uncivil discourse

How do I work my way out of a social dilemma. I am Christian, important people in my life are Christian. I do not have any homosexual friends right now; in fact, it is safe to say that there are no close friendships in my life at the moment, gay or straight. But I move in a world that is rich in diversity, and I feel a need in my heart to be balanced. There is a war raging, but I cannot take sides.

On the one hand, there are those ‘eternal verities.’ There is a ‘creator’, a great intelligence we can only sense in our spirit, but cannot prove with scientific certainty. This created world has its natural laws that keep the planets orbiting in their proper space. There is inborn in humankind the longing for goodness, a distaste for hurting self and others. Alongside this there is also the urge to gratify ones own self. In a world governed by divine love it is possible to balance these divergent longings. Yet as man strives to live in society with other men, people do develop the capacity to hurt and to pursue what goes against the greater good of society. This fact only underscores another verity, that man is born with free will. He can choose to follow his yearning for goodness, or abandon it to his self interests.

The portion of the population that has chosen to follow Christ have as their guidebook for right living the many books and chapters that comprise the Bible. A large portion of this Book is shared by followers of Islam. Exercising that free will, these disciples of Christ and Muhammed have chosen to interpret this great book in many divergent ways. There are clear statements in different places of the Book that indicate a natural formation for society, and an unnatural one. Sexual love of man for man or woman for woman has clearly been placed in the latter camp. Even the word ‘abomination’ has been the English translation of choice from the original.

Weigh this against the teachings of Christ himself, as reported in the New Testament. He has asked us to learn how to love and to forgive. He identifies his people, speaking through the apostle Paul, as a peculiar people, set apart. In this world, but not of it. Even so, we must render to Caesar his due. We must abide by and respect the law of the land, and when that land is a republic functioning as a representational democracy, then we are called upon to participate in creating as well as abiding by this law.

I believe that all of this has led us to a cultural civil war. In ever increasing numbers, people are choosing to focus on their own gender in their search for loving companionship, for stability, for their fulfillment of the natural yearning to belong. This is an alarming trend when viewed from the perspective of social history, where the extended family has been the traditional bedrock of stability and cultural continuity.

This schism did not arise spontaneously. There is no virgin birth here. It is the inevitable outgrowth from the destruction of the traditional extended family unit. We have brought it on ourselves with the industrial age, where factories supplanted farms as the source of income. This apparently simple shift has spawned many unnatural alliances, sundering the natural order of society.

Workers left the extended family in order to find work. Without the natural support of the extended multi-generational family, the stressors that afflict all marriages could not be contained. Cracks formed in the nuclear family unit, infidelity became easier when greater distance was put between the home and the work place, and the inevitable divorce occurred. The restless spirit was no longer contained within the walls of the defining rural social community. The anonymity of the city permitted experimentation with alternate forms of gratification. With divorce comes single parenting, step-parenting, week-end parenting with divergent values. The suffering, confused and alienated children produced in these environments have grown to adults with a very different concept of home, family and community.

Arranged marriages such as seen in Asian cultures, and formerly in European cultures, has no formal part of the modern post industrial culture. In rural America, however, when young people grew up with their entire extended family living within miles of them, coupling of young people having similar values and temperament was a given. Choices were limited. This usually worked to the benefit of all involved, ensuring continuity of the family, of financial stability, and ultimately of the strong community. Droughts occurred as well as bounty, recession as well as plenty, but the community leaned upon its own resources and rode the tides of good and ill together.

There are hardly any such pockets of healthy communities left in America. Young people are faced with options that will easily take them away from the security of whatever community they came to know, and in spite of their best intentions they may not return except perhaps for weddings and funerals.

A good mother learns quickly that a child needs boundaries. As the child grows within these boundaries, gaining in confidence, experience and wisdom, the boundaries can safely expand. But even adults find comfort in boundaries. Given the breakdown of society, boundaries have expanded beyond anything healthy, yet humans need these boundaries no less, to feel safe. We all have heard the phrase, “It’s a scary world out there.” It has never been more true.

Single young adults have a daunting task in the search for a life partner. The 2009 film He’s just not into you portrays this world with humor that masks a deeper angst. It is economically practical to find a housemate, rather than living with parents or tackling the emotional uncertainty of living with an uncommitted lover. Compatibility can arise, making for a satisfying home life. The definition of ‘family’ blurs, when no blood relation lives in the same city, and the majority of your free time is spent with this housemate. Years can pass, and these two can become each others strongest supporters. But what if one suffers a medical emergency, or a car accident? Will these two not experience the same drama as any sibling or husband and wife in this situation? The injured person would want the security and comfort of that housemate by their side. It is that housemate who will carry on with the necessities of life—bill paying, pet caring, keeping friends and coworkers apprised of the situation. And here arises a conflict. The hospital has rules keeping ‘non family’ out of the ICU, for one example. After decades of growing numbers of people in this situation, policies have finally changed to give recognition to vital life relationships outside the traditional definition of ‘family.’ And so we have ‘civil union’ laws, to extend insurance and other benefits to householders not having a blood or legal relationship.

All of this makes perfect sense, so far. Then love and sexual gratification enter into the picture, and sensibility is fractured. The relationship takes on a whole new meaning within the context of community. Beyond civil union, there is the romantic notion of marriage, a gesture to all the world demonstrating that the universal search for love and marriage has been fulfilled. Who is it that desires this romantic gesture?

There are two camps, in my opinion. There are life partners who have a solid and discreet relationship. They have no desire to call attention to themselves, they have found stability as well as emotional fulfillment in their relationship. Having filed for ‘civil union’ status, they are ensured the civil right to take care of and protect each other. "Marriage" would be the icing on the cake, a cake perfectly edible without icing nonetheless.

