoons, though, we and most of our sleighs were intact. Fortunately, Sheriff had rolled off in the nick of time, and a groaning Dago Kid offered to piggy-back him on his sleigh.
I looked for Reddy Freddy and he was standing on a big rock, yelling like he was king of the hill. There was no way I wanted that wildcat back on my back, so I quickly pushed off on my sleigh. Just when I thought myself rid of my tormentor, there was a ka-plop on my back . . . a release of much needed oxygen . . . and the familiar feel of gloved hands over my eyes. Reddy Freddy continued his yelling, and I would have also yelled (at him), but I couldn’t even muster a grunt.
“Guide the sleigh!” Reddy Freddy yelled as Stiltner curve leaped at us . . . and he once again granted me sight. Stiltner curve was so named for the only residents along the Bull Mountain road. Fortunately for us, their driveway was an uphill off-shoot, paralleling the curve.
Dogs barked and the porch light came on as we attacked their peace. Was that a cup of hot chocolate or a smoking gun, Mr. Stiltner held in his hand?? Not taking any chances, we scooted back down the driveway in a flash. At least Stiltner curve didn’t wreck us!
On the road again, Reddy Freddy must have thought he was flashing Morse Code. He was giving me quick glimpses of s silvery blur I assumed was the road . . . just enough to keep us from wrecking as we continued to flirt with disaster.
Hell was next and I had conveniently forgotten about it. Hell derived its name because of the eternal flames and acrid smell that poured forth from a burning slate pile, fed by trash delivered daily from folks in the Harman community.
“Hey Reddy Freddy!” “Could you slip your paws down over my nose?!” I yelled as I caught a whiff of the nauseating smell. He covered up a nose alright. . . but it wasn’t mine.
Half blind, and now nauseated, I tried desperately to control my remaining sense, and steel myself for Horn curve. Motorists familiar with the mountain always blew their horn when approaching the narrow curve. (My Dad said it wasn’t wide enough for two blacksnakes to pass!) Reddy Freddy’s piercing yells might have passed for a horn. But truth to tell, we hadn’t seen the first vehicle traveling up or down the mountain. Only an idiot would be out on this icy road – and that didn’t say much for us....
“Hel-l-l-l-p!” Reddy Freddy yelled. “Hel-l-l-p!” I yelled when Reddy Freddy jerked his hands from my eyes. Coming straight toward us was an 18-wheeler . . . all lit up like a Christmas tree. Another headline flashed before my eyes:
18-Wheeler rolls over 18 Sleigh Riders.
Steering the sleigh to the right, we narrowly missed the semi’s left front tire. Hitting the ditch, with sparks flying as we uncovered rocks and dirt, the sleigh stopped . . . but we didn’t!
Thrown back onto the road, just missing the huge truck’s rear tires, we slid on our stomachs right through Horn curve.
Looking back up the mountain, we could see the lights of the truck dimming in the distance . . . and not a sign of Sheriff or Dago Kid . . . nor any of the other sleigh riders. Reason being, as we quickly surmised, they had all run off the road on the left side to avoid being hit by the semi.
“Hel-lo-o-o!” Reddy Freddy and I yelled from the edge of the road. “Hel-lo-o-o!”
Then, from down in the valley we heard someone answer . . . And then others answering . . . as if from another world. Slowly, one by one, the sleigh riders pulled themselves back up to the road. Visibly shaken, most of the sleigh riders chose to carry what was left of their sleighs and walk home....
Bidding farewell, I pushed off on my sleigh, and Reddy Freddy once again plopped on my back. I anxiously anticipated that the worst of the ride was over. No curves . . . and with just a slight down-hill grade . . . it was smooth sailing for a while – until Reddy Freddy commenced once again with his shenanigans. His now you see it . . . now you don’t game nearly landed us in the creek . . . several times. I resolved once again that he would pay dearly when this nightmarish ride came to a halt.
