And The Winds Come Sweeping Down the Plains

Dear Boo and Bubble,

We are now together at the Outer Banks for our annual after-Christmas, welcome-in-the-New Year celebration. I drove down from Sugar Mountain on Saturday with your cousin Taz and we were listening to NPR and the audience favorites from the show, “Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.” One of the segments was an interview with Shirley Jones, an actress and singer from my younger years who achieved big-screen stardom in such movie musicals as “Oklahoma!” and “Carousel,” written and composed by the masters of the genre, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein. She has just released a personal memoir.

She recollected how her life took the permanent turn from the pursuit of veterinary medicine to the Broadway stage. At the age of 18, she was in New York City looking at colleges when she spotted an audition call in the newspaper. Since she loved to sing, she thought it would be fun to have the experience and took a cab over to the advertised theater. Upon hearing her sing, the person in charge of the audition suggested that Mr. Rodgers should hear her personally and she was asked to wait. Jones had never heard of either Rodgers or Hammerstein, and didn't realize the significance of the opportunity.

Her pianist had to leave before Rodgers could get to the theater, and so, when he arrived, she performed a cappella. He stopped her mid-song and said, “There's an orchestra across the street rehearsing. I'd like to go there and have you sing with the instruments.”

On a lark, Shirley Jones was discovered by one of the most prominent composers in American music. She never made it to college as he hired her to begin performing in “South Pacific” the very next day. After the play's run ended six months later, Rodgers dispatched her to Hollywood to star as Laurie in the screen version of “Oklahoma!” Her unanticipated career path was launched.

The interview took me back over 30 years ago when Captain and I lived in Gaffney with your mom and Aunt Bee. There was a Little Theater there …... and it was literally a little theater with a stage measuring about 35 feet in width and 20 feet in depth with two wings. The auditorium held no more than 100 seats, old rows of chairs salvaged from some high school that had undergone a renovation. The deficiencies in the facility never dampened the enthusiasm of the volunteers who organized, promoted and acted in the live performances. Since I had a dance background, they called upon me from time to time to choreograph pieces – nothing elaborate, just simple steps to accompany simple tunes.

So...I was quite surprised when Bob Stratton, the president of the Little Theater, called me one night to say that the board had decided to add “Oklahoma!” to the season's repertoire and they would like for me to choreograph the Dream Scene, the fifteen minute mini-epoch segment of the play that, with a cast of hundreds, captures the struggle of the main male characters, Curly and Judd, for the affections of female protagonist, Laurey. In the end, Laurey sacrifices herself to Judd in order to save Curly's life.

I couldn't imagine how that small stage might accommodate such a massive production, including the part of it assigned to me. I bought the soundtrack from the musical and listened to the score from the Dream Scene repeatedly until I figured out how to cut it down to about five minutes. My version would feature only three characters – Laurey, Judd and Curly.

We went into rehearsal. When time came for the Dream Scene, the girl cast in the part of Laurie took her place at a well downstage and posed as if daydreaming. The stage went black. She exited the stage and I took her place for the dancing role. When the lights came up, our very fundamental version began, watered down to fit the stage and circumstance.

After seeing the choreography, the director decided that some fog would enhance the scene. He placed an order to rent a dry ice machine which didn't arrive until the afternoon of the dress rehearsal. A couple of volunteer stage hands were assigned the responsibility of setting it up and having it ready to pipe fog from underneath a slightly raised rear scrim curtain at center stage just as the lights went dark for the exchange of Laureys at the well. The effect would be a gentle mist to emphasize the illusion of the dream. We were all excited about this addition.

Our audience for the dress rehearsal that night was composed of students from the alternative high school in Gaffney. Most of them had never experienced live theatre before. The occasion gave them a unique cultural opportunity while providing living, breathing bodies on whom the cast could test the show. At 7:00 PM, the curtain went up on “Oklahoma!”

