In last week’s post I mentioned that when I was a kid I was never that interested in playing outside in winter. Actually, that has never changed, and here are some related experiences.
When I was five, Santa gave me ice skates. With great ceremony Dot and Sam laced me into the skates and stood me up on the ice of The Common in Harvard Square. I can’t recall exactly what happened, but that was my only time on ice skates.
It was probably 1970 when parishioners invited the family to their house in the Poconos. They had skis for all, including me. As I went down the hill for the first time – and truth be told, it was more like a speed bump- I was so terrified that I prayed, “Dear God, if you will just let me get to the bottom of this hill alive, I will never be so foolish as to try to ski again.” And I didn’t.
Fast forward to about 2000. I had moved to Hanover, NH, the mecca of outdoor winter sports. My family encouraged me to get snowshoes so we could all go out snowshoeing. But that winter went by, and then the next, and the snowshoes were still fastened together as when purchased. It had slowly dawned on me that to snowshoe I would actually have to go out in the snow and cold. So I sold the snowshoes.
I live across the street from a cross-country ski field, so when there is barely enough snow and it is still rather dark, the skiers begin arriving. Even at a distance I can tell they are thrilled. So am I —that I can stay in my warm house and enjoy a winter sport vicariously.
© Dorothy C. Judd
Next post: Monday, Dec. 22