We all have our Rosebud, a memory of childhood that comforts us in the evening of our life. Mine is of winter days spent sledding on Stockbridge Street. We’d wear ourselves out going up and down the little hill that ran down to the barn, refreshing ourselves with a scoop of snow or a broken-off icicle. On a dare, we’d launch our sled airborne off a granite ledge, sometimes into one of mother’s lilacs. When our fingertips burned from the cold, we’d go inside and make ourselves a mug of hot chocolate topped with marshmallow fluff. What fun we had.