If the sun were shining like this in Tucson, or in the suburbs around Phoenix, it would melt your mascara and give you second degree burns when you sit on a seatbelt while getting in the car. I have friends from upstate New York and Minnesota, who have told me they don't even run an air conditioner in Phoenix, because they'd grown up in snow and ice and never wanted to be cold again. I. Would. Die.
There came a day for me when I swore I never wanted to be hot again. We moved from Northern Arizona to Phoenix in July. From Phoenix to Tucson in August. I mean, if you're going to expire from heat exhaustion, make it obvious. It just naturally falls that we'd move to Pinetop in December, in three feet of snow. The kind of wet, sloppy, but deep snow on this clayey, gumbo soil that will suck down the tires of the moving van and cause them to have to call a tow truck. It's how we move, my Honey and I.
I love winter. When we used to ski - yes, ski - I mean relentlessly checking base levels, buying season lift tickets for a family of four, critically judging the right amount of fresh powder, and practicing slalom over a railroad tie in the back yard in tennis shoes - kind of skiing, my happiest times were on a mountain top, with the wind in my face and a cap of breath-ice forming on my face mask. There were some falls, too. One trip to Purgatory for Christmas where one of the kids got a stomach bug (yes, that kind) in the car on the way up, and then skied two days, so the other kid could get it on the way home. But still, still with that going on, our family's best times together were on skis. There were no teams to cheer, no football score, broken bones or tennis rackets, no wretched bermuda grass to stand in, for me no palpitating heart or red-faced sweating while guzzling water and feeling faint. Skiing was all fun and cocoa and oversized hamburgers and still staying a size eight, because downhill takes more energy than you'd ever imagine. It wasn't about playing a sport, it was about us. We were a unit, a family of skiers, intent on snow and lifts and black diamonds. Oh, what a rush it was.
It was a great shock to me the last time we went altogether because I was searching for the kids - you always got separated on the way down back then, and never worried about anyone coming to harm - and when I picked out a couple of pre-teenaged snow suits and tassel-y Nordic hats, I sensed something was very wrong. That jacket was not my son's. And wait, that hat was orange, not red on my daughter's blond hair. The two kids turned around just as my real offspring came shooshing up, spraying me with rooster tails of snow from their perfectly choreographed side-by-side slaloms. Mine were both taller than me and 18 and 20 years old. Well, how ever did that happen? The little ski bunnies I was looking for were grown. The young strangers looked at me as if I'd just been let out for the day and my real kids laughed their heads off. It was 1998, and I felt as if a gong sounded.
There have been many miles between then and now, and reasons to think about pulling stakes and moving on. The year before we came here, we made no less than five offers on five different homes - all the sort of desperate fixer uppers that would make a good TV show. Each and every time, something came along and pulled the rug out from under the deal. After the fifth one, we gave up. Went to spend the summer at our Lakeside cabin, and promised each other never again will we talk of square footage or loans or stucco repair.
John was playing golf, and one of my favorite things to do when he's golfing is to take my Muse out to lunch, where she and I can think about writing and books, and listen to the wind in the tall pine trees. That day, the restaurant I chose had an hour's wait for lunch, so I drove through a Taco Bell and took my taco and drove down an unfamiliar road. Land For Sale. Big lot. Pines and oaks. "Say nothing," Musette whispered. But. . . Honey asked me where I'd had lunch, then wanted to see the land. I'll tell more about the process in another article, but suffice it to say, we sold the cabin and the house in Tucson in less than three weeks, closed on the land in eight days, and got a building permit the next day. So much for five failed attempts to move in Tucson. Sometimes I feel the touch of Divine Intervention in my life, and this was one of those times.
The mountains have always brought me joy. Even with snow, and cold, and hats and gloves. Sadly, after crossing the tips of my skis and doing a header on solid ice which played havoc with some discs in my neck, and my Honey being in a bad motorcycle wreck and needing two bionic knees, we don't ski any more. Today the wind coming off the snow at about 25 miles an hour cuts through my coat and gloves. It's January. The snow feels bitter, and biting, and cloistering. Musette is happy - writing time, reading time, snuggling time. No longer a size eight and don't much care. "Polar bears!" the Muse snickers. Today at the Taco Bell, sun-burned skiers with runny noses and goggles crooked over their Nordic hats waited in line in front of me. "Good powder?" I ask. "Seventy inch base, couple inches of light on top." he answered. "Perfect," I said with a smile. Good memories swirled around me as I hurried to my car. I love living on the mountain, but this is a day for an extra pot of coffee with my tacos.
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