Recently as I was tooling around Villa Rica in our golf cart with several squealing grandchildren, a Land Rover crossed our path. On the roof, it had special accoutrements that held skis. Not water, nay, but snow. When such vehicles pass me, whatever stage of life I find myself, I am struck with awe and humility. I think of what kind of life this person must lead, that they casually attach snow skis to their cars here in the Deep South. They must be sophisticated, well-heeled people, living in some other world that I will never approach. Not that I mean to. I've been skiing before, yes I have. It was rather like when Flossie Mae went to the Prom...
Ken and I were newly married and went on our church's annual ski trip to Boone, North Carolina. People say that if you can ski on the ice in Boone, you can ski anywhere. Our group pulled in to an ancient schoolhouse where we were staying in the mountains. We felt like we had gone back in time. The stone walls and unadorned floors and trim were literally unchanged since a hundred years before. In the main room there was a massive fireplace that was big enough to walk right into. The sleeping quarters were spartan, with cot-like beds and clawfoot tubs. I loved it. Meals were in a dining hall next door, hearty and delicious. At night, we could hear somebody scooping coal down in the basement, to stoke the boiler that was heating the place. Not sure who that was. In our numerous years of staying there, we never knew who was doing that in the middle of the night. A tortured soul from a beleaguered orphanage or an unfortunate ski accident? Who can know...
When we finally arrived at the slopes, I was already intimidated. My beasty husband had already figured out skiing some time before. Being proud and athletic, I brushed off his attempts to help me apply those strange, long things to my already-plenteous feet (I have been told they resemble gun-boats. And Hobbit feet. But I care not and will go barefoot as often as humanly possible). I told him I was going to practice on the bunny slope, and to please go ahead. He and his buddies scatted on up to the very top of the mountain, while I attempted to get in line for the kiddy lesson. There was a dozen little kids attached to each other, with an instructor leading them. I began to slide backwards, first flailing about and then desperately trying to grab the ground with my hands, resulting in a fanny-first attack on the poor, tethered kiddos. They and I ended up in a tangled mess on the ground. The instructor did not seemed pleased with me, so I took off my skis and slithered to the snack bar.
After being supplemented with hot cocoa and time away from anyone who might recognize me, I was helped by a kind friend who took me on up to the easy slope and patiently showed me how to snowplow and do a decent slalom. Occasionally, Ken and his man friends would swoosh by and tell me I was doing great (nice to see ya). After half a day of this, Ken decided I was ready for the big slope. I rode up there on the lift, which is an apparatus I will never understand. There's only a little metal bar keeping you from plunging to a certain death, then they expect you to just hop off when you get to the top of Witch Mountain. No hesitating, no stopping, no messing around. Get off and shove off. Miraculously, I did just that.
As we made our way around to the beginning of the run, I looked down and saw that I was about to go see Jesus. Whatever I had done on the intermediate slope had nothing to do with this. But I used those glutes and knees to snowplow my way part-way down. Then I came upon masses of ridges of snow, rather, ice. They call them "Moguls." I will not say what I called them. I found that when I pushed myself more to the outside of the slope, I could manage better. I saw three of Ken's buddies standing to the side, taking a breather. I believed that I needed one of those too, so I angled my skis that way. This time, however, there was no grabbing the ground or snowplowing my way to safety. I hit a patch of ice and barreled right over those three mangy boy creatures, again ending in a tangled mess. Thankfully, they were nice people and couldn't stop laughing. I took off my skis, walked the rest of the way down and said adios to my skiing career. All later trips were enjoyed with Ken skiing with the boys and Mamasan shopping with the gals. Hurrah for jewelry and chatty lunches. Flossie Mae ain't got time to kill herself that-a-way.
I remember that! We went in November, still had massive bruises on my Honeymoon in April!
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