"Biff" it !

My young son came crashing in through the front door. I ran to the living room to see why he was bawling, but he was laughing ... laughing through the four inches of packed snow caked in his hood, boots and gloves. "I biffed the hill!" was all he said, and he exclaimed that over and over again, as snow was being scooped off of and out of his clothing. I am a lowly and not-with-it adult, and I am not quite sure what "biff" means, but it must be something stupendous.

"I got the sled to the top of the hill, and then I got on it, it was a long ways down, all the the way to the bottom, but I got the sled going anyway," he said without a breath or a pause. It was one long sentence. I was winded just listening to him. He told the story as wet and cold clothes were pealed off of him and replaced with dry and warm ones.

"I got going, and the snow was flying over me, some hit me in the face, so I couldn't see, the sled started leaving the trail and going on its own, but I got it back, and it went the other way and I had to get it straight again, the snow pushed against me so I had to lay back."

I was getting into his telling of the story. My little boy was creating the details, drama and action of an epic battle. I've had politicians plead for a cause and for my vote with less enthusiasm. My son had to stop talking for a second as the cold sweater was pulled over his face. At least I think he quit for a second because I couldn't hear him. "I started sliding to the front of the sled. My boots were off the front and snow was flying everywhere. I lifted my legs just as the sled hit a big bump. I biffed it! I came down on the very front of the sled."

Some bump. I had thought he started the dare-devil ride in the sitting position, but he was now talking as if he was on his stomach going head-long toward the death-defying climax of the tale.

"I couldn't see because of all the flying snow. I hit another bump and I was sliding down the hill on my coat and snowpants. It was great. I beat my sled to the bottom. I biffed it good!"

Frozen, cloth gloves were replaced with plastic mittens as he made sure I understood the intricacies of leaving and regaining the sled path. The bump was a major chapter in the telling. The glory was when he first biffed the bump, and ultimately biffed the hill itself.

Once again dressed for adventure, he bolted out the door. I had to sit down, tired from just hearing about it. What a way to start the new year. But yet, the year is just that ... new. My enthusiasm should be fresh, like the cherub who receives the hourglass from Father time.

My son is the new year; eager to charge forward, exclaiming to the universe that he can conquer any hill. Might I be Father Time; eager to watch and hear over and over how my son can go forth and do what I used to do? No; that is not the way of things yet. My heart still longs to do more than stand shivering in the snow and only dream about it. I, too, still want to climb upward and "biff" that hill.