Summer in upstate New York, especially the Adirondacks, can be beautiful, and this past weekend was one of the top ten. Well, at least Friday and Saturday. The weather was warm, low humidity and the sky was a crisp blue. These realities alone would be enough to qualify for a weekend of joy, but a get together with friends who go way back was my additional gift. I started counting my joys upon my arrival.
There is nothing like a hug from a friend who truly knows you. A friend, who has pulled you through some difficult times and has brought forth laughter when the tears were flowing. I’m talking about a friend who knows all of your faults, and still overlooks them because they love you anyway. When I walked through the door, greeted by my friends and received those loving, knowing hugs, my heart filled with joy and I knew I was in the right place for the next couple of days.
Slowing our pace from one of a busy week to that of a relaxing weekend, we all grabbed our favorite cocktail and headed outside to the deck that overlooks The Great Sacandaga Lake. We smiled with joy at the amazing view. The water was slowly calming as weary, sun burnt, boaters headed into shore, their vessels awash in the last golden rays of the sun. Our ears filled with a joyful noise as birds began a chorus of praise for the day and the breeze kicked in just enough to bring the thought of a jacket to one’s mind.
After a joyous dinner, what many were calling a Super Moon because of its closeness the Earth over the next few weeks drew our attention. The friends gathered, paused mid-conversations to admire the beauty of the full moon as it rose above the water leaving a shimmering trail on the surface.
Mornings can be glorious on a lake in the Adirondacks. This past Saturday was no exception. At dawn, I rolled over in bed only to witness the rising sun. I sat up to admire the reds and oranges the sun shoved over the horizon of the Earth as she made her appearance for the day. The birds greeted the growing light with songs of joy and I was lulled back into sleep with their chorus.
After lunch, we all donned our bathing suits, sunscreen and hats. With drinks in hand, we headed to the dock for a boat cruise. The water sparkled with the glimmer of the sun and as always, I appreciated the fact of how clear a mountain lake can be. The cruise was en-joy-able as we admired the other passing boats and the attractive homes lining the shore. The sun was hot and so our captain stopped the boat long enough for all of us to jump in and swim around for a while. I love the feel of the softness of the water and the coolness it brings as it overcomes the heat from the sun. We lingered in our swim for quite some time.
A day on the lake cannot be complete without a cookout and ours was grand. We started with cocktails and beer accompanied by fresh steamed clams. Then, just when we thought we should not eat anymore the steak, corn and salt potatoes arrived. The wine was corked and we all dug in as if none of us had eaten in days. Yet, the atmosphere and dinner was only complete with the sweet sound of joyful laughter that arose from the table. Laughter derived from friends who can finish each other’s sentences and still laugh at the same worn jokes told at every gathering.
The joy I felt all weekend filled my heart to bursting and it was then I recognized, life does not get much better than this.
Adirondacks
A Mark On This Earth
When I was young and living in the small town of Wabash, Indiana I used to dream of different ways to become famous. During mass I often fantasized a record producer would, for some unknown reason, be in my church, hear my voice and offer me a contract. Or, I would dream a modeling agency would see me as I vacationed with my family and rush over to tell me I would be the next big thing on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. Even though I spent many years with these images in my head those events never took place. Instead, I went to college, graduated, found a job, got married and began the life I lead now.
It has only been recently that I remembered those long ago dreams and realized it is very unlikely my face will grace the cover of a fashion magazine or my singing voice be heard across the airwaves. I’m okay with this reality because I understand if I truly wanted those goals to happen I would have worked a little harder at accomplishing them. With this realization however, I wondered, have I made my mark on this world? When I’m gone will I have left a legacy? After some consideration I recognized leaving my mark does not require me to be famous. Keeping that in mind, I settled on a list of lasting qualities, I believe, I have managed to accomplish.
I have been a good daughter. While growing up I never caused my parents much concern. In turn they gifted me with their love, a comforting home, siblings to have and cherish my entire life and a college education. As an adult I welcomed my parents into my home. I enjoyed their company and we shared some great meals, laughter and many adventures when they graced my doorstep. For six years as my mother slid into dementia, I comforted and counseled her, fought her medical battles, sat through doctor appointments, made more than one run to the emergency room and, fought my own guilt feelings of inadequacy. Finally, on the day she died I held my mother’s hand and read to her the poems she recited to my siblings and me, and sang to her the songs that brightened our childhood days.