Things went along smoothly through the first act. In spite of a compulsion to snigger, the students seemed to be enjoying the play. Mid-second act, the time came for the Dream Scene. The stage went to black and I took my place at the well – the singing Laurey exited into the wings. As the music started and the lights arose, I looked languidly out into the audience – to witness the whites of their eyes and their mouths gaped in utter horror to create a collective gasp. Before I could make the first move, I was consumed in a tsunami of fog that swallowed me and cascaded out into the auditorium, gobbling up one row at a time until the whole place was filled. Nobody on the stage or in a seat could see anything. Breathing became a challenge and the resulting hacking and coughing sounded like a the Gaffney Little Theater had transformed into a chicken coop.

Somehow, Curly found me at the well and we tried to continue with the performance, but I was laughing so hard, any attempt at a lift over his head or a pirouette proved impossible. The on-stage agony finally ended with Judd dragging me off the stage, my costume soaking wet from the rain-like affect of the saturated air. The director thankfully called for an impromptu intermission.

I'm sure if Shirley Jones' audition had gone the way of my dress rehearsal, she would be in retirement from her veterinary practice now. Her memoir would not be about an amazing career on stage and screen, but other things like.......... spaying cats and birthing horses.

Santa is Real and His Name is George

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today is Christmas Eve and to me, even more than Christmas Day itself, it embodies the delectable and anticipatory spirit of the season. Carols that have worn out their welcome on the radio since Halloween refresh themselves with a new vibrancy. The frantic pace of shopping, decorating, cooking, wrapping, mailing and partying simmers down into a slow, warm relaxation where one can take off shoes, prop up the feet and sip some nog. We are filled with eagerness for tomorrow. All of its promise lies still before us with the most wonderful emotion in mankind’s existence – that of hope and expectancy.

Well…yeah....and then you wake up.

As Christmas approached in 1979, your mom had just turned four and Aunt Bee was only a baby. Unlike the three years before, Mary Kathleen now had a secure grasp on the concept of Santa Claus and his stash of presents. She set her sights on an Easy-Bake Oven and chattered about it pretty constantly beginning around Thanksgiving. Captain and I made the obligatory parental warning – “If you’re good, maybe Santa will bring it to you, but you must be good. You know, he’s watching your every move.” 

Sometime in early December, one of my neighbors in Canterbury invited me to come to a yard sale. I’m not normally a yard sale shopper, but I went to be supportive. As I combed through the offerings neatly displayed on her driveway, I spotted an Easy-Bake Oven. I about broke my neck tripping over old clothes, shoes, pots and pans, electric blankets, and lamps to get to it.

It looked in good shape. The price clearly marked on masking tape stuck to the back read “$1.00.”

“How incredible,” I thought to myself. “I can get Mary Kathleen’s Santa gift for $1.00.”

I scooped it up and went immediately to pay. As soon as I returned home, I went into the house and pulled down the attic stairs and climbed up enough of them to be able to tuck the oven safely in a convenient hiding place.

The weeks passed quickly with the usual crescendo of holiday activity until all of a sudden, it was Christmas Eve. In the late afternoon, oh, maybe around 5:00, I was in the kitchen starting dinner when Captain pulled into the carport from work. Your mom sat watching TV in the family room while Aunt Bee played in her playpen.

Captain came over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” he said jovially. (Hint: Captain LOVES Christmas – everything about it.)

“And Merry Christmas Eve to you,” I responded.

“So….do we have everything? For Santa, I mean.” He lowered his voice to his whisper.

“Yes. Remember, I found the Easy-Bake Oven at the yard sale a few weeks ago.”

“And…..do we have anything to bake in the oven? Like mix and pans and stuff?”

I could feel the flush immediately creep up my neck. My blank expression, plus my absolute muteness, answered his question. In the excitement of my bargain, I had overlooked the need for the necessary accessories so your mom could actually cook something. It would be like Santa Pergatory - “Yes, little girl, you were good enough to get the oven, but not good enough to be able to do anything with it.”

“Uh…..” was all I could muster.

