In the early 70's I lived in Jefferson City, MO. It snowed maybe twice a year but had numerous deluxe ice storms. Being just north of the Ozarks the area was quite hilly and our house was at the bottom of a steep one. My Ford Falcon station wagon wore studded snow tires in order to make the sharp turn into our driveway. About mid-day, the ice would thaw just enough that the jagged intentions the tires made in the slush would refreeze at night into ice daggers on the road.
Kim was two and just tall enough to see out the living room window if she stood on tip toe. She watched out that window every day as I retrieved the mail. Our rural box was at the curb several feet from the driveway's edge. The house sat on an incline so the front steps were many. It was sunny but still very cold the ice remained frozen solid. This day I chose to go out the garage door to avoid the icy front steps.
The drive had several icy patches so I hopped from one clear spot to another until I reached the end of driveway. Now there was nothing but that jagged ice between me and the mail. There was one small clear patch right in front of the mailbox. I looked up at Kim peering down at me... she waved, I waved back then I leapt for the dry patch. (You can see what's coming can't you?) When I finally stopped sliding I was at the bottom of the hill.
Now the REAL problem, how to get back UP the hill. Walking was impossible. They wrote a country side about it... one step forward, two steps back. And the falling over and over was taking it's toll. I finally made it to the yard which was also ice covered but I could crawl on it which is how I finally got to the mailbox. Realizing Kim must be freaking out, I looked up to assure her I was OK. She was gleefully clapping and waving.
Back in the living room... pants in shreds, hands and knees bleeding... Kim still squealing with excitement said,
"Mommy, do it again!"
Reason #2 why I moved to Florida.