The other side of the coin brings us back to that young adult search for a life partner. How does someone identify themselves as gay or straight? This is a complicated issue. Each person is born with the capacity to find beauty in the same gender as well as the opposite. We are acculturated to prefer the beauty of the opposite sex, a healthy natural urge built within us to propagate the species and continue the social order. But in an unhealthy society where natural boundaries have been torn down, a young person can be without a true compass. They may have gotten the message to seek love and marriage, but the traditional urges such as for species propagation may have been extinguished. It is also a scientific fact that a small number of people are born with gender ambiguity, a small number.

Out there cruising for love and acceptance, it comes as it comes. We have heard that women are from venus, men from mars. This translates to mean that women tend to ‘get’ women easier than they ‘get’ men. Yet the acculturated desire for the romance of marriage to the object of love and adoration remains.

It shouldn’t be surprising that same-gender coupling is on the rise, an innovative solution to the breakdown of the more traditional means of find ones life mate. It is also a very practical solution to the complex personal finance dilemma, where the mortgage for a house requires two incomes. Can we heal these cultural diseases just by outlawing committed relationships between same gender couples? Oh, if only we could. In fact, homosexual marriage is just one more nail in the coffin of our decaying society.

The moral outrage of the more conservative, traditional minded to the idea of escalating the ‘civil union’ to the level of officially sanctioned marriage is a volley in this civil war, scorching and tearing as it flies. In the wake of its trajectory lies pain as much as ignorance. It accuses these relationships of tearing a rift in the community, of not carrying weight, of not bearing children. Would that I had statistics here to get a clearer picture of reality. Same-gender couples do raise children. Such children have an equal chance to socialize normally, following traditional gender roles. Are civil unions more or less stable than traditional marriages? The often heard statistic on male-female marriage is that there is a 50% chance it will end in divorce. We don’t yet have statistics on this recent innovation, same-sex marriage. Perhaps it will reflect the anecdotal breakdown of hetero couples who live together peaceably for years, only to get divorced after going through the wedding commitment.

I fear the outrage is misdirected, much like putting a band-aid on a broken bone. If we attempt to legislate who can get married, why not go a step further and revise the laws governing who can get divorced. Legislate against single parenting. Legislate against taking the influence of grandparents out of the lives of their grandchildren. Why don’t we make laws that will force 5% of the population to live in communities organized like the original kibbutz in Israel, which were self-contained communities. Children raised in those communities grew to be outstanding citizens. During the Yom Kippur war of 1973, 25% of the commanders of the army were products of these same kibbutzes, which were comprised of a mere 5% of the population of Israel. In fact, we cannot legislate behavior. It is closer to the truth if we say that behavior dictates legislation.

We have created a society with a heightened sense of entitlement to the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. A society where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness has been redefined. Because these changes are being aired in a public forum, thanks to this era of all-pervasive multi-media technology, we cannot sit quietly and try to adjust to these changes. We are polarized, a rift is forming, social civil war seethes just below the surface.

I wish there were a solution—easy or difficult, if only we could find a path to chart through this morass. In fact, it will escalate. We have also seen alarming upheavals on the surface of our planet—tsunamis, earthquakes, war-induced famines and genocides. It is likely that nature will once again intervene, to take our minds off this social upheaval. In the face of disaster, we work side by side no matter what our social agendas might be, to feed and to bandage and to shelter the victims of tragedy. We ourselves might be such victims. Would we refuse to quench our burning thirst if the hand holding the bottle of water was a hand we saw betrothed in a same-sex marriage?

Laws change in two ways. Our elected officials can vote for change, and the citizenry can vote for a referendum to direct the lawmakers. Our citizenry has shown an appalling indifference to the great right and privilege that is our participatory democracy, as reflected by the percentage of eligible voters who actually cast a ballot when given the chance. I would like to see mandatory attendance at refresher courses periodically required of all citizens on our constitution and how government is supposed to work. But we can no more legislate that than we can legislate who will fall in love with whom. I do not like the idea of getting voters to the election poles by whipping them up with emotionally charged rhetoric, bypassing reason and logic. More often than not this is how it is done, and I abhor it. I would so much rather discuss ideas through civil discourse. But I am spitting in the wind.

What I would wish for is that people of power and influence would call our society to conscience, reminding us that we most of all desire to be a loving and forgiving people. That a self-regulating society that disciplines its self-interests to yield to the higher interests of the greater good is really what was intended for the United States of America. That includes tolerance for different interpretations of ‘greatest good’, allowing for separate but equal public services. That there would be hospitals that protected its staff against the act of abortion, and hospitals where abortion was protected. Schools where more traditional curriculums were taught, and schools for progressive curricular choices. That communities would have the right to permit public prayer in their schools, and communities that prohibited it.

These are the words of an idealist, ignoring the realities of the times. If such a vision were ever to come into being, it could only be at the hand of God allowing a great natural calamity to destroy the world as we know it. We all pray that will not happen. But we also pray that each one of us will seek within us for the voice of peace and love, from which can grow a greater respect and tolerance for each other. May this prayer stem the tide of civil war that threatens us all.

Night Encounter With Vermont Wildlife

Night driving never used to be a problem. On this night, I was returning from Chester to Ludlow after a lovely dinner with Ron at a fine restaurant. I know the unlit country roads around here well, and could take the 50 MPH speed limit comfortably. But that all changed last week, sitting in the optician’s office. The petite and efficient Viet Namese intern echoed the optometrist's warning, for emphasis. “Your vision will be blurred; it won’t be crisp like you’re used to.” I never dreamed these words would lead to a moment of terror behind the wheel.

It was time to get my eyeglass prescription renewed, before another year abroad. I went to WalMart for an eye exam. I didn’t intend to buy glasses, but only to have the prescription to take with me in case my three current pairs of bifocals all broke or got lost. On a whim, I asked if my prescription would be suitable for contact lenses. I have asked that question periodically over the years, waiting for technology to catch up. This time I was told that yes, there were bifocal soft contact lenses. I got fitted with a test pair that I was instructed to wear for a week.

