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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.
In Wabash, Indiana, where I grew up, the fourth of July was always the middle mark of summer. As a student I knew that there was still as much summer to enjoy as I had relished over the past few weeks. So it was that the fourth was a much anticipated event.
A few days prior to the celebration my mother took us to the store so that we could help pick out our legal fireworks. We bought sparklers and cherry bombs, (I think those were legal) and snakes. Snakes were my favorite, they were just a small cylinder of black which when you lit the top it would grow and curl to resemble a writhing snake. One year when I was still fairly young, my mom handed each of us kids our own pack of matches so we could light our displays. Following my cool older friend I put the match between the cover and the strike pad to light it. In doing this I turned the match just as it lit and the whole pack went up in my hand. The rest of that holiday was spent sitting with the grownups holding ice to the massive blister that had formed on the entire palm of my hand.
Often our family would gather with some neighbors for the day. We would grill some hamburgers and Mom would make her amazing potato salad. Then it was time to turn the crank as we made our own ice cream. My mouth would drool in anticipation of the vanilla flavored delight that was so cold every bite caused an ice cream headache.
The town of Wabash put on a fireworks display in the park. We were lucky enough to be able to see the show from our back yard. Later, as trees matured my Dad let us climb to the roof to watch. We thought that was a grand adventure.
When Paul and I bought our house in Clifton Park, New York, our neighborhood was directly across from the town fields where the fireworks were set off. The neighborhood was “party central” for the town and like my parents we invited our friends for the day. Our girls spent their early childhood watching the fourth of July parade and the fireworks right in their own front yard.
Some of my best memories were fourths spent on the islands of Lake George. Months in advance we would rent our sites. On that day many of our friends, with kids in tow, would arrive early to spend the day boating, swimming and cooking over a campfire. It was our custom to have steaks cooked over an open flame and baked potatoes roasted in the coals. As evening approached we would all pile into our boats and head to the shoreline near the town of Bolton Landing. The fireworks here were set off from a barge anchored not far from land. On a clear night the red and blue lights of the hundreds of boats gathered was almost a show in itself. As the fireworks blossomed into their fiery displays over Lake George, they were mirrored in the cool clear water below. The exhibit was so spectacular that the many “oohs” and “ahhs” it warranted could be heard gliding over the surface of the lake as the booming concussions echoed against the Adirondack Mountains.
Last summer I spent the holiday at my sister’s new home on Lake Chatuge, located on the border of Georgia and North Carolina. Here, too, we were surrounded by mountains. This time The Blue Ridge Mountains. Since this was our first holiday on Lake Chatuge we did not know the routine. Rumor around the cove was that some of the neighbors put on quite a show. At dusk, after our fill of barbecue, we all gathered on the dock beverage in hand. We were not disappointed. We clapped our appreciation both during and after the show and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Lake Chatuge is once again calling. The attendance at this year’s festivities has grown considerably. This just means there are more great memories to be made.
My mother had a favorite brother, Otis. I knew him as Uncle Odie. He was an Indiana hog farmer. A darn good one I understand as breeders from China came to the United States just to buy the sperm from his hogs. Uncle Odie died several years ago. He left behind an incredible family and his wife, Mary.
Aunt Mary, as I remember her, was always quick to find something to laugh about. I didn’t realize until much later in life this was because she was a very positive woman. Growing up, I just recall enjoying going to her house or having her visit. She seemed to bring joy into a room with her presence.
Aunt Mary, as my mother once told me, was her example of what a good, loving wife should be, and that she aspired to attain the example Mary and Odie demonstrated of a good marriage. It was easy, as a young person, to observe the love that exuded from their family. As an adult, it was still obvious at my uncle’s funeral. My cousins placed hands of reassurance on their siblings and lavished each other with long comforting hugs. They doted on their mother. They all sat side by side and seemed to comfort each other with their nearness.
After Uncle Odie passed, I would on very rare occasions see or talk with Aunt Mary. It upset me to hear her sadness. She cried, even years after his death, about how much she missed him. I selfishly longed for my Aunt Mary’s humor and funny stories. So, it was with happiness that the last time we spoke, Aunt Mary seemed more her old self. We were playing catch up on our families and filling each other in on the details. I was enjoying hearing her familiar infectious laugh. I realized as Aunt Mary was talking, and she can go on for quite some time without stopping-she was giving out some great advice. I felt such a pang of recognition when she told me the following story:
There were twelve of us in the beginning. We knew everything about each other. We raised each other’s kids. We spent a lot of happy times together. Now there are only two of us left. My friend, she doesn’t travel much so I rarely see her. But, oh, we had some fun. Now there is no one left who knows me. My kids say we know you, but they only understand me as their parent. I have no one left who remembers, me.
Up until that point I had been listening but also cleaning junk off my desk. Now, suddenly I stopped. Aunt Mary had just described my situation with our very close friends. A relationship we find very unique and special but one, I’m sure many people have. I realized the valuable insight I had been given and I took this thought from that story.