Friendship may be one of my strong suits. I love that shared intimacy. And, nothing seals a bond of camaraderie like the struggle of raising children. Many reassuring conversations took place during the frustrations and joys of raising children. I have been there through health scares, holding hands, sending cards and making phone calls to check in. I have consoled woman friends through the everyday difficulties of marriage and they have returned that favor to me. Most difficult of all I have been with my friend as she fought to keep her husband alive, then, in the end, as she graced him with her love and the permission to leave this earth.
Together my husband and I have created and raised two amazing daughters. They are kind to others, responsible for themselves, fun to be with, gifted with creativity, athletic and smart. As parents we gave our daughter many material items. When they were very young it was toys, dolls and stuffed animals. As they grew it became sports equipment, namely downhill skis. We offered opportunities to try new adventures. We bought a boat and took them tubing, cliff jumping and island camping on Lake George in the Adirondacks. All of those material presents brought the most important gift of all; a family. We formed a bond as we traveled for ski races, or huddled together in a small tent to avoid a storm on Turtle Island. We grew as a family having fun together, sharing dinners, laughing, arguing; just spending time with one another.
With this inventory I have concluded my legacy is one of kindness, love, fun, support and a future generation. Consequently, I think my daughters and our family are far more of a mark to leave on this earth than my past dreams of being famous.
The Dream of Skiing, Realized
I wrote this essay a few years ago, but I felt it was appropriate for today.
I don’t know how old or exactly where I was, but the first time I saw people skiing in a movie I knew that was something I had to do. The whole idea tempted me. It was exciting to think of rushing down a hill over a blanket of beautiful white snow. I could almost feel the sting of the cold air rushing against my face as I carved turns. It was appealing to picture myself at the end of the day wearing a warm fashionable sweater sitting next to a crackling fire, drink in hand, enjoying the camaraderie of good friends. I fantasized about the captivating conversations that would take place. The oneness we would all feel about our love of skiing and winter.
But I was born and raised a flatlander. I grew up in Indiana where hills are few and far between and a mountain is something you might see in a picture. Sure, there were families who traveled away for vacations to Colorado,but mine was not one of them. I remember going to an acquaintance’s house, a friend of a friend. We were all sitting around chatting. Suddenly, there in the basement in a corner, I saw snow skis. My mouth dropped open and I rudely interrupted the conversation.
“You Ski?!”
“Oh yeah, we go every year.”
Then, just as abruptly as our conversation began she ended it and changed the subject. I longed to know more. What was it like? Was it scary or fun? Was it hard to learn? I never really got to talk to her again about skiing, but whenever I saw her in school I was impressed.
As I got older my obsessive flame to ski turned into a smolder but it was still there. Recently, I found a family photo. I am the one in the sweater with a skier on the front. My dream laid out for anyone willing to recognize.
Away at college I met lots of great guys. But the ones who drew my attention were the skiers. In my mind they were a rare breed, exciting, different from the, oh so many basketball players that are prevalent in the Midwest. When I met Paul I knew he was exceptional. I was smitten with his twinkling eyes and devilish smile. Much to my delight he was from New York State where apparently they had mountains. He spent many hours talking about skiing and how much fun it was. I could tell skiing was his passion. I was hooked; but in the ways of life it took us four years to get around to dating let alone skiing.
Eventually our dating turned to something more and in 1985 we celebrated our marriage and moved to upstate New York. Paul kept his promise and taught me how to ski. Before I even hit the slopes he bought me all kinds of equipment. He purchased hats, mittens and a coat and ski pants. He even bought socks made specifically for skiers. He thought if I was cold on my first times out I might not return. What he did not understand was my drive to be a skier. The skier I had envisioned. And, I have become good. But what I took to almost immediately, was the après ski.
Just as I imagined, the camaraderie between skiers does exist. Because our daughters grew up skiing they soon turned to alpine racing. They were members of the Gore Mountain team. We spent many days at Gore and quickly became great friends with the families of the other racers. As parents we experienced many sub-zero days on the slopes. Sometimes skiing, sometimes standing on the side of a race hill watching our children fly past us. At the end of the day we would get together and discuss the day’s events. We may not have always been in our fuzzy, warm, sweaters. In fact, frequently, after a long day of skiing we were known to sit around in our very comfy sweats and PJs. No matter, the friendship that I sought was still there. The drinks warmed us along with the fire and we laughed at inside jokes and funny things that happened that day on the mountain.
