SNOWSHOE:
February 10 – 16, 2018
Departure:
Six hours into our sixteen-hour drive, with snowshoe on my
mind, it is Georgia that currently gets my attention. Crossing over a bridge
with segmented pavement our minivan bounces to its rhythm like a galloping
horse. I chuckle at the idea and attempt a remark to my driver son, but,
speaking of horse, hoarse I am, of course I am.
Last night, the night before our much-anticipated ski trip,
some NyQuil and a good night’s sleep combined to help me feel quite well in
spite of the scratchy throat and voice thief that has intruded.
A familiar aroma from outside, seeps inside. To the east,
stacks belch out odiferous billows carried on a breeze, a paper mill’s cast-offs.
That is when you know you've entered Georgia.
We are a caravan of three. One Suburban transports four of
us, another eight of us, and a minivan five of us. These are my offspring, and
my offspring’s offspring. Four of my seven children, plus three mine by
marriage, and nine of my twelve grandchildren. Each of the three vehicles is
laden to capacity with every imaginable paraphernalia anticipated may be needed
for this Florida group headed north to play in the snow.
South Carolina requires caffeine, whatever delivery
preferred, and Jolly Ranchers. It is the middle of the night, or early morning,
either way, a time that all of us would typically be checking out the scenery
behind our eyelids, thus the flavorful assistants.
The sons make me so proud.
The parent me, the me that continually learns to let go and
let them, has not yet fully relinquished the “it is up to me and I must
protect” role that has long been mine, but I am learning.
When I drove this type of lengthy trip, and the times are
too numerous to count, the full responsibility and burden for our safety and
wellbeing rested squarely on my shoulders. I was strong then, when it came to bear
that particular load, my best effort of bringing my children safely to
adulthood.
Life battered, scarred, broke, knocked down but not out.
Those fight or die experiences produced strength. Strength
that would have lain buried under slight and simplicity had they not demanded
the warrior arise. There are times in every life when becoming a warrior is no
longer optional if success is the end goal. If the beast sleeps there is no
need for a fight, but the beast always wakes and eventually sets his sights on
us each.
I fought.
I fought as if my life depended on it, and it did, they did.
They depended on me, and they were my life.
Now, after many battles, one of the finest victories is to
be a passenger in the car of my driver sons. It is they who now tell themselves
in the wee road-weary morning hours of a sixteen-hour drive through the night,
the pep talks I have so often told myself: perk up, keep it between the lines,
precious cargo on board.
They battle the drowsies armed with Jolly Ranchers and pop.
They shift in their seat, stretch out the few kinks they are able to within the
confines of the shoulder belted driver’s seat, and watch the white reflectors
on the black pavement approach and disappear, determined to defeat their
menacing persistence with the rising sun.
These are my sons, keepers of precious hearts.
Battle on boys, you’re doing great.
The sons make me so proud.
And the girls, ahh my daughters, plural, to call my own.
They are angels, sugar and spice and everything nice, all
that and a bag of chips. They planned, shopped, borrowed, and packed for themselves,
their babes and their men. They have gone along with whatever their husbands
collectively decided because they enjoy seeing them enjoy. They ate and
“rested” at the stops that were more the choosing of others than their own.
They tried to get in forty winks as we jostled over the miles but in fact only
got in about three and a half winks, yet, they smiled, hushed sick of being
harnessed tots, and found beauty between raindrops that fell on us for hours.
They wearily succumbed to quitting time, painfully aware of the fast-approaching
morning that would bid youngsters explore the new day.
Gems.
Rare, valuable, precious.
Those girls adorn my family like a royal crown.
Nine tots and smalls; four girls, five boys. Two one-year old’s,
a two-year-old, three three-year old’s, a five-year-old, six-year-old, and eight-year-old.
Whew, I am exhausted just typing it! They traveled well, all things considered.
One boy, just one year old, randomly yelled out “Jesus”,
together with his skyward extended arm, as if tapping in on that supernatural
power to persevere. Truly, on behalf of us all, unbeknownst to his cute self
with a pure childlike exuberance, we needed that.
I do love this second batch, more than I thought I would, more
than I knew I could, before they were here.
I was still trying to finish up the first batch when the
second one started coming. Until that time I had been under the mistaken
impression there would be a break between batches.
There would be no break from child responsibilities and
obligations for me who began them at the age of eighteen, and for me who after
rounding third base heading for the home stretch with home plate in view, was
handed a baton to continue on for another precarious lap.