I interpreted the ‘blurred vision’ caution to mean that in the distance objects would have soft edges. I was not prepared to lose the ability to read road signs, MPH markers, store marquees, and to see all lights as blurs.

I was driving home this evening at dusk. It was raining. What little traffic there was moved along at the speed limit, the road seemed fine. My headlights were on, but there was still light enough to see the colors of the flowers in the gardens I passed along the way. Then I came to the Proctorsville Gulf, a twisting road that rose up an escarpment through a canopy of trees. Suddenly my horizon shut down to the edge of my bright beams. There was no car ahead of me.

Around a bend I came upon the flashing lights of an 18-wheeler. I eased up on the gas a little as the lights of the truck grew larger in my windshield. The next 15 seconds are a blur. As soon as I saw that he was parked square in the middle of the downhill lane I took my foot off the gas completely, and edged halfway into my shoulder lane. The truck lights filled my view; all else was black as I peered through the windshield. Just as I came parallel with the truck a looming shadow jumped in front of my car and I felt a thud.

“What the…?!” I pulled all the way onto the shoulder and parked. I reviewed the flash that imprinted on my mind, of a dark shadow against bright lights, of what seemed to be a head and an outstretched arm and leg. A man waving me down, warning me to slow?

I grab the umbrella and jump out of the car, heading back down hill to check on the man who is surely lying on the road. A car drives past me going uphill, and in his lights I see a vision straight out of ‘Northern Exposure’[1] Across the road on the shoulder I see a moose walking uphill. I stop and stare at this amazing sight. I am not used to seeing wild moose walking along the side of a road.

On my soggy walk down hill a car slows to my pace, and the woman driver starts talking to me. She seems to be speaking softly from within her car, the dense trees and the sounds of the rain dampening what little voice escapes. I hear the questioning tone and in my tense concern I start to explain.

“I think I hit someone.”

“….hurt?”

“I am going to see if he’s hurt.”

“…moose?”

“Yes, I saw the moose up there. He seemed fine. I think I hit a man.”

“Oh!…moose…you mean…OK.”

And with that she drove away just as I came up parallel with the back of the truck. My eyes scoured the lane in front of me, and across to the downhill lane, the shoulders, and I saw no man lying in the road, no markers to ward off other travelers. The driver of the truck is walking around his vehicle, its Christmas-tree brightness bouncing off his red shirt. I toss my voice into the echoless night.

“Did I hit a man?”

“Oh, did you hit the moose?”

I turned my head uphill under the umbrella, as if I could still see the animal. “Well, I just saw him and he looked all right.”

“I turned my flashers on to slow down traffic…”

“So I didn’t hit anyone?” The rhetorical question hung in the air as the trucker moved through the bright lights with a rag in hand, oblivious to the drizzle.

I trudged uphill to my parked car, walking to the hood to check for damage. I didn’t see any, but I did see that the moose was trotting back down hill, still on the shoulder. I waited for a car to pass, then crossed over to him. I trailed behind him, like a squawking duck flapping my arms and bobbing the umbrella hissing ‘shoo, shoo’ in a vain attempt to get him to go back into the forest. But there was a guard rail impeding his egress.

Headlights rounding the bend from above redirected my focus. A large truck was coming down the hill. In fear of the moose making another dash into traffic, I began to pantomime for the driver to slow down. I didn’t hear an immediate easing off. Why wasn’t he getting my message? I flashed on what he must be seeing.

A red umbrella bobbing up and down. An outstretched hand held parallel to the ground, pushing the air down. An ankle-length dress, black with bright splashes of red, orange and yellow flowers, going up and down like an accordian. I would have thought that at least the absurdity of the sight would have caught his attention enough for him to ease off the gas…

There was nothing more I could do. I got back into my car and drove off. The canopy thinned as I reached the top of the hill, and dusky visibility returned. I hadn’t been on the road ten seconds before I saw clearly what had just transpired. Had I heeded the trucker’s flashing lights and pulled off the road immediately, together we could have herded the moose across the road to carry on his journey. Instead, he was trotting up and down the hill, up and down, frustrated and perhaps dazed by the blow of one of these two-eyed speeding monsters. Had I my normal clear vision I would have been quicker to recognize the situation ahead of me, and responded properly.

If I do decide to take a supply of contact lenses to China with me, I will remember not to wear them at night, when I need to see where I am going.

---

[1] Northern Exposure was a TV series of a fictional Alaska town. Each episode begins with credits rolling in front of a moose trotting down the main street of Roslyn.

Spring--A road trip beckons

It’s officially Spring. The earth turns, nature shifts into Spring gear, and I feel myself sliding. The winter job is over, there are decisions to be made. For a gypsy with no fixed abode, life is a series of transitions; there is no standing still.

Times like this I keenly feel the lack of a Significant Other. Such a relationship would offer an anchoring. In fact, I am set adrift with no home port, this is my life. It is not for everyone—I believe that’s the appropriate expression here. In weak moments I think perhaps it is not for me, either. But I know I am called to this life, a unique calling, of course it seems lonely at times.

The options that seem most viable to me are three. First, I could go back to China and earn some money. Money is important; no faulting that choice. Second option, go to India where I already have a visa, and live cheaply while focusing on Writing for Publication. Or, third, stick around for another winter season at the ski resort. That seems the least practical, the most expensive. At the moment, it seems to be my choice.

Now that I have a ‘new’ car, the road beckons me. I have unsettled business in Florida that I ignore at my own financial peril. Once on the open road, my diasporic community beckons me. My old friend in Kentucky and the Phoenix Institute calls for a brief visit. There is another newly unearthed old friend in Ohio, just three hours away from the Kentucky friend. She invites me to come and stay for a few days. An elderly aunt in New Jersey, who has an ancient claim on my heart but whose reclusive ways have kept me from her for far too many years. I will no longer allow her to keep me at a distance. Time is too short for us both. And then, of course, there are my siblings. For obvious reasons, it is for me to visit them and not the other way around, if we are to keep in touch. Their homes are on the path south to Florida.

