The Secret to Happy Skiing

Nothing is more important that being cool when you’re 15 years old.  So even though I did not know how to ski, I was not going to be stuck in beginning classes with the little kids. Oh, no, not me! I had taken a lesson or two years ago, but they were boring silly games and very few trips up the slopes.  I’d had enough of whiny kids and their childish instructors.  Time for a serious, grown up effort.

I was sure that after an hour or two on my own, if I was willing to: a) suffer through a few embarrassing falls and; b) snowplow like a doofus down the bunny hill, that I could hit the black diamond slopes like other kids my age.  Once I was skiing like the cool skier I knew I could be, I would win the eye of 18-year-old Garrett, and live happily ever after with him chasing me down the slopes.  I could picture my hair flying behind me as we carved deep turns, wove through moguls, and then gazed in each other’s eyes over cocoa back at the lodge.

Perfect.

After waddling around in the puffy ski pants I got at the second hand store, dying of the heat in the rental lines, I at last had my gear and stood ready to put on the skis and hit the slopes. 

Figuring out how to get into the skis involved more sweating and contortions, but I had them on, and I poled over to the beginner hill.  The ski area had two options for beginners. The rank beginners used a rope tow and the ones who had mastered that moved up to the T-bar.  No fancy moving carpets nor easy chairlifts for the wary, just get in there and start skiing.  Everyone else was doing it, and I could too.  How hard could it be?

The first time I grabbed hold of rope tow, I face planted.  Some eight-year-olds nearby told me not to grab, just squeeze gradually.  I humbly did as instructed, but somehow my feet got left behind and my body kept going.  I kept my head down in case anyone I knew was nearby.  No one was there of course, they were all up on the more advanced slopes.  I made it back down to the end of the line and tried again.

This time I actually started going up the little bunny hill.  “Yay!”  My first efforts at winning the heart of the ultra-fine Garrett!  Unfortunately, the rope kept going lower and lower and I wound up doubled over trying to hang onto this rope that was only 2 feet high.  My back was straining and I gritted my teeth trying to maintain upright composure.  It was not to be.  I fell right in the tracks, skis akimbo, and before I could hump out of the way like an elephant seal, someone skied over my legs while apologizing profusely.  The next three people plowed into me, and we had rope-tow pile up.

The rope tow operators were getting annoyed.  I was perplexed.  Everyone else made it look so easy.  This was what was provided for first-time beginners, so why couldn’t I get it?  Garrett would be gray-haired and in his rocking chair before he spotted me whizzing down the hill.

I tried it again and again, and eventually got to the top and snowplowed down.  My arms were aching from the pull of the rope tow and my leather gloves about worn through.  They were lame gloves anyway, ending at my wrists and my parka sleeve was a bit short so my forearms were cold and stiff.

Time for a new event.  I figured the T-bar was just the thing for me, as I didn’t really have to hold on.  It had a bar that went across your bum and presto, you were at the top of the hill.  Perfect.

“Now do NOT sit on this,” the operators warned.  Believe me, I listened.  The T-bar swooped up behind me, and hey!  Easy!  I started up the hill.  Now why hadn’t I started here?  To this day, I swear, I did NOT sit down.  But somehow, someway, the T-bar started inching lower.  Next thing I knew it was behind my knees.  No matter, I could just crouch.  But then it inched lower and got behind my ankles. 

“I. Am. Going. To. Fall!”

 I fell backward, but the T-bar was still behind my ankles, and was pulling me up the hill.  My head was downhill, my feet were being dragged up and my arms were flopping over my head. “Help!” I screamed. 

My parka was filling up with snow. “Help!  Help!”  I jerked my legs in St. Vitus’ dance to get them loose, but the bar was clamped behind my ankles.  Near the top, the operator woke up, spotted me and stopped the tow, but did not come down to effect a rescue.  I wasn’t asking for a St. Bernard with a keg, just a little help.  I could not get my skis untangled, and twisted my legs in kama sutra positions to get away from its clawing hold.

That was the one and only time I ever rode the T-bar.

I thought that perhaps riding the easiest chair would be better than what I had experienced so far.  Little kids came zooming past me in their Powder Pigs class and THEY used the lift. 

It was tempting to go have a cry in the parking lot, but I wasn’t going to impress Garrett that way.  Besides, everyone thought skiing was fun.  It surely must be, if I could only find the secret.

I bravely stood in line at the lift, envying the packs of teenagers who were shouting and laughing with friends.  They put their poles on their heads and yelled: “Killer slugs!”  I’d be joining a group of them soon.  We’d have races, ride the lifts up through the trees, and have pictures of us with our arms around each other.