Finally, we could see it . . . the welcoming lights of home. I was sure Mom would stop her ironing and fix us some hot chocolate – but the sleigh ride would be my secret.
“Go on!” Reddy Freddy shouted. “Let’s check out that light down at the church”, he pointed.
Approaching the church, I could feel Reddy Freddy arch himself to look at a brightly lit Nativity scene. Someone must have put it together that very night. Seizing the moment, I jerked my sleigh hard to the left, sending Reddy Freddy rolling off my back . . . and right into the display . . . hitting his head with a sickening thud.
“No-o-o!” I cried, frantically crawling to his side. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!” “Please, God . . . let him be alright!”
Gently, I removed his stocking cap. . . was that sweat or blood I was feeling?! Trying to shock him back to consciousness, I rubbed his face with snow and received an immediate response.
“I’m o-ok . . . I think”, he mumbled.
Peace on earth read the sign above the manger . . . and I said ‘amen’ to that.
Cradling Reddy Freddy in my arms, I ever so gently deposited him on my Deluxe Flyer.
“We’re going home, Reddy Freddy”, I said as I picked up the rope to complete the final leg of our memorable sleigh ride.
Author’s Note: All of the characters depicted in this story are real. I remember asking local miners the next day if they had heard of a semi wrecked, or stuck on the mountain, and also couldn’t wait to see the Bluefield paper to see if there was an article about a semi wrecking on Bull Mountain, but there was none, but we knew what we had seen. How the truck made it remains a mystery to me.
Reddy Freddy is Freddy Carter, who is also known as Gresham. (Freddy is now deceased.)...Freddy did have red hair and freckles, and for many years worked at Harman Mining Company as a machinist, also attending the Harman Baptist Church, where our sleigh ride ended up in the story. He was commonly referred to as ‘Mr. Fixit’...
The kid named The Dago Kid in the story (Dago being short for The Durango Kid.) The Durango Kid was one of those popular western characters in the western movies of the time, but this is what John Hash called Teddy, and we picked up on it...Teddy went on to become a successful coal operator, and was an avid supporter of Grundy athletics, where his sons, Brent and Pete were standout athletes. Teddy’s dad was a Superintendent of Harman Mining for several years, and all of the Osbornes were staunch supporters of the Cincinnati Reds, as am I.
The kid named Sheriff in the story was Willard Owens, who grew up to be the preacher at the Harman Baptist Church, and also the Mayor of Grundy. (Also, a former supervisor, teacher, bus driver, employee of United Coal Company as head of the Personnel Department.)..The list could go on and on, but one thing he never was, was Sheriff....LOL... (John Hash, a former fighter-pilot in WW2 was our hero growing up, and each of us worked for him for several years as he managed the Harman Mining Company Store.)
Willard was also my roommate in college all four years, two years at Hiwassee Junior College in Madisonville, Tennessee, a 6-hour drive from Harman, Virginia. We made that journey numerous times, for Willard was married. We actually came home six week-ends in a row during one stretch. He had to see his wife, Billy Joyce, who had also graduated from Grundy with him in 1959. Both had worked for the FBI in the fingerprint division, but both had decided that Willard should complete his education, and being a good friend, he had coaxed me into attending Hiwassee with him. (Saddest time ever was when Willard’s dad was killed in a roof collapse at Harman in 1961)...And certainly sad for me, along with thousands of others when Willard lost his life in a wreck on snow-covered roads on December 18, 2004...
Many’s the night when we talked just before going to sleep at college, and I would say...
“Good-night Sheriff.”...and he would say...
“Good-night Cochise.”
All three of these good friends are now deceased, and I am the Lone Survivor of that Sleigh Ride to tell of that daring adventure....
When the story appeared in the Mountaineer all four of us were alive, and of course they didn’t remember it exactly as I wrote it....LOL...
John Whited illustrated the story, drawing a picture of two piggy-backing sleigh riders flying down a mountain with trees & a big Full Moon hovering over it all....A masterful drawing.