Recently, Paul and I attended a fund-raiser for the Gore Mountain ski team. Our daughters no longer race, they have moved on to college, but we still feel a connection. So apparently do many others. In attendance that evening was several of our friends from over the years. Half of those enjoying dinner and drinks no longer had a child in the program. But we appreciate we are a unique group. We have a secret connection. We enjoy the rush of cold air on our faces. We love the silence you hear on a ski slope on a frigid day. We appreciate the awe you feel as you stand at the top of a run and look out over the snow covered mountains, the clouds sitting in the valleys and the sun glinting on the lakes below. It is thrilling to rush down a slope carving turns. We love to play hard during the day, and at the end of it, enjoy a warm fire and our friends. Skiers are optimistic. Who else sees delight in an upcoming snowstorm? They certainly are fun-loving. They laugh at the weather, and each other. They ski outside in the cold all day, most days not realizing the temperature is below freezing, making them a very hearty crew.
I still have that image of skiers in my head from the first time I saw them in the movie. I have never been disappointed. We are everything I dreamed we would be.
Winter Storm Walk
It has been a while since I took a walk in the snow by myself. I had forgotten how much I enjoy the quiet of a winter storm. Rain storms have their own beauty, but they are showy with their thunder and lightning. A winter storm silently creeps in and slowly drops layer by layer of several inches of pure white magnificence.
Bundled in my coat, hat and gloves, I open the door and feel the cold air rush against my face and down my lungs. The chill wraps itself around my legs and begins to creep into my toes and fingertips. I don’t mind. My senses are aroused and I am reminded that I far enjoy the cold as opposed to hot humid temperatures.
The snow is deep enough to cover the tops of my hiking boots and I thrill to lose the sight of my feet in the soft, fluffy ice crystals. As the snowflakes tickle my face, I trudge up to the top of a hill on my street and begin the long trek down the other side to an another neighborhood. Here I encounter two manmade ponds. I can see the trace of a shoveled area where the neighborhood kids have been ice skating. It looks like they will have some work to do in order to recover their rink.
The quiet envelopes me and I lose myself in the stillness while I reflect on a myriad of thoughts. I am startled back to my surroundings by the chirps of a chickadee. Listening, I hear the branches of trees as they rub against each other in a slight wind. I gaze across a field and as usual I am in awe of the expanse of pristine white contrasting against the low grey clouds. I observe the 
park benches as they sit staring into the icy pond, waiting, I suppose, for spring to return. But, I will bid my time, enjoying this season and my winter walk. Once again I succumb to the calm of the silent snow and let my thoughts wander. I think of a warm bowl of soup waiting for me upon my return home. I decide this is the perfect day to build a fire and to enjoy it’s warmth as I revel in the freedom of my snow day.
Turning the corner to complete my lap around the pond I lift my head and smile with gratitude at one of my most favorite sights. The splendor of pine trees covered in snow. I always think the trees look stunning in their long gowns of wedding white.
The squirrels have been out and about leaving behind tiny footprints. I also discover the traces of a fellow traveler. Their boot marks almost lost in the snow that has fallen since their walk. I wonder if the person who traveled this road before me enjoyed the sights as much as I.
The tranquility of the morning is broken by the sound of a snowplow. I see the huge orange truck maneuvering growing banks of snow around a corner. I cross the road to get out of his way; snowplows in upstate New York are massive. There is no one else out and I contemplate what the truck driver must think of me. Does he think I’m crazy or does he understand the delight of walking through a snowstorm?
The End of an Anticipated Dream
The last time I wrote I mentioned my collection of quotes. This past weekend I was reminded of yet another passage I try to refer to often.
Don’t cry because it is over. Smile because it happened.
Dr. Seuss
With the arrival of warm temperatures snow skiing has come to an end. There are some who will find a sunny spring day to glide down slushy slopes and one last time end their runs with a much anticipated beer on the deck. But, I have finished for the season. Over the weekend, my husband and I packed up all of the belongings we had managed to drag up north and moved them from our rental. As I emptied over-flowing cupboards, filled with the generosity of visiting friends, and stuffed suitcases stretched tight against their zippers, my thoughts returned to my anxious greed in December to move into this winter haven.