Mounting the chair was surprisingly easy, it knocked my knees out from under me and I fell backward onto it.  No wonder there are mostly chairs at ski areas!  Those stupid rope tows and T-bars are impossible.  This is the life!  I admired the view and got a chance to sit down for a while.  Near the top, I watched carefully as people stood up and skied off.  Okay.  Take a deep breath.  You can do this.

No, actually, I couldn’t.  I stood up, but the chair swept me off my feet and I somehow was back aboard as the chair flipped around a big pole and started back down the mountain.

Not knowing there was a kickbar that I could use to stop the lift, I flung myself off my chair and into a snow bank.  I probably fell 10 feet with my skis on, but was not hurt.  Several people came rushing over to ask if I was okay, which I was.  This embarrassment would just have to get in line behind all the other foul-ups of the day.

I brushed the snow out of my hair, got up and struggled over to where the hill canted downward.

Here goes nothing! I eased over the lip. 

I of course fell immediately.  Picked myself up and fell again.  It was a long journey down the hill, but at last I did a few connected snowplow turns.

But snowplowing across the hill was made me a tempting target, so I hurried to get out of the way of some guys going about 105mph.  Unfortunately I hurried a little too much and could not stop before the edge of the run, which was steeper than I would have liked.  I turned uphill in my snowplow form and wound up crouched over my skis, my bum pointing downhill, my knees straining every ligament as the tips of my skis were together uphill, the tails of them spread wide apart facing downhill.  I actually tried to fall and failed because I couldn’t fall uphill and the way my knees were bent, I couldn’t sit down.  Slowly I started sliding downhill to an adjoining black diamond run.  Frantically, I dug my gloved fingers into the snow above my tips but it failed to slow me down as I picked up speed.

Who came whizzing by just then?  None other than the handsome Garrett and his clique.  His friend skied up, sprayed me with snow, and zipped away.  Maybe this was a teenage boy way of saying they liked me.  Garrett himself skied right up to me.  Of course, he was going to leave his friends and render aid!  I could see him carrying me down the hill in his arms and consoling me over our cups of hot chocolate.

Nope.

He stopped next to me and looked me full in the face.  “Pathetic,” he said, and skied on with his hooting friends.

I did not go skiing for many years, and when I did, it was with my wonderful husband (NOT Garrett, of course) and our two happy, laughing children.  We spent hours on the slopes playing “killer slugs” and learning to ski alongside of them.  They passed us up in due time, but we still go with them and still have fun. We chase each other down the slopes, hair flying as we carve turns, weave across the hills, and I gaze into their happy eyes over cocoa back at the lodge.  We have races, ride the lifts up through the trees, and have pictures of us with our arms around each other.  The secret to happy skiing, at least for me, has nothing whatsoever to do with being cool.  

My Daughter Got Lost on the Boston Subway

I only let go of my child’s hand in the Boston subway for TWO SECONDS (I swear) to point out a feature on a map to my husband.  We turned to see a train’s doors closing and pull out.

Oh no!  What line was that?  Did she get on it?  Was she nearby?  We called her name, and no answer.  We were jostled by the afternoon crowd. 

Our family was vacationing from the opposite side of the country and new to subways.  Our daughter, a little whirlwind masquerading as a seven-year-old moppet, absolutely loved the subway.  She thought she had them all figured out and we kept a firm hand on her at all times.

Except this once, just as a train was pulling out.

Immediately we looked around, calling in more and more frantic voices as the seconds ticked by.  An onlooking man asked if he could “hold my purse” while I looked for my daughter.  You’re kidding me, right?  I guess he thought I was distraught enough to accept his kind offer to “help”.

My husband and I looked helplessly at one another.  What do two tourists do when in a strange town and their seven-year-old daughter gets on a train bound for unknown neighborhoods?  We didn’t know if that train was the orange line, green line, or whatever color they had.  We didn’t know if she’d stay on the train or get off at the next station.

We figured we could contact the police, giving them our hotel information.  My husband could ride the lines and see if he spotted her in any station.

Just then we heard music up the station around a corner.  Our daughter loves music.  We ran.

Sure enough, there she was.  We swept her up in our arms, exclaiming over her in as frantic parents are prone to doing.  Promises NEVER to leave mommy or daddy’s side again were faithfully given.  In spite of my hyper-vigilance, it happened again a month later at a fair.  I guess I needed a leash, but we found her with the help of the local police.

What are good strategies for not letting your super-active child get lost in a strange city?

Ingenious Message Delivery System

Our two daughters went to a small private school where I was the librarian.  It was a great little community to grow up in, but it also meant that the girls spent more time at school than average and had to put up with staff meetings.

