Sledding, Hot Coco, and Mint Melt-Aways

My relationship with my dad has always been…complicated. On the one hand, he has done so much for our family. For years, he has worked at a job that he despises to provide for us. He’s always there for all my achievements, and he, along with my mom, comforts me when I’m sad. I’ll never forget how he held me while I held my six-year-old dog, a dog I had raised from four weeks old who was dying of lymphoma, as we waited to take him to the vet to put him out of his misery. On the other hand, my dad has had more than his fair share of issues. His temper is volatile. My childhood is wrought with memories of him punching walls, slamming doors, and throwing things. So much broke when I was younger that I now can’t bear to let go of anything or even let anyone else handle my stuff. And the swearing. I’m surprised I didn’t grow a sailor’s mouth sooner than I did. He’s never physically hurt anyone, but the emotional toll on my mom and me has been horrific and life-altering. My older brothers either didn’t witness the worst of it (they’re six and seven years older than I), have so warped a memory that they don’t remember it, or somehow justify it.

Sometimes, my dad and I get along fine. Other times, we fight like cats and dogs. Still other times, I’m too afraid to even be in the same room as he is. Those times when we do get along have created some of the best memories of my childhood: canoeing and swimming at Whiskeytown Lake, seeing Avatar in theaters for his birthday, going to the “rich neighborhood” to see their Christmas lights during a very rare snowfall, sitting in the car at Volonte Park and eating McDonald’s while we talked about everything and nothing. My favorite memory, though, is sledding at Eskimo Hill.

I don’t remember how old I was the first time we went sledding. It was back before I knew just how insensitive it was to name a place “Eskimo Hill” (not that many people around here care about “sensitivity”). Snow was, and still is, a rare commodity in my hometown. The entire county, in fact. Eskimo Hill was the one place you could go and almost be guaranteed to find some of the ice-cold white stuff, even in spring. So, one day, my dad decided to take me to do some things I did not often have the chance to do: sledding and playing in the snow. We bundled up as well as we could, I wore the new snow boots my mom bought me for Christmas, and off we went in his truck.

When we arrived, the first thing we did was use the restroom. Big mistake. It was filthy. Flies buzzed everywhere. Even the restroom up at Whiskeytown Lake was cleaner than this. For once, I didn’t mind when my dad put a layer of hand sanitizer on the toilet seat. After that, I still set a thin paper seat cover on top. I actually asked my dad for hand sanitizer even after washing my hands in the bathroom, that’s how disgusting it was. Since my dad is usually germaphobic, I would’ve thought he’d fly off the handle at the state of things. This time, he didn’t. Instead, we simply gathered our things and moved on.

Upon seeing Eskimo Hill for the first time, I was elated. Pure white snow shined down on me from a slope that, at the time, felt enormous. Kids and adults played everywhere, and yet there was still enough room for people to not run into each other, usually. People had made a few lanes up at the top for the sledders, and my dad directed me to the one that looked the least nerve-wracking. As we climbed up the hill, one of my boots got stuck in the snow—three times, at least. Dad had to stop and help me every time, and while we were both frustrated, we laughed it off. (Word to the wise: do not step on snow in a wool sock while trying to get your boot out. You will regret it.)

When we reached the top and started waiting in line, Dad and I talked to try and calm down my nerves. I’ve always been terrified of heights, and by this point, roller coasters had not yet tamed the more drastic parts of this fear. I was still going to do this, though. It was either sled down or hike down, and I sure was not going to hike back down. Besides, I didn’t want to disappoint my dad. Out of fear or love is anyone’s guess. I just refused to disappoint him in this area.

We reached the front of the line. Dad decided that I would go first so that he could keep an eye on me as I went down. My nerves completely frayed, I sat on the disk-shaped sled, gripped the handles for dear life, and tucked my legs under me. Dad pushed me, and I was off. It was simultaneously one of the most frightening and most exhilarating experiences of my life. I had absolutely no control, spun and swayed as the sled and hill dictated, and I loved it. Adrenaline rushed through me, and I was absolutely giddy. My sled spun so that I faced back up the hill, and I saw Dad a safe distance behind me.

Bam!

My lower back hit a rock hidden in the snow. I groaned and laughed at the same time. I didn’t have too long to register what had happened as I had to rush out of Dad’s way. Just like I did, he hit the rock and bounced a bit before coming to a complete stop. He groaned, I laughed some more, and he tried to laugh with me. Looking back, I know he was in a lot of pain. Heck, I was in a lot of pain, and my lower back and tailbone were somewhat more resilient than his at that point.

Following a quick rest for our poor lower halves, we sledded again. And again. We made a snowman and threw snowballs at each other. By the time we decided to call it a day and have lunch, I was wonderfully exhausted. I don’t know if Dad’s exhaustion was quite as satisfying for him, but he seemed happy that I was happy.

We loaded everything back into the truck, turned the heat on, and sat down for a lunch of Cup-A-Soup chicken noodle soup and hot chocolate. To my joy, Dad had also brought one of my favorite Girl Scouts autumn treats: Mint Melt-Aways. Like we did when having lunch at Volonte Park, we talked about everything and nothing. It was a rare moment in which I believe we both were perfectly content in each other’s company.

Then I ate three Mint Melt-Aways.

Now, the smart thing would have been to finish my hot chocolate, let it settle, drink some water or something else not sweet, and then eat the Mint Melt-Aways. I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Neither was my dad. I was young and only knew that I loved Mint Melt-Aways and hot chocolate. My dad was blinded by the fact that he had made me so happy that day and didn’t give my chocolate consumption a second thought.

The regret was almost immediate. After I ate the Mint Melt-Aways and drank the hot chocolate, I felt nauseated. I had only experienced this severe of nausea during my migraines, which I had started to have not too long before this. My blood sugar shot through the roof. Clutching my stomach and trying to keep my head up, I told Dad that I didn’t feel so good. He panicked. To his credit, he hid his concern fairly well. I just knew that he was worried about me, not that he was in full-blown panic mode.

Dad took me home as quickly as he could without upsetting my stomach more. He’s never been the most…gentle driver, so that was almost an impossible task. Rather than suffer through the nausea and light-headedness, I leaned my head against the window and let the warmth of the heater lull me to sleep.

I woke up before we got home, and I was feeling much better. I don’t know if that really comforted my dad, but he seemed a little relieved.

To this day, this story of the Eskimo Hill Mint Melt-Away/Hot Chocolate disaster is one of my favorites to tell. Dad seems to feel guilty about the incident, and I do tease him about it (especially after my older brother made a similar mistake when he was alone and had a frosted chocolate Pop-Tart with Pepsi). Still, I don’t feel that he has anything to be guilty about with that. I survived and learned a valuable lesson that doesn’t seem to stick in many members of my family—not the males, at least. I also made a great memory with Dad that day. It doesn’t negate all the problems we have, but it reminds me that I wouldn’t trade my dad for any other.