It is simpler to take the trip first, then come back and resettle my meager possessions. I have put energy towards preliminary packing and sorting. This road trip should be less encumbered than previous ones, when I would carry all my possessions with me. Just one suitcase, my laptop, and a bag full of food. I was moving towards the point of departure, targeting Tuesday.

On Sunday I took a trip to the ski town in order to return Sylvia’s rental skis; we had rented them for the whole season. Knowing that Old Ron was feeling homebound, suffering from shingles, I offered to take him along. Late in the day we noticed that when I turned the steering wheel, a loud clicking or snapping noise rose from the front end. I dropped him off at his house with his groceries, plowed through the deep mud of his driveway, and just as I swung into our driveway the clicking turned into growling. A churning, mashing noise grew louder, so I shut down the engine half parked and left it.

I am happy that the CV joint decided to declare itself rotten at this moment, and not another. Still, I thought this mechanical drain on my purse had been shut off when I got rid of the ’92 Saturn. I was counting my pennies as it is, thinking to sleep in the car rather than pay a motel on the long hauls from north to south. I have to get over the affront. It could have been a lot worse, if indeed it had been a transmission problem. And I must remind myself—it is only money. Though at times it doesn’t seem so, in truth it is a renewable resource.

April will unfold itself outside my shuttle window. At times I will stop, leave my craft, sink into the damp green earth and enjoy the riot of colors and balmy breezes. The celebration of renewal and regeneration of friendships, of human bonds, will last for weeks, and leave a fragrant bouquet in my heart. With this green bounty I will settle on the mountain for the summer, and generate manuscripts that might produce some of that precious renewable resource.

Those are my tentative plans. Rent a condo on the ski mountain in the off season. Write. In the Fall, find a cheap apartment in town a mile or two from the mountain, and hope that I can work again at the ski resort. I think to provide myself one more season in which to learn to ski, and to enjoy the company of my grandchildren. These are my thoughts, my plans. In the end, another expression is appropriate: Man proposes, God disposes.

At last, I get it. Sort of.

One more go 'round in the ongoing saga of me trying to learn how to ski. To recap my skiing experience so far, my first group lesson turned out to be a private lesson, see the article below. A second group lesson was on an icy slope, and ended in my being carted off the mountain by the ski patrol toboggan. I had one happy day of practice at the Okemo Jackson Gore beginners slope. All five grandkids were skiiing with me. The sun was shining, the snow was crisp with just enough friction. Though terrified every minute, I did manage to get down the slope a number of times, with no falling. And I enjoyed the company.

Then, on a day when the snow conditions were very fast and the slope crowded, I began a ski afternoon with Molly and Sylvia, ages 16 and 12. They took off on the lifts, while I stuck to the 'magic carpet'. One out of control wild swift slide down the mountain, where I used the tall sign at the ski lift to stop my flight and bring me off my skis, was enough. I took off the skis and relaxed on terra firma, sipping hot cocoa while the girls enjoyed their runs.

Thinking that perhaps the third time is the charm, I booked one more group lesson. I woke up feeling good. This would be it, I thought. After all, I had actually managed the afternoon at Jackson Gore without falling. It is possible.

The ski instructors at Okemo deserve enormous credit. Of course, they are skilled skiers. But more than that, they have a great attitude, and seemingly infinite patience and good humor. This time my instructor was Tom. An interesting old codger, a backwoodsman. His was an interesting story which I will save for another telling. The group was five ladies, mixed ages including some teens.

And I got it! By the end of the two hours, I was relaxed in my skis, enjoying the view of the distant mountains. The weather had been good, warm without sunshine. Just before the end of the lesson, an expected snow storm began. Oh! How beautiful. A misty veil enshrowded the distant vista that I had been enjoying. Big flakes were falling. It was a delight to ski through them. Then the lesson was over, and it was time to deal with snow on the roads and the long drive home.

The last time I took Molly and Sylvia, on the drive home Molly was almost obnoxious with her exuberant exaltation on how much fun, how very wonderful the afternoon was. How great is skiing, how very much fun. Sylvia sat in the back seat feeling the same but not able to get a word in. At the time, I thought it was a bit much. But now I have changed my mind.

It was great. It was wonderful. It was so very much fun to glide down the slope making lazy S turns, bobbing around the little kids and their instructors, dodging the snowboard riders in their clusters. In control. No more terror when shifting turns, no fear of getting stuck in the middle of a turn and hurtling down the slope out of control. I now know that I can make controlled turns, go faster, go slower, and stop at will. Wow.

OK, so I'm not quite ready for a lift. One more afternoon of confidence-building at the Jackson Gore beginner slope, perhaps with a different surface condition. But I am already studying the trail map, plotting the Big Adventure when I actually get on the lift with the grandkids and take the loooonnnngggg ski down.

Skiing is fun.

Of Nordic Gods and Princesses

Tuesday morning, my day off! I am stoked. Today will be my first day on skis; I have a lesson scheduled at Okemo Mountain, a perk that comes with employment there.

I am taking Sylvia with me, for moral support. Happily, Okemo also offers free lessons and ski rentals to all during the opening weeks of the season. My granddaughter, aged 12, was on skis once before 2 years ago, but she will be taking the beginners class along with me.

An early riser myself, I fix my usual oatmeal breakfast in my own efficiency kitchen in the basement. I take my second cup of coffee upstairs to the dining room table, to chat with whatever of my six grandchildren might arise early. Sylvia, however, is a late sleeper. I sip coffee, time passes, and still no Sylvia. It is almost 8 a.m. now and I want to leave at 8:15 for our 10:00 lesson; Sylvia saunters down the stairs sleepy eyed, hair dissheveled.

“Sylvia, it’s time to go. What are you planning to wear?,” I ask her.

“Um. I have a pair of ski pants.”

They are pink hand-me-downs. Later on, sitting next to me in the car she gently says, as if to set the record straight, “I hate pink.” That strikes me as funny, because I think she looks beautiful in pink, with her long blond hair and delicate features.