“Hold that thought,” Captain said as he pointed his finger at me. Before I could respond, he was out the door and backing down the driveway.

My mind raced as I considered any options that I might have to make the situation right. It was already dark. This was way before the days of malls, Wal-Mart and other big-box stores that stayed open late. The only place that would possibly have Easy-Bake Oven supplies was the local hardware store. I looked up the number in the phone book and dialed it.

Ring.....ring.....ring.....ring.....ring....ring....ring.

No answer. They were closed. My heart sank.......until I thought about calling the owner of the store, George Morgan.

There are advantages to living in a small town like ours of Gaffney, not the least of which is that everybody knows everybody. Captain and I were acquaintances with George and his wife, Bunnie.

I called the Morgans' home phone.

Ring...ring....ring....ring... “Hello” ….a voice answered.

“George!?!” I pretty much shrieked.

“Yes?” he answered, sounding a little reticent, like he might have a lunatic on the other end of the line.

“This is Beth Tally. I hate to bother you here on Christmas Eve, but would you like to save a marriage?”

He laughed, sort of.

“I know that you've closed the store, but I was wondering if by any chance you have Easy-Bake Oven accessories.”

“Yes. Do you need some?”

“I do and if I can't get them, both Santa and I are in a big old, bad dog house.”

“Well, we don't want that, now do we? Why don't I meet you at the store in a few minutes and we'll solve that problem.”

I called my across the street neighbor to come over and stay with your mom and Aunt Bee while I went to meet George. It took me no more than twenty minutes to go and come back.

 

Around 7:00, Captain pulled back into the carport. He had driven all over town looking for any store that was open and only met with success at Buford Street Drugs. They didn't have any Easy-Bake Oven supplies, but Captain found a race car set with enough track to snake and loop around all the furniture in the living room with the finish line right underneath the Christmas tree.

The next morning, your mom couldn't believe everything Santa had brought her the night before. She spent Christmas day dividing her time between racing the cars with Captain and baking cakes with me.

It was a wonderful day that surely would have been otherwise..... but for that Santa named George!

The Most Perfect Christmas Tree

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your mother was born on September 23, 1975 in one of the operating rooms at Cherokee County Memorial Hospital in Gaffney, SC. That means she was only three months old for her first Christmas – just starting to smile and push herself up while on her stomach. Needless to say, the holiday came and went without any concern on her part.

By the next year, she was 15 months old and much more advanced – walking everywhere, talking a little – but still not cognizant of the nuances of Christmas. We had moved from our first home at 231 East Montgomery Street, a duplex that we rented in the downtown area of Gaffney, to 126 Brittany Road, a house that we bought located in the Canterbury Subdivision out towards Interstate 85.

Canterbury proved to be a perfect match for our little family with lots of children and great neighbors. As Christmas time rolled around, it became a wonderland with decorations appearing in almost every window of every house on every street. Your mom loved to ride around and look at all of it.

One day at the beginning of December, Captain came home early from work. He bolted through the carport door into the kitchen, his eyes beaming.

“Mary Kathleen (that's what she went by back then), come here,” he called out excitedly.

She ran barreling into the kitchen, squealing at the sight of him.

“I think we need to go get our Christmas tree, don't you?”

She didn't completely understand, but Captain's enthusiasm let her know something inviting was in the offing. “Yes....” she answered, using probably one tenth of her fledgeling vocabulary.

We put on jackets and piled into the car. After a celebratory dinner at McDonald's, we rode down Floyd Baker Boulevard, the main four-lane road coming into Gaffney from the interstate, and scoped out the tree lots that dotted both sides of the road. Captain pulled into one that appeared to have a good selection. I held your mom in my arms while he perused the trees, standing them up, shaking them, and twirling them around to make sure they were uniform in shape.

“Come here,” he called out from somewhere in the middle of the lot. “I think I've found it.”

I put your mom down and grabbed her hand. We wandered through the rows in the direction of his voice.

“Here...here I am.”

