Today’s snowstorm takes me back to growing up in the 1950s and ’60s, when it seemed we had snowy winters like this every year. And statistics bear that out. According to a graphic Tom Skilling published a few years back, the 1950s and ’60s were, in fact, the snowiest decades of the century.
Of course, that was before the village became obsessive about spreading salt (and, we now learn, beet juice) on the streets to clear pavement. The result was a solid buildup of snow and ice, which led to that outlawed form of kid entertainment known as “skitching” (in some parts of the city, they pronounced it as “skeetching,” which, of course, is completely incorrect).
Skitching involved grabbing onto the back bumper (there was more to grab onto back then) and allowing the car to drag you along, using the soles (before tread was invented) of your boots or gym shoes (footwear was much simpler then) as skis. It was dangerous, stupid, and therefore good for an adrenaline rush. I never did it myself because it looked, well, dangerous and stupid, and I generally find life stimulating enough without the adrenaline rush. But I used to be fascinated watching others do it.
Skitching ended when village services improved to the point where snow was no longer allowed to build up on our streets. Global warming, no doubt, also played a role. They used to be able to flood the parks each winter and create outdoor rinks that would stay frozen more than a week.
But now, the village wants to stop salting streets, and the snow keeps coming, so it’s entirely possible kids may rediscover the thrills of skitching–if they can find anything on the back of a modern car to grab onto.
***
This afternoon, I braved the blizzard long enough to walk to Caribou and on the way, I saw Mike Clark. This almost goes without saying since I see Mike Clark everywhere. You know Mike, or at any rate he knows you–or seems to. He says hello to everyone. If he really likes you, he’ll say, “Oh no, not you again!” He’s the friendliest guy in town, which is why he’s earned the nickname, “The Mayor of Oak Park.” Mike is one of the few people left who, when he’s talking out loud to no one in particular, is actually talking to himself as opposed to someone on a hidden cellphone. He has a very high-pitched voice and when he lets loose, you can hear him from a block away. Sometimes I think his screech could break glass.
I see him so often, he seems to be several places at once.
Do you suppose someone has cloned Mike Clark?