The crisp Vermont air greets me as I go outside to get the car ready. It will need time to warm up, and then there is the ice to scrape. At last Sylvia emerges and our adventure begins.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the day-skiers parking lot. This is where I park five mornings a week, looking out of place in my khakis and sheepskin jacket. Today I blend in, with my down-filled pants and a ski jacket I found in the hand-me-down box. Sylvia is wide awake now; we share the rising excitement.

We find the ski school counter. We fill out the forms, move along to the ski rental area, and get fitted with boots and skis.

We are geared up and ready. We are running late. I have been scatter brained through these steps, dropping this, forgetting that. Sylvia goes ahead to find her instructor while I dash back inside for my gloves. Is it just the excitement, or am I subconsciously delaying my first encounter with skis. No more stalling, I push through the doors and look for the sandwich board that identifies the ski school rallying point. By the time I arrive, Sylvia is chatting comfortably with the group of instructors that are waiting for the last stragglers. That would be me. Not many beginners have arrived for these free lessons so early in the season, so Sylvia and I each get our own private instructor. A tall, graying blonde with glasses and deep smile lines dimpling his cheeks greets me.

“And you must be grandma,” he says.

I look up past broad shoulders to a handsome Nordic face that exudes kindness and confidence. We begin our two-hour lesson with some basics.

First, I learn how to walk uphill in skis. There are two methods: walking sideways, and walking head-on in a wedge. Standing sideways across the incline, I jam the inner edge of the downhill ski into the snow and lift the uphill ski, shifting my weight over the uphill ski. Then bring up the downhill ski making sure it anchors me with a good edged grip. Next, we do the wedge facing up the hill, a duck walk. Okay, that’s lesson one. Two more to go.

Next, we learn how to stop when going downhill. By now we are perhaps 50 feet up the slope. The ‘magic carpet’ (a long conveyor belt) ascends to my right, the ski lift and fast traffic to my left, and the base lodge just below and to the left. And where is the EMT stretcher, I wonder?

The wedge is my friend; the wedge is my friend. Ski tips together, heels far apart, the instructor goes over basics on how I should stand, how to distribute my weight and find balance. The stiff boots have a stranglehold on my feet, ankles and low shins. I should relax, lean into my boots and just glide down the slope. Then, to stop, I simply have to push my heels out to widen the wedge, and turn my arches in to put pressure on the inner edge of the ski, and voila! I stop. Or so handsome Sven leads me to believe.

Now this is where my age shows. I am reasonably fit, though no muscle-bound jock. I send the command down to the leg and foot muscles: “Dig into the snow, turn that edge in!” The right leg responds, but the left hears as if I am shouting from the mountain peak and it is lost in the mists below.

As long as the slope is shallow, I can manage to stop, sort of, eventually. So we move on. Next, we learn turns. First, we learn the left turn.

It doesn’t take long before I master the left turn. That faithful right toe digs in there, weight on the ball of the foot, shin putting weight against the boot, and smooth as frosting on the cake we turn left. I am so good at left turns that before long I have strayed too far into the fast lane! I stop, dig my skis in, and glance uphill. Two skiers fly by me, first one side then the other. Looking up I feel like a deer caught in headlights as the downhill skiers whoosh past me front and back. Sven calmly talks me out of danger.

Now, for the last step. Mastering the right turn. This is my weak side. I later learn that it is common for skiers to have one side stronger than the other. I tell the left toe to dig in, heel to thrust out. A feeble response. The Instructor, Sven, is in front of me skiing backwards downhill, as I come towards him. Over and over again, we try. He talks me through what my muscles and limbs should be doing, how my body should be standing, and we creep down the mountain. He is cheering me on, indefatigably good natured and smiling. Or grinning. Or is that a grimace?

Now we have reached the bottom of the slope. He shows me how to use the ‘magic carpet’. I waddle up to position like a fat old penguin, line myself up with the belt, and with my skis together inch my way forward until the belt grabs me. I am leaning forward braced for the motion, but still my shoulders are thrown back and my arms go out, like the wings of a bird winding up for takeoff.

I regain my balance, and enjoy the slow ride up. It gives me time to look around for Sylvia. I see the pink snowsuit on the snow by the top of the carpet. She and her instructor are standing at a short steep slide, down a burm, on the vertical. I confess that by the end of my lesson I still didn’t know what its instructive purpose is, I didn’t get that far. As I watch, Sylvia glides the vertical five feet smoothly, in control. And then she is off to the lift.

The ride dumps me off at the top, I am disoriented. I martial my thoughts to send signals, one by one, to every part of my body. Heels together, toes out, body forward, elbows tucked in, and the instructor gently reminds me that other people might be coming off the magic carpet and so I really need to move along if I don’t want to get plowed into. Oh, the pressure!

I shuffle over to face down the slope again. Sven tells me to look up, not at my feet. But when I look up I see how steep the slope is, and how far away is the bottom. My stomach knots. Then I really have to take myself to task. This is fun, I can do this, I need to relax. Take a deep breath, and relax every part of the body, like I learned to do in yoga. So I take a moment, breath deeply, look up and feel the thrill of the moment. I am on skis, on the slope, I have a handsome man giving me his undivided attention, the sun is shining, the snow is perfect (so this is what they mean by ‘powder’), I am having fun. Yes!

Sven is instructing me to take wide turns to the left and right, snaking our way down the mountain. Again, no trouble with the left turn, but the right is still giving me fits. Again, I wander dangerously close to the speed demons whizzing down the mountain. At a lull in the traffic, I do a lateral shuffle and head back to Sven.