And there Captain stood, bolstering a beautiful Frazier Fir, not too big, but perfectly symmetrical.

“What do you think, Mary Kathleen?”

She dashed towards him.

“You like it?”

Almost shyly, her little hands reached out to fondle the green, poised needles.

“I think it's gorgeous!” I seconded Captain's choice as I came up from behind.

We paid for the tree and, with the help of the lot owner, tied it to the top of our car. By the time we made the short drive back to Canterbury, it was approaching your mom's bed time. Captain leaned over to me and whispered “let's put Mary Kathleen to bed before we bring the tree into the house and decorate it.”

I concurred.

Your mom and I went back to her room. She had quite a selection of nightgowns, but for the occasion I picked out a white one with a red bow at the neck, red buttons down the front and red-fringed lace at the wrists. After brushing her teeth, we read a story and she went straight to bed.

All the while, Captain was out in the carport taking the tree off the top of the car and bringing it inside to the family room.

Once we were sure she was asleep, Captain pulled the attic stairs down and climbed up to retrieve the box that held our tree stand, ornaments and lights. We spent the rest of the evening decorating the tree, sipping on a little “bad juice” as we did. Not to be braggadocios, but the finished product was impressive. Captain turned off all the room lights. We admired our handiwork which inspired the clink of a Christmas toast before we headed to bed ourselves.

The next morning, Captain and I awoke before your mom. We were sipping coffee in the breakfast nook when she made noises from her crib that signaled she was up and ready to start the day.

“You go get Mary Kathleen and I'll turn on the tree lights, okay?” Captain said.

“Okay.”

I went to her room and pulled her up out of the crib.

“Good morning, you,” I cooed as I pecked her on the cheek.

I set her on the floor and she scampered down the hall, her little nightgown billowing behind. She rounded the corner into the family room and stopped – stopped dead – at the sight of the glowing Christmas tree in the corner. Instinctively, she drew her hands to her mouth in absolute awe. She then clutched them to her chest as she approached the delicate branches laden with red, green, blue and white lights, spiraling ever upwards to a pinnacle where a silver star sat majestically overseeing the room. Delicate ornaments reflected an incandescent glow from each bulb.

Breathlessly, your mom went around and around the tree, hugging herself. It was, in fact, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her short little life. Captain and I stood there, equally mesmerized at the scene. The pure innocence of her utter joy brought tears to my eyes.

There have been over 35 Christmases since then and we've had a tree for every one. But, forever in my mind, that tree will always be the perfect Christmas tree.

The Cat's Meow

Dear Boo and Bubble,

When your great grandmother Mary died, it ripped a big tear in the fabric of 3 Lakecrest.  Not only was she the hub of all activity there and the coordinator for all the household pieces, she also was the manager of great granddaddy Schaefer – a task which required great intuitive acumen.  She saw to it that his life ran smoothly, that his every need was met.  For over 40 years, the interaction between them created a reliable routine that operated like clockwork.  To say Granddaddy was spoiled might be putting it mildly.

In a wonderful stroke of mutual accommodation, your great Uncle Gene moved his young family into the house with Granddaddy.  The arrangement was truly a blessing. Your cousins Sassy (Chelsea) and Noodle (Natalie) brought childlike energy which delighted Granddaddy.  Every night at the dinner table, one of them would hop up into his lap and listen intently as he read from Dr. Seuss or A. A. Milne or J. M. Barrie.  Squeals of laughter rose to the ceiling as he practiced the magic of “Fly Away Jack…Come Back Jack” or squeezed their knees to see if they had a “laughing monkey.”  In other words, Granddaddy never had to be alone.  It was an incredible salve for the wound of losing Mamaw.

The responsibility for maintaining Granddaddy’s routine fell to Gene’s wife, Lisa.  She took the task very seriously and - on top of juggling all the requirements of her own family - incorporated his quirks, preferences and habits into her daily schedule. 