(Based on true events.)
{“Reddy Freddy! I’m gonna kill you!” I yelled.
Reddy Freddy, who had red hair and red freckles, was on my back piggy-back style. Right then, his antics were making me see red as we roared down Bull Mountain at a frightening clip. He wasn’t content just to ride. Rather, he was placing his gloved hands over my eyes . . . and then jerking them off . . . just in time for me to steer the sleigh from certain calamity. There was nothing I could do at the time because both my hands were needed to guide the sleigh. But, the ride had to end eventually . . . and Reddy Freddy could expect a beating when it did.}
The pre-Christmas storm had been joyously received by my friends and me. We lived in a coal camp community called Harman, in rural Southwest Virginia, located about a mile below Bull Mountain. Thanks to the snow, all we could think about was sleigh riding. Now it was dark, with a full moon, and Monopoly and Chinese Checkers were fighting a losing battle trying to hold the attention of four twelve-year-old boys.
“Hey Cochise!” (my nickname). “Let’s go all the way to the top of Bull Mountain . . . and ride back to your house . . . without wrecking”, Reddy Freddy snickered, palming a marble. Mom wouldn’t have liked it had she heard, and Dad surely wouldn’t have liked it – but he worked on the hoot-owl shift and wouldn’t be home until daybreak. A three mile ride without wrecking would be nearly impossible – but we were game for any challenge. Sheriff and The Dago Kid (Teddy Osborne) were already putting on their boots....
The road to Bull Mountain was one of the few paved roads in 1950’s Buchanan County. We chose it as our playground over our postage stamp yards and the cinder track across the creek. We deemed it safe because there wasn’t much traffic, except when there was a shift change at the mine. (Not many families owned even one car, and if they did have one, it was primarily used as a work vehicle.) So, we were familiar with the road to Bull Mountain, and on this night we loved the highway department. They had scraped our playground – but hadn’t salted it. The road was slicker than the rag rugs on Mom’s waxed floor!
“Hey, Mom, we’re going outside to play!” I half-lied from the front door.
Pied-pipering our way up the road, the number of sleigh riders steadily increased. It wasn’t hard to woo boys from their homes since television was a year away from infringing on our outdoor activities.
By the time we arrived at the summit, we were pretty much tuckered out. Walking sideways, while pulling our sleighs with a rope, was tedious work. Looking back down the valley, standing out in the shimmering light of a full moon, we could see the three switchback curves that would be imposing obstacles to our success.
One by one, the sleigh riders departed by belly-busting onto their sleighs. I was waiting to go last because my sleigh was bigger. I was bigger, too, and bigger meant faster (as we had discovered on numerous occasions by rolling big and little snowballs down a hill.) That’s what my seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Laura Harman, said too. No one doubted her word.
“Reddy Freddy”, “Where’s your sleigh?” I asked when I discovered he was sleighless.
“No got” Reddy Freddy laughed. “I’m ridin’ with you Cochise. . . piggyback!”
Reluctantly, I stretched out on my sleigh and Reddy Freddy started pushing me bob-sled style, jumping on my back when his running feet could no longer keep up with our ever -faster sleigh. Actually, it was a Deluxe Flyer . . . and flyer was the right word for it that night. Flying down the mountain, we had just charged to the lead when Dead Man’s curve stared straight ahead.
“Steer it Cochise!” Don’t wreck us!” Reddy Freddy yelled as he once again lifted his hands from my eyes.
Headlines flashed before my eyes as the reality of our situation unfolded – Tree Slays Sleighers—Boys and Sleighs Splintered on Tree.
Someone else must have steered us clear of that lofty Oak. We flew on out into smaller saplings that graciously bent, slowing and stopping us. However, the danger didn’t pass immediately – for other sleighs and sleigh riders were crashing all around us. Just like in the cartoons, though, we and most of our sleighs were intact. Fortunately, Sheriff had rolled off in the nick of time, and a groaning Dago Kid offered to piggy-back him on his sleigh.
