Hubby and I have gone skiing. We’ll be in the Laurentians for a week. Eating, skiing, reading, napping. Hopefully a week of sunshine, fresh air, and exercise… counter balanced by lots of naps… will kick my lingering cold to the curb. We’ll see.
In the meantime, I’ll send this old post about skiing your way. It’s one of my favourites. Hope you enjoy it. 😊
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Downhill skiing and I have always had a fraught relationship. I wanted to love it when I was young. I did love it for a brief period. Then I hated it again. Then I met Hubby and learned to ski properly, took lessons, and began to love it again, for a time. I will say that downhill skiing taught me a few lessons, on the hill and off.
But let’s go back to the beginning. When I was a kid, my older sister Carolyn received a pair of blue skis with poles for Christmas. When she outgrew them, I inherited them. I used to love to carry them up to the top of the hill at home, strap them on to my winter boots, and push off, shushing straight to the bottom. That was skiing as far as I knew.
A few years later when I was fifteen and in grade ten, my first year in the big high school in town, the school had a winter carnival. Being in high school for the first time, in a really big school, and travelling all the way to town on the bus was exciting. Being able to leave the school grounds at lunch and go wherever we wanted as long as we weren’t late for our first afternoon class was a dream come true for country kids like me. And then in February came winter carnival. All kinds of activities, a nighttime variety show, and even a ski day at a local ski hill. No school and we got to go skiing. My friend Debbie and I were keen.
I had skis didn’t I? Yep. My step-father dug them out from under some piles of lumber in the barn. I was a bit crestfallen when I saw them; they were in rough shape, their blue paint chipped and flaking. “Suz,” my stepdad said, “we’ll give them a fresh coat of paint, and they’ll be good as new.” A few days later my old skis were shining, freshly covered with a coat of the white enamel paint my mum had used on the kitchen cupboards, and I was ready for fun on the slopes.
Early on the morning of the ski day, my stepfather dropped Debbie and me off at the ski hill. We were almost the first ones there. We stood our skis in the racks outside the lodge, and headed in to buy our two dollar passes. And figure out what to do next. I’d never been skiing anywhere but on the hill at home. And neither had Debbie. Still, we figured we could watch everyone else, and do what they did. I remember being shocked that we had to pay five dollars extra for some sort of harness called a safety strap, but we shelled out for those, and collected our passes.
Lots of kids had arrived in the meantime and were milling around outside. A big group of boys and girls stood around the ski racks. Laughing. Then I noticed that a boy I knew from Math class had one of my gleaming, freshly painted skis in his hand. They were laughing at my old skis. My stomach turned over. My face grew hot. I thought I was going to cry. There was no force on earth that could have made me go out there and claim those skis as mine. Debbie pleaded and cajoled and argued, but I was immovable. I didn’t care if I wasted my money or the whole day, I’d not go out there until everyone, but everyone, was gone.
Of course the kids all left eventually, heading off for the lifts. I scuttled outside, placed my skis on the ground, and proceeded to try to pack snow on the tops of them so you couldn’t see that they were old hand-painted ones, with no lettering at all. In the bright sunshine you could even see the brushstrokes made by my stepdad’s paintbrush, the thick white paint barely covering the blue. I’m cringing as I write this. Cringing for my fifteen year old, naive self.
Debbie and I eventually learned how to go up the rope tow, and we had a passably okay time on the bunny hill, but essentially my day had been ruined. I hid my skis around the side of the lodge when we went in for lunch. That night at supper I lied like a trooper when my mum and my stepfather wanted to know how my ski day went, and the old blue, now white, skis went back to the lumber pile in the barn.
In retrospect, I think that something of my fifteen-year-old emotional angst must have crept into my story of our day because both my step-brother and I received brand new ski boots, and skis as an early Easter present a few weeks later. Wait a minute. Easter presents? We never received Easter presents. Chocolate bunnies, yes. Skis, not so much.
And before the snow melted away entirely that winter, I had my first ski lesson. My mother’s cousin, Walter, who had grown up in Edmundston, New Brunswick and had been one of the people instrumental in opening up the Mont Farlagne ski facility near there, was a lifelong skier. Of the Hemingway kind. He told us how he and his friends spent hours walking up Mount Farlagne in the forties, carrying their skies, and then skiing back down. Just like Hemingway in his short story “Cross Country Snow.”
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| Hemingway and friends skiing in Austria in 1926. source |
That winter, when Walter and his wife came to visit on Sunday afternoons, Walter, my step-brother David, two years my junior, and I would carry our skis up the big hill behind our house, and along the old road that ran back to the ridge where my stepdad used to cut logs. Then we’d make the long run all the way back down to the house. It took ages. And we loved it. Walter taught us about bending our knees, about snow plowing in order to stop or turn, about unweighting, and using our poles. David was much better than me. Being nine axe-handles tall (as my grandfather used to say) with long skinny legs, I struggled. Walter said it might take me longer to develop the leg muscles I needed, but not to be discouraged. The next winter, I went back to the ski hill where I’d felt so humiliated, with my girlfriends. I had actual ski boots and real skis, and I knew the rudimentary principals of how to get down the hill. The T-bar lift, well, that’s a whole other story. Ha.