One such habit was Granddaddy’s lunchtime ritual.  Every day at noon, he’d leave the office to come home for lunch and a 30-minute nap.  You could set your watch by it – at 12:10, he would bound up the back steps into the kitchen where lunch waited.  At 12:20, he slid back from the table and made his way down the hall to the bedroom.  At 12:50, he arose and came back to the kitchen.  By a few minutes after 1:00, he was back at his desk.

Most of the time, Lisa greeted Granddaddy at the back door.  A pot of soup might simmer on the stove or a sandwich rest on a plate on the table, each ready so as not to interrupt his schedule.  When she could not be there, something tasty always awaited Granddaddy in the refrigerator.

On a particular day, Granddaddy arrived to a locked back door.  Since Lisa’s car wasn’t parked in its usual spot, he knew she must not be home.  He let himself in and wandered over to the refrigerator.  At first glance, he didn’t see anything specific that she had prepared.  Then he noticed a plate in the very rear of the second shelf wrapped in Saran Wrap.  It appeared to be some sort of liver mush. 

“Bless Lisa’s heart,” he thought ecstatically to himself.  “She’s gone and made me some of her special pâté!”

Granddaddy retrieved some Ritz crackers from the cabinet, pulled a knife out of the drawer, and poured himself some milk.  He sat down in his chair and eagerly ate about half of the loaf on the plate.  By then it was 12:20 and automatic naptime.  He carefully re-wrapped the pâté and placed it back in the refrigerator.  When he awoke at 12:50, Lisa still had not returned.  He relocked the back door and left for the office.

That night, everybody gathered at the table for dinner.  Lisa served Granddaddy his plate.

“Thank you,” he said.  “Oh, and by the way, thank you also for that wonderful pâté you left me today for lunch.  It was fabulous.  What was in it?”

Lisa froze.  She dropped the serving spoon back into the saucepan on the stove and raced over to the refrigerator.  Pulling out the half-eaten loaf, she turned to Granddaddy.

“Tell me you did NOT eat this, please.”

“Well, I most certainly did and it was delicious.  Why?”

“Because….because…THIS is CAT FOOD.  And, not only that, it’s filled with medicine that I got at the veterinarian because one of the kitties is sick!  I need to call him right now.  This is awful.”

Granddaddy tried to reassure her that he was fine, but Lisa could not be dissuaded.  She called the emergency number for the vet’s office and got an answering service.  Sensing her frantic urgency, they promised to have him get in touch with her as soon as they could track him down.

After an hour or so, Granddaddy decided to go on to bed.  While he was still reading his book, there came a quiet knock.

“Yes?”

Lisa stuck her head around the door.  

“Well….I talked to the vet,” she said.

“And…”

“And, he said that what you ate shouldn’t hurt you.”

“Good.  I figured as much.”

Lisa hesitated for a second.  “But…”

“But, what?” Granddaddy asked.

“He did say that if you happen to start ‘meowing’ during the night to call him immediately.”

I Just Don't Get It...No Really...I'm done!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I awoke the next morning in Leysin with renewed confidence and hope that THIS would be the triumphant day in my life-long battle with skis.  Captain and I took the lift up to the first platform which designated the Swiss equivalent of a “bunny” slope.  Having already made the decision that I needed to practice on my own for a while, I got off there and told Captain to head further on up the mountain.  I’d catch up with him later.

So, there I stood……in the Alps, on the precipice of a beautifully groomed slope maybe 500 yards long with an incline, oh, I’d say of at least 55 degrees…..me and what seemed to be a thousand two-year olds whizzing down the hill like banshees. 

“Come on, Beth.  This is ridiculous.  If they can do it, so can you.  It’s all in your head.  Just forget about it.  Just go.  All you have to do is…….keep your weight on your downhill ski.”

And so, I pushed off, thinking that if I just believed hard enough and abandoned all caution, I could ski.  Sort of like believing that you can make it over a 50-foot waterfall in a kayak if you just hold your nose.