I looked for Reddy Freddy and he was standing on a big rock, yelling like he was king of the hill. There was no way I wanted that wildcat back on my back, so I quickly pushed off on my sleigh. Just when I thought myself rid of my tormentor, there was a ka-plop on my back . . . a release of much needed oxygen . . . and the familiar feel of gloved hands over my eyes. Reddy Freddy continued his yelling, and I would have also yelled (at him), but I couldn’t even muster a grunt.
“Guide the sleigh!” Reddy Freddy yelled as Stiltner curve leaped at us . . . and he once again granted me sight. Stiltner curve was so named for the only residents along the Bull Mountain road. Fortunately for us, their driveway was an uphill off-shoot, paralleling the curve.
Dogs barked and the porch light came on as we attacked their peace. Was that a cup of hot chocolate or a smoking gun, Mr. Stiltner held in his hand?? Not taking any chances, we scooted back down the driveway in a flash. At least Stiltner curve didn’t wreck us!
On the road again, Reddy Freddy must have thought he was flashing Morse Code. He was giving me quick glimpses of s silvery blur I assumed was the road . . . just enough to keep us from wrecking as we continued to flirt with disaster.
Hell was next and I had conveniently forgotten about it. Hell derived its name because of the eternal flames and acrid smell that poured forth from a burning slate pile, fed by trash delivered daily from folks in the Harman community.
“Hey Reddy Freddy!” “Could you slip your paws down over my nose?!” I yelled as I caught a whiff of the nauseating smell. He covered up a nose alright. . . but it wasn’t mine.
Half blind, and now nauseated, I tried desperately to control my remaining sense, and steel myself for Horn curve. Motorists familiar with the mountain always blew their horn when approaching the narrow curve. (My Dad said it wasn’t wide enough for two blacksnakes to pass!) Reddy Freddy’s piercing yells might have passed for a horn. But truth to tell, we hadn’t seen the first vehicle traveling up or down the mountain. Only an idiot would be out on this icy road – and that didn’t say much for us....
“Hel-l-l-l-p!” Reddy Freddy yelled. “Hel-l-l-p!” I yelled when Reddy Freddy jerked his hands from my eyes. Coming straight toward us was an 18-wheeler . . . all lit up like a Christmas tree. Another headline flashed before my eyes:
18-Wheeler rolls over 18 Sleigh Riders.
Steering the sleigh to the right, we narrowly missed the semi’s left front tire. Hitting the ditch, with sparks flying as we uncovered rocks and dirt, the sleigh stopped . . . but we didn’t!
Thrown back onto the road, just missing the huge truck’s rear tires, we slid on our stomachs right through Horn curve.
Looking back up the mountain, we could see the lights of the truck dimming in the distance . . . and not a sign of Sheriff or Dago Kid . . . nor any of the other sleigh riders. Reason being, as we quickly surmised, they had all run off the road on the left side to avoid being hit by the semi.
“Hel-lo-o-o!” Reddy Freddy and I yelled from the edge of the road. “Hel-lo-o-o!”
Then, from down in the valley we heard someone answer . . . And then others answering . . . as if from another world. Slowly, one by one, the sleigh riders pulled themselves back up to the road. Visibly shaken, most of the sleigh riders chose to carry what was left of their sleighs and walk home....
Bidding farewell, I pushed off on my sleigh, and Reddy Freddy once again plopped on my back. I anxiously anticipated that the worst of the ride was over. No curves . . . and with just a slight down-hill grade . . . it was smooth sailing for a while – until Reddy Freddy commenced once again with his shenanigans. His now you see it . . . now you don’t game nearly landed us in the creek . . . several times. I resolved once again that he would pay dearly when this nightmarish ride came to a halt.
Finally, we could see it . . . the welcoming lights of home. I was sure Mom would stop her ironing and fix us some hot chocolate – but the sleigh ride would be my secret.