Still, even with real skis, it took me years to feel that I belonged on a ski hill, to get over the irrational fear that somehow I would be caught out as the farm kid who had the weird skis, that skiing was not for the likes of me. Not until I met Hubby and began to ski with him, and then took lessons, did I actually begin to enjoy downhill skiing. Hard to believe that such a small thing can have such a big impact, isn’t it?
So where am I going with this? Well, I guess you could say that I learned some lessons that winter I was fifteen. About how to ski, obviously. But more importantly I learned about unkindness. And about kindness.
It was my very first experience, I think, with the idea that there were such things as social barriers. That some of us are born knowing how to navigate certain social situations. That money and social position can separate us. That there was a code that some kids knew because their parents knew it, because their parents had the money to open doors that mine did not. Before that, I always thought that being smart, doing well in school, being friendly and enthusiastic was enough to open whatever doors I wished. It never dawned on me that others at fifteen already had experience in a world about which I knew nothing. The skiers in my high school were mostly the kids from town whose parents were doctors and lawyers, not farmers or mechanics. At least that’s how it seemed to me, the daughter of a farmer. In my naivete, I thought that no one would notice if I had old hand-painted skis, let alone be unkind enough to laugh at them. Turns out I was wrong.
But on the other hand. What about the very unusual Easter gifts that David and I received from Mum and my step-father that year? Probably an expense that my parents could ill afford. I can’t remember ever asking for skis, maybe I did. And Walter coming to visit with his skis, and his long experience on the slopes, and his wisdom? What about that? How smart and kind the adults in my life were, eh?
In retrospect, what a lucky kid I was.
That’s my ski pass, above, from the year that I started downhill skiing with Hubby. I took lessons that year, but didn’t own a ski suit or skis until the following year. I wore Hubby’s old jacket, and used borrowed skis, and didn’t care. Twenty years and a lot more confidence can make a world of difference.
Gosh. I’m nostalgic today. How about you, my friends? Any ski stories that had a lifelong impact on you? Or maybe not necessarily ski stories, but seemingly small experiences that taught you big life lessons?
Joining Catherine this week at #ShareAllLinkup
26 thoughts on “Ski Lessons in Kindness … Again”
Hand me the tissues, Sue, what a tear jerker! Beautifully written and it opens up memories of similar experiences and reminiscences for most of us, I'm sure. Oh, was there something about skiing in there? I dunno because I'm focused on all the emotion in there. Hugs, x.
Ah, thanks Mary. That's the best compliment.
Yes , I think you were lucky & your parents were lucky too . You didn’t come home moaning about your lot & stomp off in a sulk . I sometimes think a ‘simple’ life as a youngster makes you really appreciate the improvements as you get older . Like central heating – how wonderful is that ! I only have one skiing memory . It was an unusually hard winter with deep snow . My dad got hold of some ancient skis ( where from ?) & said we were off skiing . So we kids & friends all less than teenage , set off walking , with him carrying the skis to a nearby hill . We took it in turns to strap the skis on – SO HEAVY & SO LONG , to set off down the hill . No one got further than a couple of yards before tippling over & rolling about in the snow . It was great fun but I haven’t ever tried a second time . We never saw the skis again . Perhaps that was my lesson – it wasn’t for me .
Wendy in York
Ha. That's a good story, Wendy. Re: the moaning. I certainly did enough moaning about everything else when I was a teenager. I think that partly, I didn't want to say that the skis that my step-father repainted weren't good enough. I was a lot more protective of him than my mum. Poor mum:)
Beautifully written, Sue, and brought back memories of kindness vs unkindness. I cannot relate to the skiing, as living in the southern US, we were lucky to have a snow worthy of dragging the old sleds out once or twice a winter. But the unkindness of others due to advantage hit home. I took the lesson to heart though, and am proud to say we raised 3 young adults, who work in fields helping disadvantaged people. So I guess those life lessons that hurt so at 13 and beyond were put to good use. Your parents and cousin must have been very kind souls.
Thanks, Judy. It's so important isn't it to inculcate that lesson early in kids? Good for you for raising kind children!
Gosh – I Love that story Sue. I have been thinking a lot about resilience and fortitude lately, triggered because some of the people in my life are struggling to find those attitudes. I would not want to be fifteen again, not for all the money in the world. Your fifteen year old self shows an attitude that I so admire in you as a person and a leader. Thanks for your story.
I know that people in your life have certainly needed resilience. As have you, kiddo. I still remember the story of the potatoes:) Hope things are good with you all. We should get together for coffee one day.
