A Christmas Story

      What am I doing here?  At 8 a.m., I’ve been up since 5:30, the temperature outside is in the low teens, the west wind buffeting the Jeep.  In the seat next to me, the four-year-old grandson chatters.

      Ski lessons?  Really?  At my age?  But we were headed north.  A stop at a McDonald’s drive-through in Laramie got us hot coffee.  By the time we reached Snowy Range, I needed the boys’ room.  Nothing in the parking lot, we’re told.  Have to get to the main building.

     The original question sang out silent but clear again when we stepped out of the car onto the packed snow and the sharp wind attempted to knife through jacket, shirt, and t-shirt.  I don’t like snow and cold.

      I had refused the sticker the grandson wanted to paste onto my shirt the night before as we checked out of the ski-rental place with equipment in hand:  Boots, helmets, skis, poles.  “I Love Snow!” the stickers said.  “It would be a lie,” I told him.

      On went the vest.  Next came the Carhart insulated coveralls.  I don’t care what kind of fashion statement I make.  They are warm.  If I can just get them on without falling on the packed snow I’m standing on.

     I have a ski suit.  But the Goodwife couldn’t find her winter bibs she used to wear on winter playground duty many years ago, so she took my one-piece suit and I opted for the coveralls.  I did wash and dry them the night before.  When you are 71, the fashion police grant you a pass.

     My Carharts held the knifing wind at bay.  The wool socks were no match for the icy blast, however.  I slipped off my loafers and exposed my foot.  Getting the ski boots on last night in the sporting goods store, with the helpful clerk assisting, hadn’t been too bad.  My fingers were still nice and warm. 

     But now, my fingers numbed as I fumbled at the five latches and grabbed the tongue loop to try to pull the heavy boot onto my quickly cooling foot and shin. I succeeded in getting the boots on, but I had to have help getting the five latches in place.

     Now for the walk over the packed snow to headquarters.  Walking in ski boots is a challenge.  Walking in ski boots on a slippery surface is a fall waiting to happen.  But we made it safe and sound, with the younger folk carrying skis and poles.

      The first stop, the restroom.  A deceased friend once told me as we stood in line for the urinals at a state championship football game in Wichita, “Never get in the line with the bald guy, or the one with the white hair.”  He was, of course, referring to the amount of time an old man takes to void his bladder.  

      I didn’t put a stopwatch on it, but it might have been a Guinness World Record, by the time I fumbled with the coverall zippers somewhat bound up by last night’s laundering.  Then there were the jeans, the long underwear, and the briefs to navigate. I suffered a thoroughly modern problem, finding myself before it was too late.  The gloves and the sunglasses fell to the floor, but I didn’t care.  Priorities.

      The restroom experience behind me, I navigated the steady flow of skiers coming and going.  No turning back now.  Eventually, number two daughter found me amongst the crowd and wired a four-inch square tag to my Carhart zipper.  Number one daughter helped me latch my skis to the uncompromising boots.

      I only fell twice.  The first time was trying to make my way to the other side of the chair lift loading station on my skis where the lessons for beginners was already in session.  That was a mistake.  The very patient instructor had us start with one ski.   I should have carried my skis to that point.

      The instructor, who was himself in his sixties, had us do 360’s with both skis on as he demonstrated.  Then we walked sideways uphill.  A gentle slope.  My major concern was how to slow and stop without crashing.  Two hours later, I would still be trying to perfect that ability. 

     We graduated to a bigger bump.  At first, it wasn’t too slick, but as the temperature rose and as the snow got packed by many skiers gliding over it, it was slippery.  I only endangered others a couple of times.  One involved my second fall, where I took to the ditch to avoid crashing into a couple of girls conversing on the sidelines near the fence separating us from the chairlift mounting station.

     I could make left turns, but not right ones.  I could slow myself pretty well but not well enough to take on the “magic carpet”, the conveyor belt lift that creeps uphill slowly beside the gentle slope for tyros.   

     I abandoned the Goodwife.  She was on her own.  I could barely maintain myself on skis.  No way could I help anyone else.  She took one bad spill, backwards on her first attempt down the big bump.  The rented helmet proved its value.  It saved her from a cracked skull.  She was much better at “snowplowing” as she calls it, or the “pizza slice” as the instructor called the knock-kneed position used to put on the brakes.

     The lessons stopped at noon.  We attempted another run or two before we decided we had had enough.  We were tired.  I might have made a few more stabs at it.  Progress does encourage one to continue.  But the ski boots chafed the inside of my anklebones.  I knew I would regret it if I punished them anymore.

     So we rested in the lunchroom after our meager repast (I ate chicken strips rather than wait for hamburger or pizza) while the younger folk returned to the slopes.  After a catnap, we strolled (if trundling along in ski boots can be anything like a stroll) around the huge upstairs room (thank goodness for a sturdy handrail we used to negotiate going up and down the stair steps) where we could watch skiers and snowboarders coming down the slopes, or folks mounting the chairlift or riding uphill on the magic carpet.

      A couple of hours before sundown, number one daughter brought the Jeep up to the loading zone so we thankfully didn’t have to negotiate the hundred yards or so of packed snow across the parking lot.  Priority number one after seating myself in the Jeep:  get the snow boots off.  What a relief.

     I reflected as I slipped on my loafers to protect my feet from the still-blowing wind that I had not been cold at all during my two-plus hours amongst the winter elements.  Not even my feet or my fingers, the usual cold spots.

     Our adventure was done.  We headed home.  A brief stop at a gas station to put in a gallon or two to get jus back to Laramie ($4 per gallon at the one-pump convenience store), and we were on the road.

      The trip was our Christmas present from the girls.  It certainly was an adventure.  We both reserved judgment until tomorrow to see if skiing was something we might wish to take up.  Would we be stiff and sore?  (Answer:  not really)  Still, it’s cold and snowy.

       Additional Christmas tidbit:  The two-year-old granddaughter can’t pronounce words very well yet.  She says “yeah” and “no” very well and manages to get her wants known with signs, shakes and nods of her head.  She’s coming along on pronunciation.  But she understands nearly everything we say.

     “Your nose is runny.  Go get a tissue and blow your nose,” someone instructed her.  She pushed a stool over to the counter, a skill she has pretty well perfected.  She crawled up the stool, also a well-developed skill, grabbed a Kleenex and crawled back down.  She stood where we all could see her and blew her nose.

      We all congratulated her.  She looked at the tissue and its contents.  Then she licked it and discarded the tissue. (“Ughs” and “ishes” from the audience only brought a smile.)

     The Grandson got an “Elf on the Shelf”, a doll who sits on the shelf and helps Santa keep an eye on the recipient to see if he’s being naughty or nice.  The literature accompanying the elf instructs the recipient to name the elf.

         “What shall we name him?” asked his mom.

      The briefest of pauses followed the question.  “Walker Stapleton,” was his reply.