The Miss-Adventure Skiing for Love

Shakespeare said, "The course of true love never did run smooth." I was about to find out just how accurate these words were.

My true love was a real "jock," the type that can excel in any sport. I am the opposite: clumsy, off balance, awkward. I started ballet lessons when I was nine, but my teacher soon noted my tendency to fall down and suggested that I take up tumbling instead. If I ignored her advice, she predicted, I would never live to see twelve. Thankfully, I listened and survived several tumbles down stairs, missteps off curbs, and close-encounters with various hard surfaces. Surviving past the predicted time of my demise to my then age of 32, encouraged me to agree to an excursion, which I knew in my heart, was asking for trouble. My true love was taking me – skiing.

I knew that I had to prepare carefully for this adventure if I were to survive, so I took great care in planning for my new experience. I went shopping.

My theory was that if I looked good enough, no one would notice that I could not ski! I pictured myself on the slopes in my new scarlet and gray ski jacket, my pert little woolen hat, my long, blond hair streaming behind me as I performed a perfect downhill run.

The fateful day dawned clear and crisp with the smell of impending snow in the air. "Perfect skiing weather!" Mark exclaimed, as he loaded our gear onto the top of his "Copper Kettle," the nickname he had fondly given his brown, 1979 Toyota Celica.

Snow arrived just as Mark pulled into the parking lot. He retrieved our equipment, stacked skis and poles against a metal railing and took me into the lodge. Now, this is nice! I thought to myself, quite pleased with the smell of hot chocolate, coffee and the site of a crackling fire. This won't be so bad after all! Mark made short work of paying our fees and escorting me to the slopes.

I knew I was in trouble when I saw that I had to use a towrope. Operated by a motorized winch, this contraption pulled people to the top of the hill. One would grab on with both hands, bend their knees, and "ski" to the top. I might have been okay had I not been behind an eight-year-old who decided to let go. Tumbling downhill, entangled with a preadolescent snowball, I was plopped into the center of the large, all-encompassing branches of a huge pine tree. Suddenly, I remembered that I was allergic to evergreens.

Sneezing my brains out, hair snarled by hundreds of sticky needles, and trying to extricate myself from a pine needle prison, I finally crawled free, skis dragging behind me, to the merriment of those who had witnessed my struggles. Mark, laughing with the others, informed me that I had to try the towrope again.

Taking a deep breath and grabbing hold a second time, I began my ascent to the top. Eyes darting wildly, so intent was I upon scouting for my eight-year-old nemesis, I forgot to release my hold. Someone was shouting, "Let go! Let go!" It was Mark. I was coming perilously close to the top pulley through which the rope was threaded. I found myself suspended above the ground by God knows how many feet. I let go, landing, to my astonished relief, without injury. Straightening, I attempted a dignified waddle, skis still miraculously intact, to the top of what Mark called the "Bunny Hill."

Bunny Hill? Below me stretched an almost vertical slope of deep, glistening snow. Scattered about this dazzling visage of white were pine trees, tall with dark trunks, their branches reaching out to entrap me once again. Frost-tipped air pinched my nostrils, causing my eyes to tear. I felt dizzy, and belatedly, remembered that I was also afraid of heights. I immediately had an asthma attack.

I had also forgotten to take into consideration that I suffer from four types of asthma: allergy, exertion, stress and temperature-induced. Mixed with my innate clumsiness, my tendency to fall over for no reason, and a general lack of balance, it became quite clear to me that my new outfit might not be enough to carry the day.

Okay, Debra, you can do this, I whispered to myself. I made the sign of the cross, sent a plea to Jehovah, asked Allah to guide me, fingered my rabbit's foot and down I went.

I think I'm going to make it! I thought, as I slowly worked my way downhill. I was feeling quite cocky until I heard Mark scream "Turn, turn!" Confused, I started to look back and then I heard someone else scream "Stump!" I felt a jolt and was airborne. My pert little woolen hat flew off and I landed with a thud. Years of tumbling saved me once again as I landed in what, to me, was a very comfortable position.

Now, I have sat in the W position all of my life. Turning my legs outward instead of inward, I can touch my heels to my hips when sitting or lying on the floor. I guess the skier who had just slammed into me did not know this, because when he got up and saw my skis nestled against my ears, he threw up.

It certainly had not been a smooth run and at this point I was rather upset with my true love, but I think the final straw was when I saw a two-year-old on skis a foot long, skipping by me like she was strolling through the park. I decided immediately that the best part of skiing was the hot chocolate (with peppermint schnapps) and the cozy fireplace in the lodge. My cute little ski outfit would look great in the lodge ... if I could just manage to get there.

©2016 Debra Shiveley Welch

Excerpt from Swinging Bridge

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Once Upon a Morning Dreary

Once upon a morning dreary,

As I pounded my keyboard, weary

Over some poem with which I was bored,

Slowly sipping, my coffee cooling,

Thinking to end a stanza unruly,

I dropped a participial upon the floor.

Oh, ‘tis nothing, sugar rushing,

‘Tis a mistake and nothing more.

Still I continued with my tapping,

Unceasingly typing, my work unraveling,

Using comma after comma evermore.