The day after graduation the staff was to meet for the morning.  My two daughters, who had spent most of their lives at this little school, came with me and looked forward to the freedom of doing what they wanted. The children were safe on the campus, running through the gym, playing on the playground, reading books in the library, or playing on the computers.  In fact, it was so safe, I could attend end of the year staff meetings without worry about them. 

“Can we play in the gym?” they asked.  The gym was still decorated with helium balloons and streamers from last night’s graduation.

“Of course,” I said.  “Stay inside though, you can play outside later when I’m watching you.  You can use the library or the computers if you wish.  But don’t come running into the staff meeting every two minutes.  If you have an emergency, that’s different.”

“Okay, Mom.” Off they scampered.

It was nearing lunch time and still the staff meeting was not over.  I happened to be sitting facing the door and could see into the hallway where there was a little half wall.  On the other side of the half wall was a stairway that led down to the first floor.

Suddenly a yellow balloon with a face drawn on it floated above the half wall.  It was yanked down.  Then it floated up.  Yanked down.  Floated up.

The pre-school teacher sitting next to me saw it too.  She started giggling.

We both got up and peeked over the half wall. 

There was my oldest daughter.  “Well, I didn’t come running into the staff meeting,” she said.  “When’s lunch?”

By that time the entire staff had come out to see.  They all laughed at the ingenious message system.

“Lunch is right now,” said our headmaster.

    

Human Nature and Birds

We once had a little parakeet we took care of for some French friends, who aptly named him Napoleon.  He was allowed outside of his cage occasionally, and strutted about on our furniture and stole all manner of things.  Then he announced his pride and daring while he played with his conquests.  He cared not a fig about the mess he made strewing his food about and never made any effort to clean up after himself.  I was rather surprised that I liked him, but he was a cute little thing.  I can understand how Josephine felt.

Not all birds are so cute.  Seagulls for example.  My husband once spied a seagull trying to get french fries out of a plastic baggie.  The seagull would pick up the baggie and shake it, but the thing was zip locked shut, so shaking it did not work.  A crow watched this, and when the seagull gave up in frustration, the crow swooped down from a lamppost.  It then poked a hole in the baggie with its beak and drew out the french fry.  When the seagull, who had not gone far away, saw this, he screamed like the seagulls in Finding Nemo, “Mine! Mine!”  He flew back to claim his french fries. 

Alas, he had not observed the crow very well.  The seagull shook the baggie vigorously but no french fries came out.  He gave up again and the crow returned to carefully draw out a fry.  This was repeated until the fries were gone, and never did the seagull figure it out and get one.  He’d much prefer screaming than observing.

Screaming seems to come naturally for some birds, or at least crowing.  Out at Ft. Nisqually we have hens and a rooster.  The rooster is a mighty lad, and watches over his hens with ardent fervor.  Once we had a politician come out to give a speech.  In the middle of it, the rooster decided he’d heard enough and tried to out crow the politician.  I can’t say the mountain men didn’t laugh about it.  The rooster, at least, was magnificent.

Speaking of magnificent, those male birds can certainly get puffed up with their beauty.  My husband and I once watched a male pigeon, in iridescent splendor, try to puff out his chest and impress a female.  She turned away and pecked at the ground.  He hurried around to catch her eye, and she walked away. 

He tried and failed to impress for more than five minutes.  At last, our woeful male gave up and wandered away.  The little princess would not have that!  She ran over and pecked at him so he would continue to woo her.  My husband, for some reason, thought this was hilarious.  I think he was reading too much into it.  We don’t know anyone like that.  Just adoring females around our nest.  Most of the time.

The Magic Kingdom

Who doesn't love the Happiest Place on Earth?  The place where imagination comes alive, parents and children spend time together and teenagers can stand in lines together while watching videos on their iPods.

I loved looking more closely at the architecture and the little details they put in the lamps and columns.  Little things like Chip and Dale in the stonework.

The trees at the haunted house were so droopy and sad.

I had fun on Space Mountain.

Clark and I had to paddle the canoes.  There we care, 2/3rds of the way back, brother Clark in green and me in white.

At the end of the day, I climbed the treehouse and was the only one up there.  I could see the Mark Twain steamboat comin' 'round the bend.  My favorite thing.

Time Honored Tradition

Something that always makes me laugh is a tradition our daughter started.  On my birthday, she calls me up from her classroom and has her whole class sing Happy Birthday to You via speaker phone.  Let me clarify.  They don't necessarily SING Happy Birthday.  The shout, screech, scream and yell it at the top of their lungs.

Great fun!  Simple pleasures, they're the best.

Thanks, kids.