Maybe it’s just me, but I remember when winter used to be fun.

The other day, as I was standing knee-deep in a snowdrift, using a broom to try to get enough snow off my car to open the door to get my snowbrush, I contemplated tracking down Jack Frost and kicking his rear.

And then the metal handle of the broom broke. I might have cried, but the tears froze before they could well out.

I have a telescoping snowbrush — a neat invention for short people. Sadly, the amount of snow, coupled with my lack of height, made for a Mohawk-esque swath of snow on the roof of my car.

Maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe when one gets past the “cheering for a snow day, jumping on a sled and taking off” point in life, winter gets a bit less exciting. It’s the “shuffle slowly on the ice, ready to madly windmill my arms like a chicken trying to fly while trying not to fall on my rear and slide down into the street” part of winter that I truly detest.

Didn’t it almost feel like flying when careening down a hill on a sled?

Sled riding was a huge part of my childhood. I’m not talking about the wooden sleds with metal rails on the bottom. I mean the blue plastic sheet with cutouts in the front to hold onto. They were probably 50 cents or less at Woolworth. Sometimes we’d have the bright orange plastic sleds.

One of my older brothers got us some inner tubes to ride on. Not the ones that are sold for sled riding, of course, but the ones that went inside tires, with a long valve stem that had to be facing up so it didn’t gouge a path in the snow or break off and deflate the tube.

Wow those tubes were fast. And we were young enough that we didn’t care that they couldn’t really be steered. There are probably still some Polaroid pictures at my mother’s house of us sailing by the front porch on our sledding path.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but Werzalit table tops really didn’t work terribly well as a sled. It may have been that there were 8 of us piled on it, or that, you know, they weren’t designed to be sleds.

It was on that trip that I learned even if you pack snow around your nose that got kicked when we inevitably crashed, Mom is still going to see the swelling and ask questions.

My mom always knitted us mittens. Those stitches would be so tight, and our hands would be so warm. I never wanted store-bought, leaky, cold mittens.

I remember coming inside — in the basement, with the concrete floor — when it got too dark to see outside. We’d have snow everywhere as we took off our snowsuits and boots and assorted winter paraphernalia.

We had a boot jack, which was good because the ice and snow would be caked all over the boots from a day well spent, and it was hard to take them off.

By the time we were done, we’d have hats, jackets, mittens, snowsuits and scarves hung on a clothesline over the basement stove. There was a boot rack, too, to hang the boots upside down to dry.

I kind of wish now that I had pictures of all that.

Now, 30-some years later, I couldn’t tell you the last time I was on a sled. One trip down that old path would probably have me laid up for weeks.

But as I write this, I can almost smell the autumn leaves raked up into a pile to jump into; I can almost feel the exhilaration of that sled ride.

I can almost smell the homemade cinnamon rolls that were sometimes waiting when we got back inside. I can almost smell the hot chocolate.

And I realize, it isn’t winter I dislike. It’s the changes in the world from that more innocent time of my youth.

It’s the aging process, when it’s a virtual guarantee that the things you did as a child would be a lot more painful as an adult.

It’s the fact that I can’t remember the last time that 9 or 10 of my 14 siblings and I had a day together that was just pure enjoyment and fun.

So while I grudgingly pull on my boots, wrap a scarf around my face, and shrug into the layers of clothing necessary to walk from my home to my car — wishing harm on Mr. Frost — I guess instead of grumbling about winters of today, I should call to mind those wonderful memories of winters past.

And be grateful that I have the warmth of wonderful memories in which to bask.

(Schellhammer is the Era’s associate editor. She can be reached at marcie@bradfordera.com)