I picked up speed.  Faster, faster, faster I went.  It’s not easy to discern which is your downhill ski when you’re headed straight downhill.  I arbitrarily picked my right ski and pressed on it which threw me severely to the left.  Faster, faster…..somehow, I dodged the little banshee munchkins who flew by me like gnats.  I began to snowplow, but the slope was so firmly packed, the maneuver had no affect on my rapid race sideways. 

Finally I just lay down on my back, knees bent, back of my head bouncing in the snow.  I passed under a yellow rope.  Now, boys, it is NEVER a good thing to pass under a rope on a ski slope.  It is there for a reason…a reason that has a constancy to it….like a “Do Not Enter” that is universally understood in all of skidom.   

But there I went, flying under the rope like a wayward torpedo, hoping it wasn’t marking a cliff.  I finally came to a graceless stop….right in the middle of the Swiss National Snowboarding Competition slalom course.  Along with moguls and ramps, the contenders now had me as an obstacle. 

Fortunately, no one was coming down the course.  Your future would be in significant doubt if they had been.  I somehow righted myself enough to eject my boots from the skis and grabbed them up from the snow.  I made my way back to the rope and crossed back underneath onto the bunny slope.  I trudged up the hill, grappling with skis and poles until I made it to the lift station where I squatted down in the snow waiting for Captain.

That was the last time I ever had those death sticks known as skis on my feet.  Thank goodness, I can now claim to be “too old” to try again.  Don’t worry….I’ll be excited to watch the two of you.  I’m sure you’ll be great at it, but honestly for me….I just don’t get it.

I Just Don't Get It - Part 2

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In 1997, Captain took me to Switzerland for the main purpose of watching your Aunt Bee compete in the Prix de Lausanne international ballet competitions, but while we were there, he arranged for us to go to Leysin and spend a couple of days skiing in the Alps. 

We took a train from Lausanne around a portion of Lake Geneva to a stop where we caught the cable tram that carried us straight up 4100 feet into the community of Leysin.  At first, we encountered fog as the tram lumbered along, but once through it, the views were stunning.  Our room at the hotel had a balcony looking straight across to an endless sea of snow-covered peaks. 

Captain disappeared for a while.  When he returned, he proudly announced that he had procured a private ski instructor for us with morning lessons on the next day. 

“He’s supposed to be one of the best….a native of Switzerland,” Captain boasted.  “And I made sure that he speaks good English.”

“FINALLY,” I thought to myself.  “I’m going to conquer this skiing thing!”

I went to sleep that night in great anticipation. 

The sun rose over the Alps the next day with an almost indescribable beauty.  The air was crisp and invigorating, but not too cold.  Although no new snow had fallen for a couple of day, the deep natural base still felt light and crunchy underfoot.

Captain and I enjoyed a good breakfast and afterwards walked over to the ski shop to rent our equipment and meet our teacher.  My mood…excited; my attitude….confident. 

François came out from the private instructors’ lounge. 

“Ahhh….’ello,” he said.  “My name ees François.  I theenk from vat yur hoosband tells me that you are hard to learn dis skiing, no?”

I’m sure my stare back at him seemed impolite, but my brain was trying to figure out what he had just said. 

“Uh…yes, that’s right,” I answered.  “But, you’re going to fix that today, I’m sure.”

We had a little laugh together.

He directed us to the ski lift and told us to take it to the first platform where he (miraculously) would appear to meet us.  As we moved up the mountain in the lift, skis bobbing below, John grabbed my glove-covered hand.

“This is going to be great, don’t you think?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  You’re so sweet to do this.  I know it was expensive.”

Sure enough, as we dismounted, François swooped down upon us from somewhere unknown.  He planted his skis into a dramatic stop, dusting up some powder with flair. 

“I’ve beeeen tinking.  I tink we begin on de trail.  It vil be a must easy, okay?”

“Trail….trail…” I mulled the word over in my head.  What a pleasant, non-threatening ring it had to it. A subtle incline gracefully meandering through snow-dusted pines where one can comfortably negotiate the rigors of skiing without peril or embarrassment.