I just couldn’t…
But then, I didn’t have to.
The full brunt of responsibility was not, as it turns out, a
requirement of grammahood. Being grandma is much less sacrifice of self, and far
more a valuing of self. The tiny’s
and smalls make me feel I am the inventor and sole possessor of fairy dust.
They look with wonder at their world, and I look at them and wonder, how could I
have been so wrong about this grandma thing, and how, I wonder, did this grandma get so lucky. It’s a
magical arrangement!
Day 1:
So basically, the experts say to “ski the whole mountain”,
going across from side to side in graceful S’s. That is my goal, even still I
somehow positioned myself on the slope in rather a W shape.
The fork in the trail would have been a safe bet for me
whichever side I chose. I complicated the choice when in a split second having started
on one side, decided to go to the other, preferring the lift offered at the end
of that trail instead. The decision created a situation that I could not
correct in time to keep myself from going over the edge. It was a soft edge, a
gradual decline over snow, not like some that abruptly dropped to a danger
filled landing onto trees below. I likely would have slid down it with little
difficulty but was determined not to, and did stop, right on the edge, one leg
over, one leg still on top, knees bent opposite of the other to each side of me.
I would love to have seen a chalk line drawn around me, or an overhead view. I
later thought how it would have been a great scenario for Lucy Ricardo.
The pop I heard and felt come from my left knee as I bore
down heavy to brake myself, prompted me to say out loud, “oh, that’s not good”.
From on my back in the W position, thankfully out of ski traffic, I could sit
up but could not move my legs from beside me. It was like trying to stand up
while in a splits position, on ski’s, on a hill. It just wasn’t going to happen.
My skis were like giant restraints that needed to come off for me to get a leg
under myself to get up. I couldn’t get a grip in the middle of the ski pole to
depress the release on the ski, and while holding the grip on the end of the
pole my arm was too extended to put enough pressure on the release to get it to
snap open.
I felt sixty years old.
A thoughtful man asked if I needed help, my reply, “I am so
stuck”, if you could just get my one ski off I will be able to manage. He
helped with both ski’s. I stood up, re-ski’d my boots, and ever-so-cautiously
continued down the mountain.
There was some discomfort,
but I made it to the bottom and took the lift up, deciding to do one more run
before the lifts closed for the day, forcing quit time.
On my way to our winter home away from home, I hit ice and
fell hard on my right hip and elbow. I thought to myself, ask me what hurts, my
answer would be can you name a body part that doesn’t.
I knew the next day would be worse so after getting changed
out of my ski clothes, I walked to the village with one of my sons, his first
time at the resort. We enjoyed an outstanding sunset over the valley and distant
mountains, which was a lovely way to take my mind off my knee, elbow and hip,
and to enjoy some one on one mom son moments.
I was grateful, and righter than I knew about the next day.
Day 2:
Dawn brought with it a whole new realization of the
seriousness of my knee situation. I still hoped it might get better as the day
progressed and my muscles got warmed up, still hoped I might ski, but my knee
barely permitted steps. Skiing was out of the question and by day’s end I knew
it would be for the next day too as my knee could not bear weight, let alone maneuver
slippery slopes.
My three days of skiing were reduced to one, in an instant.
I was sad about that.
I did find other ways to enjoy the time though, grateful for
the ability to hobble around on the third day, with indications there was hope
for healing with time, and hopefully, without a physician.
I hope, still.
Day 3:
Valentine’s Day. I found some kitchen shears in the drawer
and used them to cut white hearts from napkins, write some Valentiney words on
them and stuck them here and there with strips cut from a bandage. This I did
after all went to bed the night before so that when they awoke there would be
that simple surprise. Although the morning for me started too late to witness the
reactions of the first young risers to find a few hearts in a trail on the
floor, I heard they were indeed enjoyed.
After being cooped up the day before, nursing my banged-up
body, it was a great relief to get out of the house and enjoy the village a
bit. I took my camera, and my Jamey, and with a walking stick in hand hobbled
painfully and deliberately, but I was moving and outside and it was good. It
was actually my second trip to the village that day, having gone out earlier
for a coffee with the girls, kiddos in tow.
Homeward bound:
West Virginia is beautiful with its layers of mounded
terrain topped by puffy clouds in various shades of gray and white, and a
promise every so often that blue is indeed still up there, while our caravan
aims south to the sunshine state.
