On a joyous Sunday we would pile into the 1949 Mercury and head for the mine sand dumps. In the boot (trunk) of the car, we had stowed corrugated cardboard cut from old boxes. These precious pieces of cardboard we shaped, as best we understood, like sledges. My father regularly drove us out to those piles of golden sand, so soft and warm in the summer sun. And here we would spend happy hours climbing up the sand and sliding down, and climbing up and sliding down, until we were exhausted and covered in the golden sand. (more…)