“That sounds great,” I replied.

With that, he whisked away in a direction toward one of the more severe slopes.  Captain pushed off behind him and I dug in my poles to follow suit.  François stopped abruptly at what appeared to be a path carved out of the side of the mountain.  When I looked to the right, I looked straight up; when I looked down….well, it was literally straight, unobstructed, hundreds-of-feet down.  A trail? You call this a trail?  Geeez.

Our lesson began.

“Now, de most veriest important ting ees dat you alvays keep yur veight on yur dowmnunt ski.”

“Okay….my dominant ski…let’s see…I wonder….I’m righthanded…maybe my right ski is my dominant ski.”

I pushed off and glided a few feet when the first bend in the trail appeared.  I bore down hard on my right ski which produced a very clumsy fall into the snow bank on the uphill side.  François raced to my aid.  He lifted me up and set me right.

“No, no, no….yur veight must be alvays on yur dowmnunt ski.  Vy don’t you try vunce more to make yur progressional, please.”

I started up, continuing around the bend.  Once I gathered some speed, I pressed into my right ski again – and crashed immediately - again.

“No, no, no….vat are you doing?”  François’s frustration became apparent.  “Dowmnunt ski, dowmnunt.”

I tried and tried and tried….all with the same result.

And thus went the morning until finally François looked at me and said –

“I tink et’s time you need to go on de ski lift up to de lodge and drink some beer vile I vork weeth yur hoosband.  It ees no use for you to be wid the skis.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time in my life, skiing had brought utter humiliation to me.  I did as told….unfortunately the only thing that François had instructed which I successfully executed.  It was the best beer I had ever tasted.

That night, Captain asked me what I thought François was saying.

“Dominant ski.  That’s what he was saying.”

Captain began to laugh so hard I thought he might pop.

“No, Beth….he was saying DOWNHILL ski….DOWNHILL ski.”

Aaaahhhhh…..THAT explains EVERYTHING.  It was not my clutziness or my ineptitude…..it was just a good, old-fashioned language barrier.

I went to sleep that night once again full of hope.  Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I truly believed that “tomorrow would be a better day.”

……to be continued.

I Just Don't Get It

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great Uncle Gene spent Thanksgiving with us this year.  He drove up the day before, getting here in the early evening after a horrific snow storm dumped about six inches of the white stuff on Sugar Mountain.  We went to bed that night with a temperature of eleven degrees, feeling like -1 because of the wind chill factor. 

By Thanksgiving morning, though, the sun rose over the mountain and provided some warmth through a crystal clear blue sky. After breakfast, and after putting the turkey in the oven, we decided to take a walk up to the ski lodge and get some hot chocolate while we watched the skiers and snowboarders navigating the slopes.  One poor soul caught my eye - a sympathetic one mind you - as she doggedly plodded down the hill merely a few feet at a time before falling forward or squatting backward in a heroic effort to master a workable technique for the two sticks she found attached to her feet.

Some honesty here – I have a hate/hate relationship with snow skiing.  Oh, in my 65 years, I’ve given it many a chance to win me over, but from the very beginning we were doomed.

 

My first foray into the sport came in college when I went to Cattaloochee Ski Resort in Maggie Valley, NC, with several friends.  After purchasing our lift tickets, we were directed to the equipment rental department where we procured our boots, skis and poles.  I think, looking back on it, this is where my disaffection for skiing actually began.  The boots were made from a cumbersome hard leather with clasps on the toe and heel to insert in the ski.  They were certainly not dainty to begin with, but in my size of 8-1/2, they long since passed any semblance of a shoe - they were more like concrete blocks.  When I put them on, I felt like, oh I don't now.....a Clydesdale.

The skis themselves were wooden, nothing like the alloy mixes you find today.  And, they basically measured the same length regardless of your height.  A metal cradle was bolted into each board with insertion points to match the boot clasps.  A couple of straps were attached to the heel of the cradle to thread over the boot and lock it to the ski.  Supposedly, this was to keep you from losing the ski should the boot come out of the cradle. Figuring out how to properly lace them required an engineering degree.