Teenage years. No thanks, not even for the skin tone would I have them back again. Nor would I have wanted the double-edged sword of privilege with the sense of obligation for all life's leg-ups. Still, you persevered and now you can ski with the best of them. Just the mention of lifts and those weird bar things to sit on…yikes.
No… me either. I'd not be fifteen again for all the tea in China. And for this tea drinker that's saying a lot:)
Yes, we all carry the unkindness, and the kindness of childhood memories. Inside we are nine, and fifteen years old still. It really proves what forms us as adults. If we are very fortunate we have gained wisdom from all our experiences.
Ali
We are indeed still our fifteen year old selves inside.
Such a touching story, Sue. Growing up on the prairies, my two high school field trips to ski involved four hours riding in a school bus to and from the one provincial park with hills. I rented skis on the first outing but my friend, Debbie, and I bought skis and boots at Hudson's Bay for the second trip and can't have spent much more than $75 for both. We were middle class but not doctors' or lawyers' kids–my parents were teachers. So, I just wore my regular coat and jeans and had none of the other ski gear. The most memorable part of the experience was watching my future husband stand in the school bus aisle on the way home, belting out Junior Walker's "War, what is it good for?. . ." It was the early 70s and we fancied ourselves as rebels, I guess. Though I can't get him to sing anymore, he was really good, and I was smitten that day in February, 1972.
Gosh, we must be around the same age…my story took place the winter of '72 as well. I can just picture your future Hubby singing that song.
Oh dear, skis, teenage years, it was all hideous. I ended up on my bottom skiing down a hill I had no business being on with the cool kids seeing me. Yes, and top that with falling off the tow bar and it all coming to a stop . The joy I felt that day. Why did I read your post. ����
That T-bar was a disaster for us all when we tried it. One trip up the hill we all fell off because we were laughing so hard at the friend who went up first and who sat on the bar, then when it snapped, grabbed ahold of it and went up the hill holding it over her head. Still makes me laugh thinking of that.
what a moving story, but also your comment above “we are indeed still our fifteen year old selves inside.” So true. So very true. And if we can keep growing to the point where we comprehend the love of your stepfather? Grace upon grace.
Such an emotional story and wonderfully written as well. It must have been difficult for you,as well as for your parents.But,you all went through it in an excellent way,full of love and concern for one another. I'm sure that you are not only a better skier and human,but that your achievements in life are higher than those bunch of kids laughing at your skis,painted with white enamel paint and love
Kids can be so cruel and laugh at another indeed. It was, and it is, a kind of behaviour I can't tolerate
If we only could teach and advise our former,teenage selfs
I don't ski at all-when I was young,it wasn't something I've found interesting (there was only occasionally snow on nearest hills,one had to travel with the groups,I was a little bit afraid….)and later was too clumsy to actually start. Cross-country skiing I did find attractive but have never tried …..
Dottoressa
Thanks, Dottoressa. My skis were indeed painted with enamel and love… what a wonderful way to put it.
Hi Sue, sorry …. I'm somewhat behind with commenting but I want to say how emotional this made me feel … I really empathised with your teenage self as it brought back memories of comparable situations I experienced, growing up. ( although not with skis) So many mean girls! and sometimes boys.
I think the love your family showed in all they did, completely shines out … so brightly!
Rosie
Those teenage moments never go away, do they?
Sue, I am moved by your wonderful post to comment, as I rarely do. The memories of my 13-year old self came flooding back. My dad had taught me to ski at age nine. When I was 13 (c. 1965), he acquired for me some well-used equipment, red wooden skis, and ill-fitting leather lace-up boots. I bravely maneuvered them down the ungroomed slopes, not knowing until I heard a terrifying SNAP! that the bear-trap bindings had me in their unforgiving grip. We both knew that sound was my bone moving one way when the skis moved the other.
Dad felt guilty for years, but after my long recovery, we went on to adventures from Pennsylvania to Vermont, to Tremblant, and Colorado. I miss his zest for life.
That was beautiful, Susan… and I love the ID photo 😀
That post was well worth reading again . Enjoy your trip Sue – come back fighting fit .
What a lovely story about the pain of life and lessons learned. I wish my parents were still alive for me to say thank you for all the things they did for me that they couldn’t afford and I never realized or appreciated. Who EVER thought to inflict t-bars on beginner skiiers? I’m am always at least 6″ shorter than whomever I’m paired with on a t-bar – just not going to work! I did go on to become an avid skiier, but am now delighted to hang out in the lodge and enjoy all the ski ambiance. Hope you have a wonderful trip!
We had a great, trip. Thanks, Mary. And on the trail one day we discussed how much we both don’t miss down hill skiing. Hubby was much more accomplished than me. I was just getting confident when we packed it in the year we were heading to Australia. One collision with an out of control snow-boarder can change one’s plans in a second. 🙂
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