The last time slides by
We're trying to figure out how to get rid of our old skis, and that's got me thinking. Sometimes when we do something for the last time, it just slides by. We don't realize till much later.
I loved skiing but can't remember the last time I went, but I do remember a few memorable ski moments. Like when on Mount Baker, I accidentally dropped a pole from the chair lift. Was delighted to see someone ski by and pick it up, assuming he'd return it to the bottom of the chair. Not at all. I heard all about him later. Apparently he had a cabin on the mountain, and collected lost poles for his guests.
Then there was the time on Mount Seymour with an ESL class. I was feeling brave, and watching others ski over a perfect-sized bump, I decided I too could get some air time. A French-Canadian fellow coached me along. "That was good," he encouraged after my first try. "But next time, hopen your eyes!"
When I was nearly six months pregnant, I insisted my husband learn to ski. Once the baby came, I argued, we'll be too busy. It was now or never and we headed for Whistler. We were on the Pony Trail, an easy green run, when I fell. It was a gentle plop into soft snow, with no harm done. But I couldn't get up, because my centre of gravity was changed. My husband had to ski over and haul me to my feet. A good ski lesson for a first day out on the slopes.
We got our daughter on skis early, and she skiied between his legs till she could go on her own. We had several enjoyable family holidays skiing together, till she decided in her teens that she needed to try a snowboard.
On one of the last ski holidays, I remember, when we returned to the condo after a day of skiing, I was exhausted. Just one more run, I cajoled, and we rode up on those last precious runs of the chairlift. Home and dry, we got out of our wet ski clothes, all leaned against the bolster of the bed to watch a little TV. I could hear my husband and daughter talking, but their voices were fading. In seconds, I was sound asleep.
I woke some time later and heard them in the kitchen making dinner. Maybe I'm getting too old for this, I thought, and quickly put the thought away. But looking back now, I wonder if that could have been the last time. Might have been, but I'm not sure. The last time slid by without my noticing.
How clearly I remember buying those Rossignol Meribel skis. New, not second hand. Bliss. I used the money from a small inheritance that an aunt left me. First, a washer and dryer -- the first set I owned. Then the skis, and all the gear to go with them.
The washer and dryer lasted well; they even moved house with us once. But they're long gone. Not surprising when you consider that it's probably thirty years since I bought the machines, and the skis. During my skiing phase, I replaced the boots and bindings, but the skis are still in the garage.
They won't be there much longer. My skiing days are probably over; if not, I'll rent skis. Meanwhile, Salud! to my Rossis. I loved them well.
I loved skiing but can't remember the last time I went, but I do remember a few memorable ski moments. Like when on Mount Baker, I accidentally dropped a pole from the chair lift. Was delighted to see someone ski by and pick it up, assuming he'd return it to the bottom of the chair. Not at all. I heard all about him later. Apparently he had a cabin on the mountain, and collected lost poles for his guests.
Then there was the time on Mount Seymour with an ESL class. I was feeling brave, and watching others ski over a perfect-sized bump, I decided I too could get some air time. A French-Canadian fellow coached me along. "That was good," he encouraged after my first try. "But next time, hopen your eyes!"
When I was nearly six months pregnant, I insisted my husband learn to ski. Once the baby came, I argued, we'll be too busy. It was now or never and we headed for Whistler. We were on the Pony Trail, an easy green run, when I fell. It was a gentle plop into soft snow, with no harm done. But I couldn't get up, because my centre of gravity was changed. My husband had to ski over and haul me to my feet. A good ski lesson for a first day out on the slopes.
We got our daughter on skis early, and she skiied between his legs till she could go on her own. We had several enjoyable family holidays skiing together, till she decided in her teens that she needed to try a snowboard.
On one of the last ski holidays, I remember, when we returned to the condo after a day of skiing, I was exhausted. Just one more run, I cajoled, and we rode up on those last precious runs of the chairlift. Home and dry, we got out of our wet ski clothes, all leaned against the bolster of the bed to watch a little TV. I could hear my husband and daughter talking, but their voices were fading. In seconds, I was sound asleep.
I woke some time later and heard them in the kitchen making dinner. Maybe I'm getting too old for this, I thought, and quickly put the thought away. But looking back now, I wonder if that could have been the last time. Might have been, but I'm not sure. The last time slid by without my noticing.
How clearly I remember buying those Rossignol Meribel skis. New, not second hand. Bliss. I used the money from a small inheritance that an aunt left me. First, a washer and dryer -- the first set I owned. Then the skis, and all the gear to go with them.
The washer and dryer lasted well; they even moved house with us once. But they're long gone. Not surprising when you consider that it's probably thirty years since I bought the machines, and the skis. During my skiing phase, I replaced the boots and bindings, but the skis are still in the garage.
They won't be there much longer. My skiing days are probably over; if not, I'll rent skis. Meanwhile, Salud! to my Rossis. I loved them well.