The idea to return to weekends spent skiing full time at Gore Mountain and enjoying all of our winter time friends came to me as I talked with two of my sisters about our very small inheritance. Our mother had recently passed away from her long slide into the nothingness of dementia. We felt the money was a gift and should be put to use in a way that would honor both our mother and father. We were in awe at the financial ingenuity of our parents, a teacher and insurance salesman. How had they managed to raise, feed, clothe and then send seven children to college and still have enough left for Mom to be well taken care of at the end of her life?
As ideas were thrown around I came to my conclusion. Sitting on a screened in porch on July third, overlooking a lake in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains, it was difficult to imagine the following winter. Yet, I could feel the tingle of frost as I formulated my plan. I knew it was very likely during the winter of 2012-13 my daughters would be living near or with my husband and me, an opportunity that may not happen again, at least for some years to come. Our girls are young adults, in their early twenties. The notion of them both ending up living in upstate New York is a farfetched dream. I did know however, they would spend time with their parents, at least for a few months, if I enticed them with the lifestyle they grew up loving: skiing every weekend during the winter.
As my idea brewed in my head, I also imagined a writer’s retreat for my group, where we could spend time doing what we all love, putting our thoughts down on paper. Along with that, weekends of fun and laughter crowded my mental image. With the rental, the friends I so adore and cherish would once again have a place to gather. This spot would be an inviting sanctuary to ignore the painful truths of our lives and lose ourselves in raunchy jokes, good food, great adult beverages and the comforting companionship of dear friends.
The winter months went by, as you can guess, all too quickly. One day it was time for the first run, the next, the annual end of the year slush cup. When the car was packed, I wandered one last time through the living room of the chalet, turning off the gas fireplace and locking the doors. Through tear-filled eyes I saw the smiles and I heard the laughter. I smelled the candles as they were blown out on my daughter’s birthday cake. I saw the realization of joy in my husband’s face when we surprised him with a family, plus two boyfriends, dinner at his favorite restaurant. I heard the giggles of young adults echo throughout the loft and saw, once again, their card games at the big dining table. I sensed the sound of clinking wine glasses raised in salute during the many toasts that took place as we gathered to share our meals. I knew then, as I heard the door lock one last time, my intuition had been correct. Renting a home in the Adirondacks was a true celebration of my parent’s gift.
I smiled, because I made it happen.
What Makes Us Friends?
Once again, in celebration of the ski rental, there was a gathering of our good friends. The scene outside was one of beauty. The white, papery birch trees standing tall against the small fluffy snowflakes drifting down through the sky. Inside the room was warm and the laughter was raucous. It didn’t take much to get the group started down a path of bad jokes, and unruly behavior leading to snorts of amusement. It has often been said, people tend to get caught up in jobs, commitments, the rush that leaves us exhausted at the end of the day. Our group is no exception to that rule. Thus, it was nice to have this weekend to re-establish our priorities in life. Loyal friends bonded by the commitment we have developed over the years to each other. I know, and I believe my friends all know, that time and distance cannot break the bond that time and the distance we have traveled together has established. Not to take away from our blood families but this is a family too, the one we have chosen. These are the friends, who over the course of many years have established themselves to be there for you no matter the circumstance.
I wonder? Why do some people enter your lives and immediately become a best friend, while others drift in and out? Perhaps it is a common activity. This is certainly true for the core of this group. We met when our children all downhill ski raced together. There were many early mornings struggles of no coffee and sub-zero temperatures. Too often we encountered ice storms and dumps of snow as we crawled our way across the state of New York to get to a race. Weekends consisted of standing at the bottom of a ski trail and looking uphill waiting in anticipation for a lone figure to appear as it flew down a race course. The only thing between the racer, one of our children, and the mountain was a thin layer of spandex and a helmet. We held our breath trying to prevent a fall and exhaled as they came across the finish line. Evenings consisted of ski tuning and team dinners at an accommodating restaurant. Often it was adults at one table, racers at the next. Yes, we certainly bonded over the time we traveled together.
