If I could have one comedy montage from my brain on
videotape, this is would what it would look like:
I am not a coordinated or graceful person. I have no agility or speed either. I am clumsy.
I am a great walker though.
I have that down pat.
My job involves snow so when I tell people where
I work the first question I get asked is whether I ski or snowboard.
Begin the reel. Here
is the first of many attempts at athleticism...
Growing up, my family took yearly ski trips to Michigan with
family friends. I was a fearful five year
old and not excited about strapping two skis on and plummeting down a hill. Pops however, was full of enthusiasm and
exuberance that would soon turn to frustration.
God love him for having faith that someday I would grow out of my
awkward stage. We are still waiting.
With some fuss I got my boots and skis on and practiced on
the little hill by the chalet. I’d walk
up the little hill and snowplow my little self down. Pizza.
French fry. Pizza. French Fry.
Sounds fun, right? I remember a
lot of yelling and crying involved during practice. It was unfair, my brothers took to the hill like
Snoopy, suavely traversing the snowy terrain with little effort. Pops was at a loss on why these skills were
harder for me; I chalk it up to being a late bloomer.
After we both had enough zigzagging, Pops brought me to
the bottom of the hill to prep me for my first chairlift ride. The chairlift was an old two-seater that went
to the top of the bunny hill. Pops went
through the instructions over and over until I committed them to memory. Scoot up, grab the pole, sit down, bar down,
tips up. He’d be right next to me the
whole time.
And I did it! We were
riding high and I felt a rush of adrenaline and accomplishment. The views of the trees were spectacular the skiers
were whooshing below, this was incredible!
About half way up the ride, Pops started prepping on how the
unloading was going to go. He assured me
it was a lot easier than getting on. I
am not sure what exactly happened, but sometime between his instructions and the
unloading zone I completely psyched myself out.
My dad left the chairlift and I did not.
I kept going until the lift was stopped. I took one look at my dad swearing under his
breath and started to bawl. I had been
defeated and humiliated by a chairlift.
My saving grace was the liftie, a sweet old man who came out
with a ladder and lifted me down gently.
To this day, I remember his kind smile and the
safety of his arms. Once back to the
ground he gave me a Kleenex, a Hershey Kiss, and a button that said Kiss me, I’m a good skier. The world was right again.
Going downhill was a piece of cake. After the one and only run, Pops brought me back to the
chalet and I am guessing went to have a few cocktails to take the edge off of our
bonding experience. It was a long
afternoon and at the end of it, all was forgiven.
The next day Pops signed me up for ski school. Best forty bucks he ever spent.
A homemade mountain dulcimer made by a dear friend
(Picture Later)
