It was the middle of January, the year of 1999, and I was eight years old. Winter Vacation had arrived and I was on my break from school. My grandmother had called my father and asked if my brother and I would be interested in going snow tubing at Hunter Mountain, and I was so excited that I nearly peed my pants. The plans had been arranged and set for the following morning, so we went directly to bed with smiles on our faces.
The next morning when we all awoke, we ate breakfast immediately. I demolished my plate of blueberry pancakes with syrup because I was so anxious to get onto the hills. My grandmother stressed that it would be a chilly day outside, so she bundled me up in six layers. First a short sleeve shirt, then a long sleeved one, two sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and finally a Charlotte Hornets winter coat that she had purchased at a yard sale for me the summer before. After being shielded from sunlight with the several layers, she gave me a black, winter hat with a Yankee symbol in the front. I put it on as soon as she handed it to me because my favorite team was the New York Yankees. On my way out the door, I grabbed a carry along mug of hot chocolate with me too, it was so rich and creamy and I could never get enough of it. It rain down my throat so smoothly, and just warmed my entire body with every extra sip taken.
On our way to Hunter Mountain, my father took out a camera from his bag. He took pictures of us sweating in the truck with the heat on because everyone thought it was humorous. It would have been much funnier for me if I could have actually bent my arms to take off at least one layer of clothing to cool down. Several pictures were taken in the truck, but even more were to come at the Mountain, including the one attached to this essay of me in the dark green snow tube.
When we arrived at the parking lot of Hunter Mountain, there were hundreds of people going down the slopes on skis and snowboards, but from the...
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