Our folks warned us, my older sister, Mary Ann, and I that It was going to be a lean Christmas that year. There would be no presents.

My dad had recently set up shop, as a newly minted certified public accountant and paying clients were hard to come by. We took the news in stride and fell for the story hook, line and sinker. We lived on 24th Street and Junction Creek, in a small apartment on the northwest corner of what is now called the Mid-Town Apartments.

As luck would have it, 14th Street didn’t go through in those days. But the right-of-way was cleared for the bridge and paved street that would come later. The creek was in a deep ravine with a long slope on our side, just right for sledding in winter.

Thank goodness, my early years were without the distraction of television, computers and cellphones. Kids grew up out of doors rough and tumble, with the whole neighborhood involved in games and sports.

In good weather, kick-the-can reigned supreme and when there was snow, sledding took center stage. With all the kids careening down the hill and tromping up, pulling their sleds, the run soon went from just snow to ice. This made for the fastest most thrilling ride in town.

But there was one big problem for me and my sister – we didn’t have a sled. On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad were still sticking to their no-presents-story and we tucked in clueless. Christmas morning they insisted that we wait in our rooms and come into our small living room together when they called.

The call came and we rushed in to find Mom and Dad beaming as they stood by the Christmas tree with a brand new American Flyer, top of the line, full-size sled in front of them. I shed tears of joy and gratitude as I think of my parents and sister, and how much love and happiness we experienced that morning.

And I chuckle at how much fun my parents had putting one over on us and the excitement they got from seeing the surprise on our faces when we saw the sled. You might ask, how did they keep their secret from us in our tiny apartment?

Well, the back of our couch folded down to make a bed and the seat lifted up to reveal a blanket storage compartment, just the right size to hide a sled. So, you could say that we had been sitting on our sled a few days before we knew we had one.

Mom, Dad and Mary Ann are long gone and I am left, an 81- year-old man with fond memories of Durango.

My dad’s business at the time read:

Allan G. Munroe

Certified Public Accountant

302 NEWMAN BUILDING

Michael Munroe spent his early years in Durango and now lives in Prescott, Arizona.