The only pieces of equipment with which I felt any ease were the poles.  They were pretty straight up.

Since I had never skied before, I signed up for a lesson.  One of my friends helped me get my boots set and strapped my skis.  The trick then was figuring out how to get up to the bunny slope where several others gathered around an instructor.  I couldn't walk - the weight on each leg felt like lifting brickbats.  Sliding the skis first one then the other just left me standing in the same place.  Finally, I turned sideways and lifted one ski up the hill and sloshed the other after it, digging the poles in the ground as hard as I could. 

The class began like this -

"I want each of you to sit down," the instructor said, "because you're going to fall a lot today and you need to know how to get up."

All of us curled down to the snow.

"Now, here's how you do it."  He demonstrated pressing the skis sideways against the slope and using the poles to push himself upright.  "Okay, now try it."

The students followed his directions.  One by one they all popped up....except for me.  I pushed hard.  My skis slid out from under me.  I adjusted the angle to the slope and pushed again, making a very unflattering grunting sound.  Nothing happened.  Everybody stood there watching as a flush of embarrassment rose up my neck and blushed my entire face.  I felt like a beached seal flailing away on the shore.  Much to my relief, the instructor finally took pity and came over to help me.

“Whew,” I thought.  “Glad to have that over.”

“All right, let’s try it again,” he directed.

“Nuts!”

We all collapsed again.  This time, it took just a few seconds for everybody to right themselves…..except for me.  I stabbed my poles into the snow and forced the skis as hard as I could into the slope.  Just as I could feel myself starting to stand, they slid out from under me and I fell backwards, knees bent beneath me.  I lay there helpless, and mortified.  

Out of some compassion, and probably a realization that he didn't need to waste any more time on teaching us how to "get up," the instructor came over again to help me.  We spent the remainder of the session learning the basics, how to put your weight over the skis to go forward and how to snow plow to stop.  The instructor finally dismissed us and told us to go over to the practice slope for a while before we attempted the more difficult runs.

The practice slope consisted of a rope on pulleys that moved skiers up a gentle hill for about 50 yards.  I managed to maneuver over to the end of the line, took my place at the bottom and began tromping up to the start.  It looked simple enough - turn your skis up the hill, tuck your poles under your arm, grab the rope and let it pull you up.  The skier ahead of me took his turn.  I got in place, reached out for the rope and -- BAM!-- the next thing I know, my face is squarely planted in the snow between my skis, the heels of my boots popped from their sockets. I'm down. The pulley operator stopped the rope with several skiers dangling onto it. The line behind me began to stack up.  My poles slowly slid away down the hill.

The position I assumed made it almost impossible to move.  When I finally was able to throw myself over on my back, carrying the dangling skis over my head, it must have looked like a helicopter crash.  Some blessed soul came over to assist me.  He lifted me off the ground and moved me out of the way so the pulley could start again.  By then, the line of skiers went all the way to the bottom of the hill at the lodge.  He reconstructed my equipment while I tenuously held onto him.  Once my boots were locked and strapped and I was reunited with my poles, I began the arduous slog back over to the line.

I worked my way up the hill in the queue.  Four skiers ahead took the rope….three skiers ahead of me……two…..one…I tucked my poles under my arms….my turn.  I grabbed the rope and –- BAM! – like a scene from Groundhog Day, my face hit the snow again faster than one can say “DUMB!.”

Who knew?  Along with snow-plowing, it would have been nice to get some instruction on how to use the pulley – like leaning back a little before you clutch the rope!

With my pride in total shambles, my decision at that point to take my skis off, turn them back in and go to the lodge for a day-long hot chocolate binge was one of the easiest I’ve ever made.  Yes, my relationship with snow skiing definitely got off to a rocky start.  May need some counseling….

……..to be continued.