Winter’s past

Village Green in snow, 1931.

Sled Hill is Sled Hill…

Exiting the post office last weekend, I paused to watch as sleigh-riders made their way down the hill at Comeau. Except for the equipment in use, not much seems to have changed over the years. Older kids were off to one side looking to create a jump, at least one rider would fall of a sled about halfway down the hill and, occasionally, an empty sled would arrive at the bottom, its former occupants now rolling down the remainder of the hill. Kids were being kids, lost in that feeling you get when you’re young, not wanting to go inside regardless of how cold or wet you become; wanting to remain a part of that excitement — that moment — regardless of how long your parents spent freezing by the car. (Actually, that is one thing that has changed — unfortunately — as we no longer can simply trust letting our children go off by themselves to enjoy the simple experience of sliding down a hill.)

As I watched the scene at Comeau, I also remembered listening to the wonderful reminiscences of the late Gale Brownlee who, speaking to students at the Woodstock school for a project we were doing on one-room schoolhouses, told them of her days sleigh-riding down Sled Hill. The students gathered assumed she meant the hill at Comeau, after all, that is what some adults called it. “No, No, No,” Gale told them. “That is not Sled Hill. Sled Hill is Sled Hill!”

For the record, Sled Hill is that stretch of road that connects between Deming Street and Pine Grove Street. Long before it became home to the Sled Hill Cafe and musicians with names like Van Morrison, Tim Hardin and Janis Joplin walked through its door (to be served up by a future town supervisor), Sled Hill, as its name implies, was home to the flexible flyers of yesteryear. Part of its attraction was its proximity to the two-room schoolhouse that once sat where CVS is today (and Grand Union previously). Students could always get a few runs in after school as their sleighs carried them down the hill and into the schoolyard. The other attraction, as Gale Brownlee described it, was the outside well pump that belonged to the owner of a business at the top of the hill. With permission from the owner and a few jerks of the hand pump, water would flow from the pump down the length of the hill, freezing almost immediately. The resulting impact on speed and daring could be heard in the excitement of Gale’s voice as she recalled the experience. And, despite the decades that had passed, you knew, as did the children listening, she too understood that moment when, as a kid — even during the Depression years — you just didn’t want to go inside.

“He’ll Return Again Some Day…”

Besides sleigh-riding, the building of a snowman following a winter storm is the one activity that still connects generations across time. As a result, if you live in the northeast, chances are you have a faded photograph in an album somewhere giving testament to your creative snow-sculpting talents as a child — that, and demonstrating your ability to sneak a carrot out of the refrigerator without your mother catching you. It is, therefore, difficult to imagine that an object of such innocence could, at one time, have served as a source of outrage to such a large number of citizens in our fair town. Then again, as they say, only in Woodstock.

As the story has been told over time, it all began innocently enough. Following a particularly large storm that dumped a good amount of snow on Woodstock back in the 1970s, the town began the usual process of cleaning up after the storm. As part of that effort, a group of workers who were employed through a taxpayer funded government program (think “home relief’ or the Comprehensive Employment Training Act — CETA, under Jimmy Carter) were to begin clearing the Village Green. Not long after work had begun, the crew on hand decided that instead of just clearing the snow they might better use the ample amount white stuff available to build a snowman. So it was, as the day progressed, the snowman’s proportions began to expand — ultimately, reaching some 10 to 12 feet in height. In fact, Woodstock’s homegrown version of “Frosty” grew so large that a scaffold had to be brought in to finish the job.

It wasn’t long before passing motorists turned into offended taxpayers and the phone began to ring in the Supervisor’s office. Both objection and outrage were expressed. Since when were the hard-earned tax dollars of the good citizens of Woodstock to be used to pay a bunch of unemployed hippies to build a snowman on the Village Green?

The concerns raised by the protesting taxpayers were, of course, a continuation of the many skirmishes that had been waged ever since young people began to flock to Woodstock in the sixties. The Village Green had, throughout, been at the center of such battles as local law enforcement had repeatedly sought to prevent “loitering,” disrupt impromptu music gatherings and limit protests on property long central to Woodstock history while also home to a memorial honoring Woodstock’s war dead.

So it was, as the objections continued, the Village Green snowman was ordered destroyed. His destruction, however, would not take place without one last act of resistance. Prior to his ultimate demise, it was felt by his creators that the snowman needed to be properly remembered. As a result, the snowman on the Village Green became, perhaps, the first snowman in the history of Woodstock (or, possibly, anywhere) to be honored with a funeral.

Winter’s End

As we look back on winters past, we understand that life in the shadow of Overlook was far different from how we experience winter in the present. Today, Sarah Cashdollar would simply consult her weather app before deciding to head down the mountain. For many of us, storing wine has become far more preferable than putting up jugs of hard cider. And, except for those industrious do-it-yourselfers who live among us, the shelves that once held canning jars sit empty, as a trip to Hurley Ridge is less problematic once the plows go through. Besides, in a world filled with Subarus, such a trip should be relatively uneventful.

Still, Woodstock is different in winter. While it may not be as quiet as it once was (alleviating the need to sit around and spit tobacco juice at a pot-bellied stove), winter does permit some respite, sort of our intermission during a play that runs year-round. And, while there are those of us who will grumble at its seemingly interminable length, even we have to admit there are some benefits to the season. Conversations with friends seem to last a little longer in the morning as we grab our choice of caffeine from Bread Alone or Woodstock Meats. Having to “get somewhere” doesn’t quite have the same urgency knowing that we can only go where the weather permits us to go. And, even the sound of the snowplow as it rumbles past our homes at 5 a.m. seems to offer reassurance and the knowledge that we are part of a greater community.

Tom Pacheco once wrote a wonderful song titled, simply, The Hills of Woodstock. In it he sings of a small cafe, when the “first snow falls on Tinker Street,” the unique warmth of a fire that is found in a small cabin. And, while we must always be careful to separate nostalgia from history and myth from reality, one wonders if Woodstock in winter isn’t a little closer to where Woodstock — and some Woodstockers — would like it to be? What kind of answer future generations of our town apply to that question remains to be seen.

Little is ever certain…except for the fact that winter will return in about nine or ten months. Too bad Charlie Herrick isn’t still around.

(End Note: Copies of Woodstock Weekly are held by the Woodstock Library. Quotes from Alf Evers are taken from Woodstock — History of an American Town. All photos, unless otherwise indicated, are courtesy of the Historical Society of Woodstock.)