winter

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The Dream of Skiing, Realized


I wrote this essay a few years ago, but I felt it was appropriate for today.

Colo 1I 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.

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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.

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The Snowman Contingent


???????? As anyone that has read some of my blogs will know, I like snow. This in turn leads to my love of snowmen. During the winter I have assorted displays of the 3 globes of frozen precipitation decorating my home. They add whimsy to the dark days of the coldest months.
Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, my family follows our tradition and cuts down a Christmas Tree. We trim the tree that afternoon and then over the course of the next day or so I finish decorating the rest of the house. Come sometime in mid-January I take down all of the Christmas embellishments. But, I leave out all of the snowmen; after all it is still very much winter at that time of year here in upstate New York. It brings me pleasure to drink coffee in the morning out of my varied winter themed mugs and the snowmen seem to smile at me as I watch the Weather Channel anticipating winter storms. I have the superstition that my frozen friends help deliver a sunny but snowy winter. Consequently, I like having them around the house.
But, the time has come to dismantle the snowman displays. As I type this I can hear the wind rumbling up against my house and watch as it causes small branches to fall from the trees. The temperature today has not even reached the freezing level. Despite this, I am officially calling snowman season over.
It is March and even though spring here can actually be defined as mud season and certainly not enjoyable, I think it is time to move on. Skiing will continue for a few more weekends as there is still snow at Gore Mountain. But, there is no white stuff left in my yard and besides, I am ready for some color. Perhaps, if I drag out my spring décor I will encourage the warmer temperatures to come our way and we will begin to see the crocuses, daffodils and tulips in bloom.
So it is goodbye snowmen, see you next winter.

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What Makes Us Friends?


birches13Once 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.photo (12)

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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.

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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.

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Skiing Fast and Slow


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAUnlike my husband, I am not a morning person. He jumps from bed, showers, dresses and heads out the door on a run.  The whole time contemplating his goals for the day, and, all this completed with a smile on his face.

I, in turn, do not wake up and leap from bed humming tunes and exclaiming what a wonderful day it is.  I wake up slowly, first one eye, then the other.  I roll over a few more times relishing the notion of going back to sleep.  Everything I want to complete that day does not come roaring to my conscious forcing me awake.  Instead, I rise slowly, sit on the edge of the bed, stretch and then with an arthritic wobble head into the bathroom.  While waiting for the water to warm up I stand in a daze, trying to clear my head.  When the flow becomes tepid, I ritualistically wash my face and brush my teeth. This task accomplished, I grab my robe and head downstairs using the handrails as guides.  As I trip over the cats I mumble good morning to them and impatiently wait for the coffee to brew.  Then, with mug in hand, I sit down, read the paper and watch the news.  I hatch.

My husband is also a rabid skier.  He is the kind of person, who puts the deck furniture away in September in anticipation of the ski season.  Best to be prepared and not waste a weekend working around the house when one could be on the slopes. Because of his passion, he taught our daughters to ski.  So well in fact, that they became alpine racers.   Ski team practice can start as early as 7:00 am.  In the winter this means the whole morning routine is a struggle in the dark.  You drive to the mountain in the dark, try to find coffee in the dark and wait for the attendants to let the racers on the lifts early, in the dark. To any normal person this is a very sadistic approach to skiing.

For nine years, every weekend in the winter I was forced to become a morning person.  Before daylight I was thrown from my bed by the screaming alarm.  With the cozy smell of wood smoke coaxing me back to sleep, I hurriedly brushed my teeth and washed my face, the whole time contemplating about what to pack for lunch.  Next, I scrambled to the kitchen, dug the food out of the cupboards and refrigerator and hurled it into the cooler.  At the same time, my husband tossed breakfast on the table and the girls choked it down while struggling into their tight, long underwear.  As the family hustled for the door and into the frigid Adirondack winter air, I flung clothing into my ski bag, while listening to the weather man describe wind chill temperatures.  Consequently, on ski mornings, I became a mad woman with an agenda.

At our home mountain, Gore, my husband and I have season’s passes.  We often ski in groups with other racer parents.  Many of them are fanatical, just like my husband.  As the sun begins to rise over the mountain, spreading light across the groomed hill, the extreme skiers rush into the lodge, gulping down their coffee as they apply layers of clothing.  With concentration they bend over and strain to buckle up their boots. The atmosphere is very businesslike, no joking.   The mantra is, boots, skis, poles you really don’t need anything else.   With military precision the group rushes out the door, racing each other to the lift.  Heaven forbid they are not on the first gondola ride up and achieve first tracks on the run down.  In the almost empty lodge, a draft of frosty air glides in through the swinging doors and lazily wraps itself around those left inside.

I often do not make this initial run.  After all I am hatching.  I sip my coffee, pick through my clothing and decide how many pieces I want to wear.  I chat with the others left behind as we casually make our way to the lift and get in line with, gasp, non season ticket holders who probably slept pass 6:00am.    My unhurried friends and I ride to the top of the mountain anticipating finding the early crew.  As we travel on the lift we look at the trails below us searching for familiar colored coats.  When we ski down the trails we expectantly look up hoping to see a recognizable face as the chair lift travels over us.   Despite our best efforts we never catch up with the first trackers group.  We are content, skiing at our slower pace, but we have spent a couple of years wondering how the two groups could ski the same trails and never even catch a glimpse of each other.

One bitter cold day, we coffee sippers, decided to go in to the lodge at the top of the mountain. To our astonishment, there sat the first trackers in a large cluster warming their toes and having a snack discussing the morning’s early runs.  We had finally found them in the place we never would have thought to look. They had been here, in this toasty room, with a roaring fireplace and hot chocolate, on those frigid mornings we skied looking for them.  In amazement, we discovered, the first trackers would take a few fast; get on the mountain before anyone else runs, but after that, they always took a 10:00 am break.  This was why, our second out the door, unhurried group, could never find them.  My friends and I would ski run after run thinking we were the slackers.  Only at lunch would we take a break.  We would come in exhausted and freezing, mistakenly assuming the others had been on the slopes all morning like us.  They would come in, a few minutes later laughing, not breathing hard, and very relaxed.  It was disconcerting wondering how the first trackers spent all that time on the slopes but somehow did not look as tired as we did.   Now the truth was out.  Suddenly, I was no longer feeling guilty for taking my time at the break of day.  I simply had a different approach to the whole morning and skiing business.

My daughters have both moved on to college.  They no longer ski race.  My husband and I are not compelled by a schedule to be at the mountain.  But it is already December.  The days are short, the nights long.  Coldness lurks around the corner.  The deck furniture has long since been put away.  My husband has the skis waxed and ready.  Lately, I have been contemplating the idea that all ski lifts should open at 10:00 am.  Then the first trackers and the coffee sippers could all head to the lift together and get that first run at a decent hour.