Yet, it has to be something more. Because over the years other racer families have drifted out of our lives while our group still manages to get together. Maybe our bond is because of common goals and beliefs. Politically we are a mismatched group. However, an even stronger shared conviction is our goals for our children. A good education, enough money to continue the lifestyle they enjoyed growing up, loving relationships and health. (We have had some struggles with the health, but that too seems to be making an upward trend.) I’ll admit those are pretty universal goals. Consequently, I think what draws us to each other is how we went about teaching our children to attain these objectives for themselves. Knowing that your child was safe and held to the same responsibilities, even if staying with one of the other families, was a comfort.
But, this past weekend we also included others who were not ski team parents. Still, the same power of friendship clings to all of us. In the end, the common bond must be our personalities; or perhaps, our mutual understanding of what being a true friend means. That definition being:
I want to share the joys of life with you. But, more importantly, I will stand by you when you are struggling, no matter if it is a struggle with children, health, death of a loved one or sickness. I will be the one to hold your hand, to lend a shoulder to cry on. I promise to cry with you when the pain is too much and make you laugh when your tears are finished. As your friend I will hold your confidences but shout out your accomplishments. At the end of the day, I only want to hear your laughter and see your smile and hope for many more years of friendship to come.
This, I think, is what draws our group and our fellow friends, who did not make the weekend, together and keeps us traveling down the road as companions.
Snow Fall Reflections
One of my favorite things: watching snow fall.
So here I am alone and quite honestly, enjoying the time. My companions are a glass of red wine, cheese and crackers, piano music and snow falling on the Adirondacks. I use to be afraid of being alone. After all, I grew up in a large family. I think I’ve actually only had a bedroom to myself my senior year in college. Doing activities and making decisions on my own has been a gradual awakening. Now, there are times I can spend hours writing at my computer and not notice I am alone.
Still, I realize that this is the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s rapid decline into her passing. It will be one year ago tomorrow that I got the call she was not doing well. Then, less than 48 hours later she was dead.
It is hard to say what I miss about my mother. Certainly not the last six years of her life when she slid into dementia. It is not a friendship, we never really had that. But, I think I miss knowing she was there. Comforted by the fact I could call for advice, laugh with her when we watched David Letterman together. I miss her presence in my life.
It is in this grieving moment that I sit in my beloved Adirondacks in a house I rented with the gift of a small inheritance I received from parents who somehow managed to put money aside and still raise seven children. I sit here watching the snow fall and thank Mom and Dad for this small gift that means so much to me.
Me First
Re-learning how to put yourself first is difficult. I think most women, at some point in our lives, lose the initial reaction of me first and begin to experience concern about others. For many it is when we have children. But, it doesn’t have offspring, because of women’s instinct to nurture, we naturally put others first no matter the circumstances.
Lately, I have been making a concerted effort to allow myself to consider, what do I want to do? Or my new mantra is, No Guilt. With those thoughts in mind I planned a week for myself at the seasonal house we rented this winter. Even as I sit here and type I am surrounded by my fellow writer’s as we enjoy our first writer’s retreat. We gave ourselves a few days in which to enjoy the company of fellow scribes and actually sit and create for most of the day. While out our window, the beautiful Adirondacks lie snow-covered gleaming in the sun. It is pleasant to write and not be alone. I am enjoying hearing the click of my friend’s keyboards. Later, as we enjoy a night out for dinner I’m sure we will discuss what we have written. We will offer suggestions and constructive criticism. With each other’s encouragement we will keep moving ahead with our writing, forgoing other obligations and feel no guilt.
Later in the week I will be joined by two amazing girlfriends. The kind that know what you are thinking or feeling even before you do. We need some girl time; to reflect on our lives, to walk through issues that are troubling us, to laugh and build up each other’s spirits. Of course, more food than we need will be involved, along with adult beverages. I’m sure there will be long hours of talk and short hours of sleep.
Eventually, at the end of the week, husbands and other friends will join us for what we are calling our Hall Pass Weekend. A couple of days in which our group plans on letting loose with crude jokes, adult beverages, again too much food and much called for laughter.
In the end, I will have celebrated a week of letting go of commitments, worries, and pressure to put others before myself. A week for me.
