“You scared the heebie-jeebies out of me.”
Panic-stricken, Robert “Magsy” Magnifico shook me awake with bug-eyed urgency. His trembling voice delivered those pulse-pounding words as he knelt beside my partially frozen body sprawled on the unyielding ground.
We had been taking turns sledding down Suicide Summit, a snow-covered slope behind the black-haired Italian’s family ranch-style home on Border Avenue in Ellwood City’s West End, using his Flexible Flyer.
“I thought you were dead!”
“Imagine how I must’ve felt,” I stated, quickly moving my eyebrows up and down making light of the situation. “After seeing my life flash before my eyes, I thought you were St. Peter opening Heaven’s gate – because that ramp launched me like a test car crash dummy.”
“So, you think you’re a comedian?” teased the top cop’s youngest son, yanking my Steelers winter hat down over my eyes with a grin.
“Not that I wanna brag,” I joked, after repositioning the knitted logo cuff. “I’ve been told that I’m the next Dean Martin.”
“I guess that makes me Jerry Lewis?” quizzed the gridiron baller, thoughtfully scratching his head.
“You said it, not me,” I snickered.
Without warning, I was ambushed by a shameless tickle monster who knew my Achilles’ heel was hidden on either side of my ribcage.
“If you don’t stop tickling me, I’m gonna have to drain the dragon,” I giggled, squirming helplessly against the inside linebacker’s clutches.
“Likely story.”
“Besides,” quipped Magsy, his Cheshire cat grin spreading wide, “out here in this freezing cold, your stream would turn to icicles before it even hit the ground.”
“Look who’s the comedian now, Jerry,” I chuckled, breaking his scissors hold and flipping him over my head.
These mild-mannered eighth graders rolled in the snow, trying to make each other eat a frozen ball of ice crystals marked by the neighbor’s golden retriever, before calling a truce to head indoors.
Ever since Joe DeNardo, the iconic Channel 4 WTAE-TV weatherman, issued a Valentine’s Day winter snowstorm warning for all counties north of Pittsburgh, these two would-be snowmen and their ever-present companion, Robert “Robbie” G. Brough Jr., had been planning a sledding adventure after classes Thursday afternoon.
Unfortunately, Robbie and his siblings, Chris and Aimee, came down with the flu Wednesday night after church; what was meant to be a triumphant escapade for the three musketeers became a spirited adventure for a dynamic duo.
“It’s a shame Robbie caught the flu and missed out on our daring trek to Suicide Summit.”
“He’s been there dozens of times,” divulged the afternoon host as we strolled down Park Avenue beneath a flurry of snowflakes. “But you’ve never seen my private sledding hill; and I’m curious how it measures up to your Dead Man’s Drop in Bentleyville.”
“If the stories ring true, I bet your steep slope is as good as, if not better than, mine; because the name certainly suggests it,” quipped this purported card shark, as we turned left on Ninth Street and right onto Border Avenue.
After spying an igloo at the base of what resembled an Olympic ski slope kicker, the ten-foot-wide, sixty-degree drop-off, nestled between pine trees and a towering brick church, felt underwhelming by comparison.
Still, I held off judgment until I had a chance to take a whirl on this make-believe amusement park attraction.
As we trudged around the ranch-style home to the basement entrance, shivering like frozen icicles after our initial joyride down the convoluted obstacle course, my brown-eyed companion asked how the dueling sledding destinations stacked up.
“Your snow-covered slope wins hands down,” I admitted, sitting on a bench to pull off my boots. “My hill had the fear factor — especially when I slammed into a tree — but yours has the fun factor, with all the bells and whistles.”
“I’m just glad I wasn’t standing at the top of the hill like your brother and cousin, watching that tragic sledding accident unfold,” Magsy admitted.
“They probably still have nightmares about that day,” I stated, “but I don’t remember a thing.”
“How about a little pick-me-up?” quizzed Mrs. Mary Morelli Magnifico as she descended the basement steps, balancing a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “I spotted you boys from the kitchen window and figured a cup of hot chocolate might warm you up, especially if you’re heading back out into that snow squall.”
Shortly after my confidant introduced me to his charming mother, the radio announcer broke in with news that thrilled area students: Friday classes were canceled, granting them an unexpected three-day weekend.
Three cheers rang out as our coffee mugs, brimming with cocoa and topped with little marshmallows, clanged together in a joyful toast.
“Ready to turn this afternoon adventure into an unforgettable overnight escapade?” Magsy asked.
“Twist my arm,” I interjected, “but I’ll need to call my mother first.”
“You can check that off your list,” revealed the police chief’s wife, glancing at the teens lounging on the sofa with marshmallow mustaches. “After your Uncle Dominick tipped me off about tomorrow’s cancellation, I called Mark’s mother to arrange a sleepover.”
“Who’s having a party?” inquired Tina Magnifico, hearing her brother’s animated exclamation after stepping into the basement looking like Frosty the Snowman.
“Mark and I are gonna party till we drop!” Magsy noted, raising his mug of hot cocoa.
“Now, a better question is, why do you look like the abominable snowman?” the amiable woman remarked playfully, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“When my car wouldn’t start,” Tina explained, “I had no choice but to brave the blizzard and walk home.”
“You and your father can fetch the car after dinner,” said Mrs. Magnifico.
“Speaking of dinner, what’s on the menu tonight?” Magsy asked.
“Since our overnight guest enjoys pasta with his Italian cousins every Christmas,” she replied, “I thought stuffed shells and garlic bread would be perfect.”
“My secret’s out — I was baptized in marinara sauce at birth, and my real name is Michelangelo,” I laughed.
“If your mom keeps feeding me like this, I might have to move in,” I playfully suggested, sinking my teeth into another chocolate chip cookie.
“I can easily fit bunkbeds into my bedroom,” Magsy said.
“It might be nice to have another little brother to boss around,” Tina said with a wide grin, shrugging off her outerwear. “Since you two hooligans are busy snacking, I’ll change out of these clothes — then the master of disaster will show youns how it’s done.”
“I think that title belongs to your father,” chimed in Mrs. Magnifico with a knowing grin. “He’ll totally dominate on Suicide Summit.”