Along with the winter of '57 came one of the largest snowstorms in Baltimore's history. Flakes the size of half dollars drifted from a bright blue Friday morning sky. By mid afternoon there were twenty-six inches smothering the ground for as far as the his eye could see. Against the sides of cars and houses, a crisp winter breeze whipped the snow drifts into eight, nine feet high mounds. The entire landscape was blanketed in pure white, crystalline snow. From his cozy vantage point in the La-Z-Boy cuddled near a roaring living room fireplace, Wesley gazed through the wide picture window over the front lawn, out across the two-lane blacktop and on across to the beautifully unblemished snow covered field that faced his house. Damn! the boy thought, I sure wish I had a sled. With a sled, a guy could really have some fun. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of faint movement. Leaning closer to the window, squinting left, up the road, Wesley could make out that it was his best pal in the whole world, Roger. Rog was bundled in a blazing red, thick woolen coat, blue corduroy pants and ten-snap Arctic goulashes. A course-knit, hunters-orange toboggan cap was pulled down firmly over his forehead to his eyebrows. Snuggly over the toboggan was a vintage World War I aviator's cap (goggles and chin strap optional). Rog had all the options. The bright January sun reflected off the lenses of his goggles. The chin strap was tightly laced and bowed under his fleshy double chin. He looked somewhat like a small, fat, red and blue fur-monster with madly shining eyes. Under all that outerwear, thought Wesley, watching Rog waddle closer, I'll bet he has on those gray, flannel long johns; the ones with the "trapdoor" in the seat, that his mother always makes him wear in bad weather. Pressing his cheek to the window, he noticed that Rog dragged his sled behind him, tethered to his wrist by a length of clothesline; a wish come true. "Hey, Mom," shouted Wesley. "My pal Rog is outside. I'm gonna go out and play for a while." "Dress warm," directed Mom. "Wear your blue coat and fur-lined gloves." After a moment's pause she added: "and your brown hat, the one with the earmuffs. They're all in the hall closet. Oh, yeah, be sure to wear your long johns." After struggling into the dreaded one-piece, twelve-button, insulated johns, Wesley wiggled into his favorite snow gear. Attired to the nines, the boy beelined it toward the front door. Just as his fingers contacted the doorknob, "Wesley! Come in here!" ordered his mom from the kitchen. "Shucks!" he mumbled. "I've got the johns on, Mom," he assured as he made his way to the steamy kitchen. "Let me see," she replied. As the lad emerged from the hall, the protective woman added: "Oh, no you don't, young man! You're not leaving this house without a hat!" "But, Mom," whined Wesley. "It messes up my hair." "Hat!" Mom sternly repeated abruptly ending his meager attempt at protest. By the time Wesley finely reached the winter elements, Rog, with his sled, had trudged onto one of the side streets branching from the blacktop. Looking up as Wesley approached, Rog cringed, grimaced, sneered and clutched his sled tightly to his chest. "Stay away from me!" he yelled. "You're bad news. My mom says you aren't nothing but trouble! Go away! Git!" If this isn't a fine kick in the ass! thought Wesley staring in disbelief. "Hey, Rog, it's me! Your best pal in the whole..." "Git!" Roger repeated. "I swear, if you don't get out of my sight right pronto, I'm gonna..." Kind of baffled, but not one to ponder destiny, "Okay, okay, don't get all bent up," soothed Wesley. "I'm goin". Retreating to the intersection, he thought, Gosh-darn! I sure wasn't countin' on that. No sleigh riddin' today. Now what'll I do for fun? In short order an idea began taking shape. It blossomed into the number one winter pastime fun activity. "I'll build me a snowman," said Wesley to no one in particular. "Yeah, that's what I'll do! Build me a snowman." An over-the-shoulder glaring glance down the street at Rog sled riding and having himself a swell old time, then Wesley moved on, not far, not far at all. Perhaps somewhat prematurely, he began searching vigorously for materials to build a snowman. He sought the snowman's eyes, nose and mouth. Fishing around with the toe of his boot in a shallow, windswept concave of snow, the lad uncovered a large rock. Well! Well! Well! What's this we have here?! he thought picking it up and examining it more closely. His conclusion: It's too big for a snowman's eye. A nose? Nope, too heavy. Then, low-and-behold! another idea dawned (although this one seemed rather to ascend from somewhere, than actually, "dawn." "Shucks! I know what I'll do," he muttered to himself, waggling his eyebrows. "I'll pack snow around it nice and tight and wing it down at Rog!" He carefully packed snow around the rock until it was as hard as a Confederate cannonball, the size of grapefruit and as heavy as a pocket full of slug washers. Glancing down the street, Wesley judged that his pal Rog was a good half a football field away. He realized that the odds of actually hitting him with the snow-rock at that distance were next to zip, zero and none. But, just for the hell of it, he decided to wing-it down anyway. Rearing back to where his knuckles were practically touching the snow, with all his might, Wesley flung his snow-rock as hard as he could. High, it soared, and far into the bright blue winter sky. As it reached the pinnacle of its flight and began its descent, Wesley pointed skyward and yelled: "Hey, Rog, catch!" Seeing Wesley pointing, Rog searched the sky in the general direction. Spotting the quickly falling snowball, the boy dropped his sled with an unsuspecting smile. He raced like an all-star major league outfielder to the point where he calculated the missile would come to earth. He expertly circled beneath it, strutter-stepped to his right, back again to his left, then two steps back-pedal. Arms fully extended over his head, hands cupped directly above his face, Rog waited anxiously to make the Catch of a Lifetime. The snow-rock ZOOMED down from the heavens at an awesomely frightening speed trailing a comet-tail of frosty vapors. It streaked through the Earth's lower atmosphere like the meteor from hell. As it rocketed toward the planet, it actually emitted a weird, high-pitched w-h-i-z-i-n-g! sound. Not quite content with his original calculations, Rog made a few last second adjustments. He took half a strutter-step to right, danced to his left, flexed his elbows slightly, did a little two-step jig, braced his legs shouting, "I got it! I got it!" "Duck," whispered Wesley in a voice that only he, the cold winter breeze and the Devil himself could hear. The snow-rock sliced through Rog's outstretched palms without noticeable resistance, parting his hands as effortlessly as Moses parted the Red Sea. It exploded in a snowy shower on the bridge of the boy's nose: CRACK! loud enough to produce a shock wave sufficient to vibrate overhanging snow from two nearby eaves. Instantly, Rog collapsed and disappeared into a dune of soft, white, crystalline powder. He was, most definitely, out-for-the-count! Holy mackerel! thought Wesley as he watched his best friend in the whole wide world crumple lifelessly to the ground and disappear completely (except for one ten-snap Arctic rubber boot) into the drifted snow. "Man-oh-man!" he exclaimed to himself. "This is trouble, BIG trouble!" Though standing calf-deep in snow, the boy felt beads of perspiration forming on his brow, under his arms and down near Jingles. Cautiously, he scanned neighboring yards, driveways, doors and windows to see if there were any eye witnesses to the event. Nope! he assured himself with great relief, don't see anyone. Returning his attention to his best pal lying in the middle of the street, unconscious, buried up to one boot beneath freezing snow, and most likely hurt REAL bad, Wesley rationalized: "He never should've tried to catch it. He should have ducked." Nothing more for me to do here, he deduced. With that final observation of (in his opinion) stunning accuracy, the lad turned toward home where a warm, roaring fire and his La-Z-Boy awaited him. [See related articles.]