Cherish my family friends and the times we have now, because we all know life does not remain the same. In some very short years, we also, will begin to lose loved ones from our wonderful odd assortment of comrades. All too soon only one of us will be left to tell our story.
Then, very quickly, as was typical of Aunt Mary’s train of thought, she changed the subject and went on to say her life was good. She didn’t do as much living anymore but she experienced life through her grandkids and great-grandkids. She has more than I can count. As I listened with amazement, Aunt Mary began to rattle off their names and the cities they lived in. She told me their professions and their spouse’s names and if they had any children. I was impressed but I remembered I had always enjoyed her stories because of the amazing detail she recalled about the events.
As Aunt Mary was winding down her conversation she threw in some last minute tidbits of great advice. “Odie has been gone ten years now and it’s awful. I still miss him constantly. Enjoy every moment, it goes by so fast and appreciate your husband every day.”
Some exceptional words of wisdom. Thanks, Aunt Mary.
As a young girl, growing up in Indiana, I knew that summer was drawing to a close, not by the date or a change in the temperature, but, by the arrival of the cicadas. Without warning, as a long humid day began to sink into night, we would become aware of their humming song. My mother would state; “Six more weeks until the first frost.” A lesson she learned long ago from her father, who was a farmer. This proclamation did not always hold true, but my siblings and I grew to understand, with the arrival of the cicadas and their song, came the end of summer.
The rhythmic song of the cicada is a comfort to me. Each buzz in a late afternoon can send me back to a time when the bottoms of my feet were tough enough to run across stones. As a kid growing up in the sixties and seventies, my sisters and I didn’t wear shoes once it got hot, we ran barefoot. Back then, I knew summer was truly underway when I could dash through the neighborhood and not notice if I was on pavement, grass or a rock driveway.
Cicada songs bring a relaxation to my shoulders as I recall endless, sultry days spent swaying in the upper branches of a tree reading a book and trying to catch a breeze. Or, I remember lying on the grass watching cloud formations in the soft blue sky of late summer.
With the song of the cicadas comes the abundance of summer vegetables. Fresh sweet corn picked from my uncle’s farm and still warm as we husked it. The pleasant feel of butter dribbling down my chin as I smacked my lips together and tasted the salt mixed with the sweet of the kernels. My mouth drools with delight at the thought of sun ripened tomatoes, plucked from the vine just before being cut. Once we ate those acidic orbs, there was enough juice left on the plate to slurp down. We often made a meal of corn, tomatoes and green beans.
The cicadas sang along as we churned our own ice cream. They seemed to lead the anticipation as we waited for the milk, sugar and cream to freeze. And they would laugh at us, as our eyes almost rolled back in our heads when we ate the freezing cold dessert too quickly.
But my favorite comfort from the cicada song was their humming that grew louder and quieter with the rustle of a breeze as I lay in bed, my mind still racing, but my body exhausted from a day of play. Even now, as summer wanes and the cicada song begins, I find comfort in my many memories. And I look forward to crawling into my bed and listening to their lullaby as I fall asleep.
I have been many things in my life. A bare-footed child playing her way through a long summer in Indiana. A shy high school student who made herself try out and get into a performing choir. A college student finding her own identity on the campus she still thinks of as home. A young wife moving across many states to begin a life where she knew no one. A daughter, sister, mother, friend, teacher. All of these different phases of my life now combine, in a scattered way, inside my conscious. As I once again re-invent myself I take some part from each of those beings I once was and, hopefully emerge re-born.
I am a mother to my daughters, but they are grown and do not need me as they once did. I was once mother to my own mom as she slipped into dementia. That was a struggle for both of us. The word mother seems to have one meaning, the female parent of a child. But, we mother’s know it has so many more. We cradle our children to our breasts, snuggle them and kiss their beautiful heads. We watch them gallop freely away from us a young children, but know they will turn back to us when they become frightened. We argue with them as teens as they try to find their own definition of themselves. And we cry with excitement and loss as we watch them walk away from us on a college campus. At that moment we know they will truly never return to us as children. I realize my daughters are adults and quite capable of making decisions. Yet, I struggle when I know or feel a decision will not be the right one for them. Still, unless they ask, I try not to voice an opinion. At this point, I have to let them learn from their mistakes. Consequently, I, as so many other mothers before have done, must rebuild the image my daughters and I have of myself.
How do we mothers go about building that new relationship with our children? I am struggling with that now. How do I define to my girls that I no longer feel the need to mother them? In my opinion they turned out pretty good. I know I cannot be a girlfriend. But, can we be friends? Can we share experiences as adults? The trial begins as I realize I must stop myself from being a mother, and they will need to stop being a child. It is a difficult transition. I don’t think I ever successfully made that with my mother. But, I want to try with my daughters. I want to establish a relationship still built on trust, but not reliance. I want my daughters to come to me for advice, but not expect me to solve their problems. I want to respect their independence, but I need them to understand I need independence too. Most of all I want to have fun. I want to laugh with them over silly things. I want to enjoy our times together. I want us to find a common ground we can be comfortable with in our new roles.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 