Try again. I am getting a little impatient with myself. Patient Sven repeats the instructions that, by now, my own brain should be sending to my limbs. I am determined this time; I feel my whole body stiffen and twist, even my fingers curl with the effort to dig that left toe in, to find the edge. My feet are in the wedge, I have forward momentum. I am willing myself to the right. I am gaining speed, but the vertical drop is not changing in the slightest to horizontal. So I try to dig both edges in for a stop. The right seems to respond, but that deaf and dumb left ski glides along flat and merry. Sven is in front of me, legs in a wide V with heels together. He is skiing backwards, facing me. My speed increases, and I fly right into him. My skis, still attached to my body, slip under him. His hands are out, grabbing me. I am horizontal, all but my shoulders which are in his hands, and we are drifting down the mountain.

He pulls me towards him, to maintain his center of gravity. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I climb up his body. In spite of the danger, my sense that things have gone terribly wrong, the inner female speaks: Oh my, I haven’t been this close to a man in years!

Somehow he manages to get me upright again, and I lock my skis in the ‘stop’ wedge. Once again to the magic carpet we go up. Laughing at my foibles, light hearted although clearly I still am not getting it, I am determined to continue. I can do this!

Of all the spills I take, one in particular is worrisome to the weak knee. I fall straight down, sitting on the back of my skis, my knees locked. It is painful. Sven is game to maintain his charming calm to the bitter end, but after an hour and a half of the two hour lesson my aching knee calls it quits. As we are saying farewell a skier comes up to him, urging him to his next activity. Apparently, the youth races he was meant to coach this afternoon are about to begin. He explains a little about them to me, with obvious relish, and off he goes with another skier who has also come looking for him. I change back into my own boots, and stand on terra firma for the next twenty minutes admiring Sylvia’s progress.

I am able to pick out the pink of Sylvia’s snowsuit high on the ski lift. I watch a while longer, amused by the sight of a row of ‘Snow Stars’, ages three to six in their bright orange vests, all in a row like ducklings, smoothly making long arcing curves down the high slope herded by their instructor.

Then my eye catches a sight of pink. Here comes Sylvia, a serene look on her lovely face, in beautiful form sashaying through the curves and over the bumps after a long run down the slope. She meets with her instructor for a last debriefing.

The lesson over, Pete informs me that Sylvia has mastered the ‘green’ (easy level) slope. Her next lesson should take her on the more challenging blue slope. I am in awe. Am I a proud grandma, or what?

Leaving the rental area we are back out on the pavement and stairs leading down to the archway under the clock tower. I point to the upstairs windows, where my office is.

We walk across the parking lot to the car. My knee is fine until I try to climb into the drivers seat. I wince. For the next week, I will enter the car like an old lady. Feet and knees together, back into the seat, swing the legs around. But hey, a small price to pay for the priceless memory of a shared adventure with my granddaughter, and my first day on skis.

Of Nordic Gods and Princesses

Tuesday morning, my day off! I am stoked. Today will be my first day on skis; I have a lesson scheduled at Okemo Mountain, a perk that comes with employment there.

I am taking Sylvia with me, for moral support. Happily, Okemo also offers free lessons and ski rentals to all during the opening weeks of the season. My granddaughter, aged 12, was on skis once before 2 years ago, but she will be taking the beginners class along with me.

An early riser myself, I fix my usual oatmeal breakfast in my own efficiency kitchen in the basement. I take my second cup of coffee upstairs to the dining room table, to chat with whatever of my six grandchildren might arise early. Sylvia, however, is a late sleeper. I sip coffee, time passes, and still no Sylvia. It is almost 8 a.m. now and I want to leave at 8:15 for our 10:00 lesson; Sylvia saunters down the stairs sleepy eyed, hair dissheveled.

“Sylvia, it’s time to go. What are you planning to wear?,” I ask her.

“Um. I have a pair of ski pants.”

They are pink hand-me-downs. Later on, sitting next to me in the car she gently says, as if to set the record straight, “I hate pink.” That strikes me as funny, because I think she looks beautiful in pink, with her long blond hair and delicate features.

The crisp Vermont air greets me as I go outside to get the car ready. It will need time to warm up, and then there is the ice to scrape. At last Sylvia emerges and our adventure begins.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at the day-skiers parking lot. This is where I park five mornings a week, looking out of place in my khakis and sheepskin jacket. Today I blend in, with my down-filled pants and a ski jacket I found in the hand-me-down box. Sylvia is wide awake now; we share the rising excitement.

We find the ski school counter. We fill out the forms, move along to the ski rental area, and get fitted with boots and skis.

We are geared up and ready. We are running late. I have been scatter brained through these steps, dropping this, forgetting that. Sylvia goes ahead to find her instructor while I dash back inside for my gloves. Is it just the excitement, or am I subconsciously delaying my first encounter with skis. No more stalling, I push through the doors and look for the sandwich board that identifies the ski school rallying point. By the time I arrive, Sylvia is chatting comfortably with the group of instructors that are waiting for the last stragglers. That would be me. Not many beginners have arrived for these free lessons so early in the season, so Sylvia and I each get our own private instructor. A tall, graying blonde with glasses and deep smile lines dimpling his cheeks greets me.

“And you must be grandma,” he says.

I look up past broad shoulders to a handsome Nordic face that exudes kindness and confidence. We begin our two-hour lesson with some basics.

First, I learn how to walk uphill in skis. There are two methods: walking sideways, and walking head-on in a wedge. Standing sideways across the incline, I jam the inner edge of the downhill ski into the snow and lift the uphill ski, shifting my weight over the uphill ski. Then bring up the downhill ski making sure it anchors me with a good edged grip. Next, we do the wedge facing up the hill, a duck walk. Okay, that’s lesson one. Two more to go.

Next, we learn how to stop when going downhill. By now we are perhaps 50 feet up the slope. The ‘magic carpet’ (a long conveyor belt) ascends to my right, the ski lift and fast traffic to my left, and the base lodge just below and to the left. And where is the EMT stretcher, I wonder?

