It's time for true confessions: I have never been snow skiing. Yes, I'm from Wisconsin and I even worked at a ski resort up there for a winter season. But, for a number of reasons--money, ability, fear--I've never tried to ski. Although the wonderful folks out at Snow Creek have offered many kind invitations to try, it just hasn't happened. My brother, Craig, once spent a lot of money on cross country skis, which he may even have used once. Cross country skiing is supposed to be great exercise but, to me, it always seemed like just a snooty cousin to snow-shoeing. I suspect, on skis, I'd be more Body Cast than Bode Miller. However, my lack of Jean- Claude Killyasity, does not mean I am averse to fun in the snow. I have gone downhill in so many ways, including my looks, career, mental acuity, that going downhill for real is not a big deal.

Once, out at the aforementioned Snow Creek, I competed in a trash-bag race. It involved a large, plastic garbage bag and several other sliders. I am proud to say I finished, and then, my family put me out by the side of the street for pick-up. I also have a pair of Fanny-Skis. They are just what they sound like. You strap them on your bottom and off you go. It's not really a one-size-fits-all contraption. As I get older and wider...not wiser, but wider...when I use the Fanny Skis, the trail left behind looks like Babar the Elephant has arrived at the Waldorf carrying several pieces of luggage.

Where a person goes sledding may be more important than what they go sledding on. Our first house, north of the river, had a great hill right out the front door. Now, the kids have to walk only about a block to get to a pretty fair course. When I was a kid there were two main places to go sledding. One was good. One was evil. The good one was called Steuber's Hill. It was just out of town and wide open. No dangerous trees or roads to worry about. It was named after the family of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Steuber. She ranks with the best teachers I ever had. When I was in her class, about nine years old at the time, my oldest brother and his wife had their first child. In fact, that baby was the first of that new Nichols generation. The little arrival was a girl which made me nervous, thinking that would make me an aunt, not an uncle. After answering that question for me, Mrs. Steuber, being an amazing artist, made me a really cool, over-sized card to give to my new niece. To this day, we still get Steuber originals at Christmas-time. (She also gave me a "D" in penmanship once. It got my attention. Something a great teacher can do!) Anyway, Steuber Hill was so bright and happy a spot, it would have made Currier and Ives think their own work was too dark and foreboding.

Speaking of "dark and foreboding," that describes the other sledding place in town. It was a narrow, icy path right off of the main drag, Water Street. Way too close to that busy thoroughfare. You'd fly down the chute with trees and branches and rocks everywhere. If you veered just an inch off the beaten path, you were done. If you went too far, you were in the river...which didn't always freeze too completely. A good friend of mine urged me to go sledding there. So, I traipsed along. When I got there, I swear I heard that music all kids associated with death back then...."dum..dum...dumdum...dumdumdumdumdumdumdummmmmm." And, dumb is how I felt, too. This was not a happy woodland setting. There was no Bambi or Thumper. There was one scruffy looking chipmunk sitting in a tree, smoking a Lucky Strike and drinking an Old Milwaukee. Every now and then, he'd yell to nobody in particular, "Darn you Alvin...that shoulda been me..." The trees and rocks were not soothing. It was the type of setting Walt Disney would've created had he gotten a bad piece of olive loaf in the studio commissary. Well, I chickened out and went home. Either that day or the next, the good friend who had encouraged me to try it, went off the trail and broke his collar-bone. He blamed the chipmunk.

But, the best place to go sledding and have fun in the snow, for the last 25 years or so, has been out at Grandma and Grandpa's lake cottage. They have a very long, fast hill that is perfect for any kind of sled. Thanks to the snowmobiles, you can get a ride back up to the top. (Also, it is comforting to know that a warm fire and hot chocolate are only a step or two away.) Over the years, our kids have had a blast on that hill but my most memorable moment came before I was a father. I may have told this story before but I don't really remember, and, after the story, you may understand why. You may also understand many other things about my behavior, too.

Before I was the mean dad, I was the perfect uncle. When I was 20, I had about 11 nieces and nephews. On the day before Christmas Eve, I decided to go out to the lake and make a really good, fast, but safe toboggan run for all the little kids to use when they visited Grandma and Grandpa the next day and night. We had plenty of snow on the ground which needed to be properly shaped for the best sliding performance. Well, I took the toboggan out of the garage, set it down right at the top of the hill, took several steps back and, then, ran full bore to the sled, jumped on, flat on my stomach, and went flying. Up ahead, I saw a large tree approaching but there was a giant snow bank in front of it. All that snow would surely stop me. I put my head down and sailed into the snow....through the snow....out of the snow...through the air...into the tree. Head-first. After impact, I immediately jumped to my feet, just in case anybody inside had seen it. It was just like in a cartoon...I saw stars and heard little birdies. I went in the house and locked myself in the bathroom to check my pupils. (Something I must have learned from Mrs. Steuber since a good teacher always checks her pupils! Get it? Pupils? Even in pain, I still got it!) Other than a dull ringing in my ears, everything seemed okay, although my family did wonder why I kept picking up the phone and saying "hello" to a dial tone. In the days that followed I discovered I had torn some muscles in my chest. This was a major surprise, as I didn't think I actually had any muscles...in my chest or anywhere else. The other lasting effect from my "tree"-mendous collision: I lost about a quarter of an inch in height. Before: 5'11". After: 5' 10 3/4". A quarter-century later: Still shrinking.

This weekend, enjoy the snow, if we get some, and the hills and the sledding but watch out for those sneaky trees and bitter, old chipmunks.