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There is a big old sledding hill not more than two or three good snowballs’ worth of distance from our home, just behind Hank Macabee’s house. That hill was waiting for me and my brand new toboggan. It’s one of those sneak-up kind of hills with a long slow ride down that picks up speed as it goes with a bump-hump at the end that you never see coming.
I didn’t see what was coming next, either.
The Christmas tree crashed through Hank Macabee’s bay window. The tree stand clattered behind it and bounced with a clank on Hank’s half-frozen front lawn. Hank came through the door, shotgun in hand. He wore a Nova Scotia plaid bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy blue Smurf slippers. He pumped and blasted the Christmas tree, shattering the decorations that escaped the initial picture window caber toss.
You REALLY need to read the rest of this to find where it goes...