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Comentario
By the time he graduated from college, John Smith had forgotten all about
the bad fall he took on the ice that January day in 1953. In fact, he would
have been hard put to remember it by the time he graduated from grammar
school. And his mother and father never knew about it at all.
They were skating on a cleared patch of Runaround Pond in Durham. The
bigger boys were playing hockey with old taped sticks and using a couple of
potato baskets for goals. The little kids were just farting around the way little
kids have done since time immemorial - their ankles bowing comically in
and out, their breath puffing in the frosty twenty-degree air. At one corner of
the cleared ice two rubber tires burned sootily, and a few parents sat nearby,
watching their children. The age of the snowmobile was still distant and
winter fun still consisted of exercising your body rather than a gasoline
engine.
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