The Sound of Laughter
I have often found it interesting that an event, which at the time seems small, remains a big part of your life for years to come. I remember being home from college one vacation. I was playing cards with my sisters and friends. We were creating quite a ruckus with our laughter. At one point, I walked into the kitchen where my mother was cleaning up our mess from dinner. She looked at me and said,
“I love hearing you girls laugh. It brings me such joy.”
I smiled and nodded, maybe even gave her a hug; that would have been nice. But, it wasn’t until years later, with children of my own, that I fully understood my mother’s comment.
I too, love the sound of laughter. The melody of it can lift the lowest heart. One of the first times I recalled my mother’s words was on a camping trip. Our family often camps on the Island’s of Lake George in upstate New York. Most of the sites are very private, some sites you get a small island all to yourself. Yet, on a quiet night, as you sit around the campfire, laughter can be heard. It floats across the water, coming into your campsite like the notes of a beautiful song. I never mind the intrusion because the laughter is an indication of the joy surrounding us.
One of my favorite endeavors is when friends and family gather around the dinner table. It fills my heart with gladness to sit back and spend a few minutes listening to the conversation and joy taking place. I search out the smiles on the faces of those sitting with me. I always feel a wave of accomplishment wash over me and I congratulate myself for pulling all of these people together. I have created a night where worries and troubles are forgotten for just a few hours; an evening where fun is the only solution to the weary tribe around me.
Most recently I was reminded of my mother’s words over the past weekend. Word had gone out, on every news and weather channel, that a major snow storm was headed for the east coast. Consequently, the skiers among us felt compelled to make a mad dash for the house we had rented for the season near Gore Mountain. After our large multi-generational crowd had dinner the parents settled into the couches and the younger set crowded around the table to play games. As I sat there with my friends the laughter began to rise from the table. Suddenly, I was my mother. The sound of their giggles brought a thrill to my heart. I now fully understood the comment she had made all those years ago as she heard the laughter of her children. I, in turn, felt that same joy as I heard the laughter coming from my daughter and her friends.
My mother’s feelings coming full circle.
Winter And All Of It’s Glory
I love winter. When I walk outside, I am exhilarated by the wallop of the cold air on my face, and in my lungs. I want to breathe deeply. My skin tingles. It brings me to life.
There are days in winter when the sky is a luminous blue. Your eyes are entranced by the contrast between the snow-covered pine trees, with hints of green, thrown up against a brilliant sapphire blue. Ride a ski lift on a frigid, sunny day and take a look for yourself. You will be awed by the magic of it.
As I child I anticipated winter. Spring was fine, but summer was too hot. Fall was getting better, cool days, brisk nights. The tree leaves changing into their fall royalty. But, every year I would pray for snow on my birthday. Never realizing this would be a difficult task for mother earth, as my birthday is in October.
At an early age I watched the Olympic ski racers and my heart pounded. I knew I had to try that sport. I fantasized about the adventure of skiing. I wanted to be on the slopes all day and feel the cold wind burn my face as I carved turns through the stately pines. After an exhausting day, I pictured myself sitting beside a roaring fire, dressed in a trendy ski sweater, laughing with friends. Who wouldn’t love that?
I anticipate snowstorms like a school age kid. I know the snow dance by heart. I religiously follow the Weather Channel, and feel I personally know Jim Cantore. It is thrilling to me, when he is seen in Albany, NY, predicting a storm. That means our part of the country will be blessed with the big one. You will not see me running to the grocery in panic before a storm. However, I will make sure I am stocked up on hot chocolate. That way when I come in from my heady tromp through the snow, I can melt by the fire and enjoy a nice steaming cup.
To me there is nothing more beautiful than the world after a snowfall. Everything is so clean and brilliant, like starched white shirts. I am mesmerized when I see a big field stretched out in its blanket of snow. It sparkles with diamonds in the sun. The snow covered earth runs right up to the trees and helps display their leafless branches. The branches reach out like arms and twist into wonderful shapes. It is quite a beautiful art form. Something you will not have the opportunity to enjoy in the summer.
When it is cold enough the ponds and lakes, even the rivers freeze over. It is rare but there is nothing more enthralling than to see water frozen as it made its way down over the fall. It is motion, literally frozen in time. I know, to love winter and its beauty is not for all. But, this year take a walk and you too may come to realize the wonder of winter.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 