“Go on!” Reddy Freddy shouted. “Let’s check out that light down at the church”, he pointed.
Approaching the church, I could feel Reddy Freddy arch himself to look at a brightly lit Nativity scene. Someone must have put it together that very night. Seizing the moment, I jerked my sleigh hard to the left, sending Reddy Freddy rolling off my back . . . and right into the display . . . hitting his head with a sickening thud.
“No-o-o!” I cried, frantically crawling to his side. “I didn’t mean to hurt you!” “Please, God . . . let him be alright!”
Gently, I removed his stocking cap. . . was that sweat or blood I was feeling?! Trying to shock him back to consciousness, I rubbed his face with snow and received an immediate response.
“I’m o-ok . . . I think”, he mumbled.
Peace on earth read the sign above the manger . . . and I said ‘amen’ to that.
Cradling Reddy Freddy in my arms, I ever so gently deposited him on my Deluxe Flyer.
“We’re going home, Reddy Freddy”, I said as I picked up the rope to complete the final leg of our memorable sleigh ride.
Author’s Note: All of the characters depicted in this story are real. I remember asking local miners the next day if they had heard of a semi wrecked, or stuck on the mountain, and also couldn’t wait to see the Bluefield paper to see if there was an article about a semi wrecking on Bull Mountain, but there was none, but we knew what we had seen. How the truck made it remains a mystery to me.
Reddy Freddy is Freddy Carter, who is also known as Gresham. (Freddy is now deceased.)...Freddy did have red hair and freckles, and for many years worked at Harman Mining Company as a machinist, also attending the Harman Baptist Church, where our sleigh ride ended up in the story. He was commonly referred to as ‘Mr. Fixit’...
The kid named The Dago Kid in the story (Dago being short for The Durango Kid.) The Durango Kid was one of those popular western characters in the western movies of the time, but this is what John Hash called Teddy, and we picked up on it...Teddy went on to become a successful coal operator, and was an avid supporter of Grundy athletics, where his sons, Brent and Pete were standout athletes. Teddy’s dad was a Superintendent of Harman Mining for several years, and all of the Osbornes were staunch supporters of the Cincinnati Reds, as am I.
The kid named Sheriff in the story was Willard Owens, who grew up to be the preacher at the Harman Baptist Church, and also the Mayor of Grundy. (Also, a former supervisor, teacher, bus driver, employee of United Coal Company as head of the Personnel Department.)..The list could go on and on, but one thing he never was, was Sheriff....LOL... (John Hash, a former fighter-pilot in WW2 was our hero growing up, and each of us worked for him for several years as he managed the Harman Mining Company Store.)
Willard was also my roommate in college all four years, two years at Hiwassee Junior College in Madisonville, Tennessee, a 6-hour drive from Harman, Virginia. We made that journey numerous times, for Willard was married. We actually came home six week-ends in a row during one stretch. He had to see his wife, Billy Joyce, who had also graduated from Grundy with him in 1959. Both had worked for the FBI in the fingerprint division, but both had decided that Willard should complete his education, and being a good friend, he had coaxed me into attending Hiwassee with him. (Saddest time ever was when Willard’s dad was killed in a roof collapse at Harman in 1961)...And certainly sad for me, along with thousands of others when Willard lost his life in a wreck on snow-covered roads on December 18, 2004...
Many’s the night when we talked just before going to sleep at college, and I would say...
“Good-night Sheriff.”...and he would say...
“Good-night Cochise.”
All three of these good friends are now deceased, and I am the Lone Survivor of that Sleigh Ride to tell of that daring adventure....
When the story appeared in the Mountaineer all four of us were alive, and of course they didn’t remember it exactly as I wrote it....LOL...
John Whited illustrated the story, drawing a picture of two piggy-backing sleigh riders flying down a mountain with trees & a big Full Moon hovering over it all....A masterful drawing.