Now my brain whirling with my writing,

Adjectives dazzling, so inviting,

Tapping tapping at my keyboard,

My editor crying “Nevermore!”

The sun now moved upon my window,

Silhouetting a stately willow,

Creating in my memory stored,

A lust for wordiness galore.

Still I was tapping, my mind unscrambling,

Quelling spelling evermore.

Quoth my editor “Nevermore!”

Unmoved, I continued with my tapping,

Tapping until my fingers sore,

Thrilled me with their swift endeavors,

Using clichés evermore.

Faster, faster, typing now,

Sweat upon my fevered brow,

Ending sentences with prepositions evermore,

Quoth my editor, “Nevermore!”

And my editor, never flinching,

Sits at her computer convincing,

That I am doomed in grammar evermore.

As I tap tap out my sentences,

Semicolons and commas inventive,

My editor shall trust me nevermore.

Excerpt from Swinging Bridge: click here

I've Shrunk and Inch!

At my recent annual visit to the doctor, I found out that I had shrunk and entire inch. There I was, in my bare feet, standing as straight as I could beneath the intimidating arm of the height rod, when I hear the shocking announcement. Mouth open, eyes wide, I gazed confusedly at the nurse.

“I’ve shrunk an inch?” I croaked. “Yes,” she affirmed, bustling off to lead me to a severe, antiseptic cubicle where, clothed only in thin paper, I would await my turn with my doctor.

I sat gingerly atop the black pedestal-like piece of furniture provided in these types of environments. Like a Swiss army knife, you never knew what was going to pop out next: stirrups, sonogram equipment, exam lights, paper towel holders. I wondered if someday my doctor would pull out something better than the paper-towel-like robe that I kept clutching about my shivering form. Or maybe a coat! Now that would be nice. Or maybe it could turn into a rack and I could get my inch of height back.

My father always loved multi-purpose gadgets and I often speculated as to what he would think of one of these contraptions and what kind of alternate use he would come up with. Never into functional fixedness, he would have had a blast with this puppy.

I sat and contemplated my future. I’ve shrunk an inch, I thought, a whole inch! Terror seized me as I envisioned my future. The last time I was this height I was 13. Shivers ran down my spine.

Not too many years ago I wore spike heels to augment my diminutive stature. I gloried in reaching coffee cups, various Tupperware containers and coffee filters. But I hadn’t worn spike heels for years! I was afraid of falling off them and breaking a hip.

I’ve shrunk an inch! I was too short already. Now I’m closing in on my grandmother. Grandma Shiveley stood a whopping 4’9”. Remembering the story where she had to fetch a chair and climb on to it in order to box my father’s ears, I considered the ramifications. I mean, who was the dummy here, the person who thought their 21-year-old WWII veteran son would still be there after she dragged a chair across the room to cold cock him, or the son, who actually was?

It’s hopeless, I thought. Not only am I getting shorter, I’ve probably inherited some idiot tendencies as well!

I shivered with cold. My paper “robe” was barely covering the goose bumps that had formed all over my body. I’ve shrunk an inch! I thought wildly. And here I thought Chris was getting taller. I guess I’ll have to buy another growth chart, I reasoned. One going up for Chris, and one going down….

Various scenes ran through my trembling brain. Me, wearing an apron pinned to my housedress, wearing rolled up stockings and black “old lady” shoes, my gray hair sticking out of a bun resting upon my dowager hump.

Me, walking through the grocery store, my chin leading the way as I clutch the grocery cart like a walker.

I decided to calm down. Chuckling to myself, I decided that the doctor would probably come in, greet me as usual, and laugh at my terror in becoming the “incredible shrinking woman.”

There was a rap on the door. I called, “yes!” and she entered. “Oh my. I see you’ve shrunk an inch!”

I'm doomed!

Excerpt from Swinging Bridge

 

 

Monsieur Squirrel

Monsieur Squirrel

I had a particularly interesting job to accomplish today. I had to clean up the remains of a squirrel’s nest which had fallen on to our tow path. Inhabited by a bachelor squirrel throughout the winter, its fragile form held up much better than I had predicted, in spite of its antiquity. It did, however, ultimately disintegrate, as witnessed by the pile of twigs and dead leaves, clumped upon the gravel of the path which encircles our lake.

I’m not surprised at his choice of “digs” for the winter. It had been my privilege to witness his attempt to take possession of a certain tree this last fall. Sitting at a window, which faces our front yard, I witnessed his battle for ownership of a particularly stately ash, which culminated in his ignominious ejection from said tree, ending in a resounding thump, as his body hit the ground, clearly heard in spite of the glass pane through which I peered. He fled with much chattering, which I can only guess, were I able to translate, offended any lady-like squirrels within hearing distance.

He is a handsome fellow. His tail is full and tipped with white, his ears are pert, his eyes large and bright. His pelt gleams with good health and is quite attractive. I can only imagine that this spring he will reach his goal and woo a lady love, the ultimate end, of course, being that of becoming a patriarch. I wonder if he’ll rebuild where his flimsy shanty sheltered him throughout this rather wicked winter, or will he choose more stable environs? I find it intriguing as to what Monsieur Squirrel will do now.

 

Excerpt from Swinging Bridge