Beneath the gray-green, dense tree covered, almost furry
looking hills, sprawls harvested fields golden dry, at the same time wet with
rain and melted snow, creating textures and patterns of muted earthy tones.
Naked woodlands show off their slender forms. White tree trunks contrast with
the black of wet ones and the dark of thick acres. Rivers that rushed the color
of a caramel latte on the trip to, are completely changed on the landscape of
the trip from, with soft shades of green tipped by white where rock beds ruffle
the swift current.
The hills are spattered with buildings, dilapidated barns a favorite,
while others wear fresh paint proudly. Rusted metal roofs and peeling clapboard
sided homes with smoke spouting chimney’s, shared space in harmony with warped,
sagging trailer homes. Stately hilltop houses resembled royalty overlooking
peasants, in comparison.
We pass miles of tractors, haybales, cows, horses, whole
yards of junk collected probably unintentionally, collected none-the-less. Rock
walls of cut away mountain on the highway sides give way to valleys of
villages. Little white churches with steeples stretching toward God, anchor.
I appreciate and find beauty in each unusual, so out of my
ordinary scene.
The caravan is rolling along, across two state borders so
far, three to go, with a five o’clock sun to the west.
Part of me silently begs turn around, go back, reluctant to
accept that our mountain snow trip is past.
And why wouldn’t I
be?
I love the people I
have shared the Treetop with. I have completely enjoyed their company around
the clock for five full days. I have completely enjoyed the ski, the few runs I
got in before my knee popped under the W shape of me on the slope. I have
completely enjoyed the sun, sunset, mist and fog veiled views, fireplaces, grown
man-brother shenanigans, uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandma Pattycakes
interactions, hot cookies, little feet thumping carpeted floors instead of
their usual pitter patter on bare Florida floors, and even the chance to boot
and bundle up to fend off the cold temperatures I bristle against under any
other circumstance. The scenery both coming and going made even the travel
between destinations completely enjoyable, especially sharing with first-timers
taking in sights.
Some of the kids are old enough to remember. Hopefully the
future offers a similar trip and the younger ones will get their chance to
remember.
Each trip is unique.
There will be new firsts for us each, next time.
This time, our trip wraps up in a short ten hours, when the caravan
will split up to carry us as individual family groups from within the whole, to
our own beds and baths.
The new morning will bring a too quiet breakfast, and within
a few days our Snowshoe vacation will quickly and certainly be smothered in
chores, jobs, obligations, and routine dailies.
When the kids go to sleep and the parents have think time,
they will go again to Snowshoe, in thought. They will smile remembering the
little arms that hugged big. In the stillness they might hear again the
laughter and exclamations of merriment over cold snowballs, newly acquired ski
skills, bungee flips, plastic track cars, cake pops, fabulous rocks, eight-point
bucks, and hiking sticks.
Back home, back in
the grind, Snowshoe vacation will be over, but some of its residue will be
stuck on us like a tattoo on the heart, a branded soul.
Pictures will recreate whole moments, while others may look
but will only see pictures.
One day after the Valentine’s Day we were able to spend in
our Snowshoe home, a day for love and hearts, the thought comes to me that if gratitude
were a shape, it would be that of a full, plump heart.
Home:
The first morning back in Florida is too white.
White curtains, white walls, white floors contrast
abrasively on my heart still attuned to dark brown wood walls, and beige
carpeted floors. Beige and brown would never be my choice for home décor, yet,
in our Snowshoe mountain home it created a cocoon of warmth and comfort, and
this morning there is where I would like to still be.
Alas, everything ends, and our snowy mountain time by means
of a sixteen-hour drive, has morphed into the tropics that suit me better than
those harsh winters and their heavy, bulky wardrobe requirements, and bottomless bottles and tubes of ointments and lotions to battle dry skin, ever did, ever could.
Unpacking looms, along with the laundry, and the return of
borrowed snow clothes.
My knee injury, and bruised hip and elbow scream at me each
time I dare forget them.
Pictures show me where I’ve been and what I’ve seen, and I
am again impressed by the beauty, the experience, the together time, the
privilege, grateful.
May it linger and come up for review in our thoughts and conversations
and may we each have a fresh flutter of joy because of it.
May its reasons to smile not fade even as days further
separate.
May God smile because we have appreciated His creation, and His
goodness to us.
Already, only hours home, with the thought of a next time,
I dare ask,
Lord, may we be given another!
P.J.
