In '58 - '59, we lived on a farm a half mile south of the Butte and “they,” our cousins, lived at the Halls place, just across the road which wound around the south side of the Butte. The Butte is a massive mound of earth located five and a half miles north of Caroline.
    Years before, someone had cleared trees for a ski run on the east side. Over the years, it was no longer used for skiing as the “big runs” were easier to get to with newer cars and better roads. However, the poplars began growing back, and their saplings were now two to three feet high.
    To facilitate the hooding, Dad had several old cars and trucks in stages of dismantling, with their hoods off. We found GM hoods were the best for hooding as Ford or Dodge hoods were shorter, taller, more pointed, and sometimes came apart on the downhill run. These GM hoods were smooth, heavy, and fast, so the ultra-sonic speeds we’d reach were humongous.
    On Saturdays or Christmas holidays, with snow, my older sister, younger brother, and I would drag an old hood the half mile from our place to our cousin’s place to use as a sled on the Butte. We could load all onto the hood and race down the ski run together.
    But, there is a big BUT. One needed to know where to sit for the ride. These hoods came with a seam down the middle, which was bolted together with many bolts sticking out one side of the middle seam, and the hood edge had a sharp “U” shaped bend on each side. At the front, the latch with its four bolts sticking out was also used to tie our tow rope so we could drag the hood. And, if there were too many at the front of the hood, it would careen out of control, dumping us on the snowy hill and sometimes landing on top of us.
    After pulling the hood the half mile to our cousins’ place, we would arouse them from bed and wait for them to get dressed. A remarkable sight. They stood in the cold, arguing over whose toque was whose. For some reason, the toque was the first to be put on. Then whose long johns were whose socks, pants, shirts, coats, earmuffs, over the toque, and mitts. One cousin would have different mitts just because. Another would have a matching pair but on opposite hands.
    My sister, brother, and I pulled the hood to the Butte. Because it’s “your” hood. When we arrived at the bottom of the slope, life, limb and sanity were duly tested here.
    First, who was going to pull the hood to the top. They, four of them, to three of us, claimed because "...it's your hood..." we were to pull it to the top. Just like "...it's your hood..." you pulled the half mile to their place. And it's your hood you pulled to the bottom of the run. I claim and maintain that we would all use it so "all" would pull it to the top. After much whining, crying, pouting, threats of all kinds, and unmentionable mutilations with snow flying on their side and the stoic composure on our side, my threat of taking the hood home brought an agreement that we would "all" pull the hood to the top.
    Then came the slipping, falling, crying, whining, pouting, out of my way, threats that if you ever brought a GM hood again, we would have to drag it up the hill ourselves.
    At the top, after a few minutes of rest, with threats of no one riding because of the near-death experiences, make the top. I remember this very plainly as my sister, brother, and I would turn the hood and aim it downhill as they threatened a hot place for us if we didn’t keep it at the top. Holding the rope attached to the hood latch and sitting with my feet dug into the snow at the back of the hood, my sister holding one side and my brother holding the other side, we held it so it wouldn’t leave without its passengers.
    Then, the arguing of who would sit at the front. This contention was not with my sister, brother, and me. We knew where we were going to sit. They began throwing snow, crying, whining, and accusing each other of dreadful acts of violence upon their person that were going to be told to their parents. And the death they would endure after that, of who was going to sit all by themself at the nose of the hood.
    After settling the fact that each would take turns and who would be first, second, third, and last, they would give strict, threatening instructions to me to not let the hood go until all were aboard and sitting in their proper places.
    The argument flared again as they’d forgotten who was to sit where and who would get in when I’d yell, “GET IN, we’re going!”
    With a flurry, all would bail into the hood with “Will you watch it,” “Stop Pushing,” “Don’t jab me!” My brother and sister sat on either side, and I would stand and sit at the back on the one side with the joint between us.
    After sitting for so long, we sat with the hood stuck in the snow.
    Again, the hollering, whining, bawling, shoving and whatnot erupted. I’d holler, “Push!” All would lean back, and with a quick jerk forward, off we’d go. Slow at first, then the speed increased to that of a bullet.
    Crying, whining, and panicked hollering echoed across the valleys to Caroline as we sped down the hill. When we arrived, my brother, sister, and I would laugh and roll in the snow while the others would fight, cry, and whine, all because the poplar saplings would whip over the front and lash anyone sitting at the front or front sides. And somehow, the middle seam had gouged and ripped whatever caught on the bolt ends sticking out of the middle seam.
    After the tears were wiped away, it was another battle of who was to pull the hood to the top again. Now “THEY” were wounded because we had brought the car hood. Again, the whining and crying as we worked our way up the hill. Again, the fight as to who would sit at the front and where they would sit as the one who sat there was still smarting. Down we’d go again, with the next one sitting at the front getting a good whipping. We would go through the same turbulence until all four had been lashed.
    We would then drag the hood home with curses of “We hate you’s” and “Dumb GM hoods!” “Fords are better!” until the next day of hooding when all was relieved. Why? I do not know! My cousins have survived even today, a bit scarred but alive.
    But “What a day, hooding the Butte.”