The wedge is my friend; the wedge is my friend. Ski tips together, heels far apart, the instructor goes over basics on how I should stand, how to distribute my weight and find balance. The stiff boots have a stranglehold on my feet, ankles and low shins. I should relax, lean into my boots and just glide down the slope. Then, to stop, I simply have to push my heels out to widen the wedge, and turn my arches in to put pressure on the inner edge of the ski, and voila! I stop. Or so handsome Sven leads me to believe.

Now this is where my age shows. I am reasonably fit, though no muscle-bound jock. I send the command down to the leg and foot muscles: “Dig into the snow, turn that edge in!” The right leg responds, but the left hears as if I am shouting from the mountain peak and it is lost in the mists below.

As long as the slope is shallow, I can manage to stop, sort of, eventually. So we move on. Next, we learn turns. First, we learn the left turn.

It doesn’t take long before I master the left turn. That faithful right toe digs in there, weight on the ball of the foot, shin putting weight against the boot, and smooth as frosting on the cake we turn left. I am so good at left turns that before long I have strayed too far into the fast lane! I stop, dig my skis in, and glance uphill. Two skiers fly by me, first one side then the other. Looking up I feel like a deer caught in headlights as the downhill skiers whoosh past me front and back. Sven calmly talks me out of danger.

Now, for the last step. Mastering the right turn. This is my weak side. I later learn that it is common for skiers to have one side stronger than the other. I tell the left toe to dig in, heel to thrust out. A feeble response. The Instructor, Sven, is in front of me skiing backwards downhill, as I come towards him. Over and over again, we try. He talks me through what my muscles and limbs should be doing, how my body should be standing, and we creep down the mountain. He is cheering me on, indefatigably good natured and smiling. Or grinning. Or is that a grimace?

Now we have reached the bottom of the slope. He shows me how to use the ‘magic carpet’. I waddle up to position like a fat old penguin, line myself up with the belt, and with my skis together inch my way forward until the belt grabs me. I am leaning forward braced for the motion, but still my shoulders are thrown back and my arms go out, like the wings of a bird winding up for takeoff.

I regain my balance, and enjoy the slow ride up. It gives me time to look around for Sylvia. I see the pink snowsuit on the snow by the top of the carpet. She and her instructor are standing at a short steep slide, down a burm, on the vertical. I confess that by the end of my lesson I still didn’t know what its instructive purpose is, I didn’t get that far. As I watch, Sylvia glides the vertical five feet smoothly, in control. And then she is off to the lift.

The ride dumps me off at the top, I am disoriented. I martial my thoughts to send signals, one by one, to every part of my body. Heels together, toes out, body forward, elbows tucked in, and the instructor gently reminds me that other people might be coming off the magic carpet and so I really need to move along if I don’t want to get plowed into. Oh, the pressure!

I shuffle over to face down the slope again. Sven tells me to look up, not at my feet. But when I look up I see how steep the slope is, and how far away is the bottom. My stomach knots. Then I really have to take myself to task. This is fun, I can do this, I need to relax. Take a deep breath, and relax every part of the body, like I learned to do in yoga. So I take a moment, breath deeply, look up and feel the thrill of the moment. I am on skis, on the slope, I have a handsome man giving me his undivided attention, the sun is shining, the snow is perfect (so this is what they mean by ‘powder’), I am having fun. Yes!

Sven is instructing me to take wide turns to the left and right, snaking our way down the mountain. Again, no trouble with the left turn, but the right is still giving me fits. Again, I wander dangerously close to the speed demons whizzing down the mountain. At a lull in the traffic, I do a lateral shuffle and head back to Sven.

Try again. I am getting a little impatient with myself. Patient Sven repeats the instructions that, by now, my own brain should be sending to my limbs. I am determined this time; I feel my whole body stiffen and twist, even my fingers curl with the effort to dig that left toe in, to find the edge. My feet are in the wedge, I have forward momentum. I am willing myself to the right. I am gaining speed, but the vertical drop is not changing in the slightest to horizontal. So I try to dig both edges in for a stop. The right seems to respond, but that deaf and dumb left ski glides along flat and merry. Sven is in front of me, legs in a wide V with heels together. He is skiing backwards, facing me. My speed increases, and I fly right into him. My skis, still attached to my body, slip under him. His hands are out, grabbing me. I am horizontal, all but my shoulders which are in his hands, and we are drifting down the mountain.

He pulls me towards him, to maintain his center of gravity. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I climb up his body. In spite of the danger, my sense that things have gone terribly wrong, the inner female speaks: Oh my, I haven’t been this close to a man in years!

Somehow he manages to get me upright again, and I lock my skis in the ‘stop’ wedge. Once again to the magic carpet we go up. Laughing at my foibles, light hearted although clearly I still am not getting it, I am determined to continue. I can do this!

Of all the spills I take, one in particular is worrisome to the weak knee. I fall straight down, sitting on the back of my skis, my knees locked. It is painful. Sven is game to maintain his charming calm to the bitter end, but after an hour and a half of the two hour lesson my aching knee calls it quits. As we are saying farewell a skier comes up to him, urging him to his next activity. Apparently, the youth races he was meant to coach this afternoon are about to begin. He explains a little about them to me, with obvious relish, and off he goes with another skier who has also come looking for him. I change back into my own boots, and stand on terra firma for the next twenty minutes admiring Sylvia’s progress.

I am able to pick out the pink of Sylvia’s snowsuit high on the ski lift. I watch a while longer, amused by the sight of a row of ‘Snow Stars’, ages three to six in their bright orange vests, all in a row like ducklings, smoothly making long arcing curves down the high slope herded by their instructor.

Then my eye catches a sight of pink. Here comes Sylvia, a serene look on her lovely face, in beautiful form sashaying through the curves and over the bumps after a long run down the slope. She meets with her instructor for a last debriefing.

The lesson over, Pete informs me that Sylvia has mastered the ‘green’ (easy level) slope. Her next lesson should take her on the more challenging blue slope. I am in awe. Am I a proud grandma, or what?

Leaving the rental area we are back out on the pavement and stairs leading down to the archway under the clock tower. I point to the upstairs windows, where my office is.

