Although I loved watching Peggy Fleming skate for the gold and an aunt of mine swooned over some French skier every time he zoomed down the mountain in a race for a medal, there never had to be an officially proclaimed Winter Olympics on television for my cousins and me when growing up in the country. It didn’t matter. We held our own once winter overtook our world of fields and pastures and a creek that when frozen became center stage under twinkling stars and a moon so close to the earth we felt as though we could touch it. That is if we took the time to try. You see, nature’s backdrop kept us pretty busy. After school, weekends and evenings you’d find us out sliding, building snow forts, or skating on that creek which rambled along behind farms and through those pastures until it disappeared into the horizon. The fun part was when my cousin and I would try to find out where that horizon ended. On some Saturdays when it wasn’t extremely cold, we’d pack up a lunch, which included a thermos of hot chocolate, and head up the creek. We never did find the horizon but we had fun trying.

Back hills became Olympic-style mountains perfect for wooden skis with wooden poles. All we’d have to do is slip our snow boots into a single leather strap on the skis. Then off we’d go on adventurous runs that we were sure not even the real Olympics could top.

Just up the road a bit was a bigger hill with a tow line. My aunt and uncle would pack all of us in a car; tie a toboggan to the top along with some of those skis and off we’d go. Both my aunt and uncle were skiers. I remember doing the snowplow down the hill thinking I wanted to ski as beautifully as my aunt way ahead of me-working her way down to the bottom like a swan dancing on water. Later there’d be more hot chocolate inside an adjacent country restaurant while our boots and snow pants dried before we headed home.

Of course the creek was where Olympic-style skating competitions were held in true Peggy Fleming fashion. Twirling and jumping and going along at top speed were exhilarating unless a skate encountered a clump of reeds sticking out from the ice. That’s when disaster would strike. Any hope of winning a medal would be destroyed.

Our uncle-a kid at heart-was always outside immersed in our Olympic paradise.  Sometimes he’d make us the best snow forts ever out of blocks of snow. After all, we couldn’t be competing all the time. We’d make a whole bunch of snowballs; have them ready just in case we were invaded. Carving out peek holes, we’d be ready to spy on any approaching enemy. We’d divide the fort into areas-places for secret stuff, places to store our food supply. Those forts lasted into spring; replaced by tents that’d get too hot in the summer sun but would become part of our Summer Olympics taking place over the fields and along the flowing creek bed.

January in the country is possibly the closest thing to heaven on earth especially if you’re lucky to win the Gold and we won Gold one way or another whenever we went out to play!