We walk across the parking lot to the car. My knee is fine until I try to climb into the drivers seat. I wince. For the next week, I will enter the car like an old lady. Feet and knees together, back into the seat, swing the legs around. But hey, a small price to pay for the priceless memory of a shared adventure with my granddaughter, and my first day on skis.

On writing and dieting

I have come across a book. It is 'The Writing Diet, Write yourself right-size'. Fascinating concept. One other great thing about living in the Holleran household is the wealth of books. There are overflowing bookshelves in every room. This one is fairly new, in hardback still wearing its original pristine jacket.

The premise of the author is that we eat because we are blocking out thoughts that would reveal unwelcomed emotions. Because this successful author also has a career as a teacher of writing, a leader of writer's workshops, she can get such a book published. Is there any new thought, new concept in this book? Maybe not, but she has collected or created a good collection of interesting anecdotes, has arranged them well and woven them together with discipline to emphasize each point, and so it is a good read.

She begins with the suggestion that you set your alarm clock an hour earlier so that you can start the day writing three pages. Nothing artistic, just a dump of whatever is bothering you, she says.

If I could put my life on halt and spend my first hour of every day writing, I would have plenty of material to publish in no time. First of all, nothing is bothering me. Try as I may, I can't dredge up a rant, or even a pithy kvetch. So my hour would be spent painting a word portrait of The Good Life.

There are exercises I plan to do, as soon as I can wrestle a free hour each morning, to hone my skills as a writer. For example, if I began each day writing I would work on describing the characters that are in my life right now. Just a thumb sketch of, say, the overweight middle-aged woman in my office who is dripping with peevish negativity. Yes, the one who insists on not working on Sundays, such a devout Catholic who Oh! by the way never goes to Mass. Her husband is the cantor at the parish church, she knows all the gossip...but it's not for her to say...but she won't set foot in the church until [whatever] changes. She uses her diabetes as a crutch to justify her grouchy moods. Let's all feel sorry for her, ignoring the part about her weight being the cause of her self-induced condition. In between calls she plays spider solitaire on her computer, or sits with her arms folded, staring blankly at the screen attached to a computer that terrifies her. Although she has been coming back to this seasonal job for years, she doesn't lift a finger to help the new hires. She doesn't get paid enough, it's not her job, not her problem. Ask her for help and she gets flustered, sputtering fretting, once someone touched that key and the company lost millions, you'd better ask the supervisor.

In her younger, slender years she was a petite beauty, with a pretty upturned nose. She was fawned over, doors opened for her, flatterers abounded. Now she is a blubbery frumpy mess spewing nastiness, sprinkled with efforts at sweet comradrie. You've come a long way Baby!

But there is no one hour to write each morning. Another suggestion by the author is to walk for inspiration. Have we not heard this before? How I long to be able to get out each day and speed walk my way to thinness! If one has managed to earn a healthy bank account through writing, or by whatever other means, surely one can make leisure time to journal ones frustrations in the morning, and walk twenty minutes a day to receive creative inspiration, or to unblock a tangled plot. But for us grunts, us working stiffs cum slugs in a factory of one sort or another, our creativity being sapped by the very act of pretending to be a diligent slug, these cheery helpful suggestions are vinegar in the wound.

The above inkspots are oozed leakage from a thwarted pen. One thin day it will come unstuck, and will overflow with inspired creativity.

Or not.

Mid winter reflections of a slug

We are having lots of snow here. The temperature is momentarily back up to around 30, and that’s where I like it. For about ten days the thermometer was reading in the teens and single digits. That’s when the ground freezes, hardening to ice all the layers of snow and melt. On top of that falls a fresh dusting of snow, and driving becomes a hazardous winter sport. Get behind the wheel and the thrill of adventure sends adrenaline coursing through the system. By sheer grit and determination I will the car to stay on the road and moving mostly forward. I am definitely getting too old for this, because too easily the image incongruously pops into my head, of me sitting in front of a fire with a lap robe and a good book. At the end of a typical day of fighting the road, the drive bookending a grueling eight hours of sitting cramped at a desk helping people spend obscene amounts of money for a few days on the snow, I drop exhausted into bed with the dull mind of a slug.

Yesterday, on my day off, I gave Manny a massage. I have a certificate saying I am a trained masseuse, if I never mentioned. I am so out of practice that I have to have a cheat sheet sitting on the unknowing patient’s back telling me what to do next! Nevertheless, I set up a rollaway bed here in the basement, and Manny laid quietly on his stomach while I tried to relieve some muscle pain he’s been having in his back.

Manny is checking me out as a potential life partner. This brings on a whole range of mixed feelings. He milks cows on the night shift at the dairy next door. He is an intelligent, sexy, sensitive man who could do much more with his life, but now he is a slug at a dairy farm.

I heard myself telling a dear friend that I am repulsed by the idea of losing my independence. Repulsed! What a strong word. At the core, it only tells me that Manny is not The One. Surely when I meet The One I will concede my independence happily.

For many weeks I was intrigued by the idea of it. I fantasized, given the parameters of who he is and with what resources, and who I am and what I have. I liked best the idea of moving into my house in Florida. I would live on my social security check and focus on writing and getting published, letting him get a job at whatever comes to hand, and he is handy.

Because he works seven nights a week, it is difficult to find time to spend with him having casual conversations. So he finally arranged to prepare me lunch at his house, rearranging his sleep schedule. The massage was, so to speak, the dessert. But we came to my daughter’s house to do it, because here the rollaway gave me 360º access, and because here we were adequately chaperoned. We did get to speak, and it turned out more like a job interview than a romantic luncheon. I tried to penetrate through the slug mentality to connect with the creative man I believe him to be. But either I am wrong, or he has morphed totally into a slug and it is too late. I sought out his dreams, his visions. Finally I just asked it outright: Where do you see yourself in five years? Right here, he said, milking cows. Now I think I am over it.