First Day of Winter

First day of winter, and the darkest day of the year. He's glad he doesn't live in Alaska. Or Norway. No wonder they go to the saunas so much in those Scandinavian countries, to remember what heat and steam felt like, and maybe to appreciate the winter by comparison. But then, they have polar bear swimming clubs too.

Only four days til Christmas, and as usual, the holiday has crept up on him, as it has since he was in college. He hasn't put up a Christmas tree, or even lights this year. The last few weeks have been spent grading. Before then the weeks before Christmas were spent studying, getting ready for finals and squeezing in Christmas shopping on weekends and late at night. One year he walked out into the middle of a parade, going through town. He stopped for a moment, standing in the small crowd as reindeer and children with bells and red and green suits marched by, followed by a fat Santa. He remembered then, when he was growing up, his parents pulled records from under the record player (it even had an eight-track player) and played Bing Crosby's White Christmas and the Chipmunks' Christmas album, or Sandi Patti and others he has forgotten while cookies baked in the kitchen or he and his dad worked on unstringing the lights, testing them, then wrapping them around the Christmas tree.

They always got a fresh one, the Christmas tree, and not off a lot. There were a few tree farms just outside outside of town, and Dad would pull the saw off a nail in the garage, and they'd pile in the car and set off in search of the "perfect tree."

"It has to be full," Mom would say, and they'd spend what felt like hours in the bitter cold, deliberating, stamping their feet to stay warm, as Mom would circle the tree, sizing it up, "No, no good," then move on to the next one, and the next, and the next, until she and Dad were satisfied. Mom would hold the tree while Dad sawed back and forth at the base, but holding the tree wasn't the fun job because whoever held it would have sticky pine sap hands for the rest of the night. The tree would shiver, then bow, and finally collapse as the saw bit through the last of the wood fiber. It toppled to the ground, to be lifted on top of the roof of the car--pine needles, tree sap and all--where it would be transformed into something else, a thing of light and hanging memories of ornaments from previous years. There was Scooby Doo, and Santa, and Mickey's Christmas Carol, and turtledoves from the year his parents had married, and polar bears and bunnies and the crumbling clay ornament with the faded kindergarten picture that seemed too shabby and fragile to hang, but was never thrown away. It found its way onto the tree, each year looking more and more faded, and the tree began to sag under the weight of previous years and last year's silver and gold tinsel.

The house held a warm softness on these nights, even though the wind whistled and rattled just outside. It's sounds mingled with "The weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful . . ." and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," and tales of the "Night Before Christmas," and the pile of red, green, and blue wrapped presents that formed growing mountains around the manger scene at the base of the tree.

* * *

A fat snowman and Santa Claus greet him as he crunches through the snow from the parking lot and enters the front door of the apartment complex. The gazebo in the quad is covered with snow and lights that have been strung between it and the leafless trees. A couple lamposts stand guard, and empty wooden benches and a couple metal grills, sleeping reminders of warm summer nights, green grass, flowers, and the pungent odor of sizzling meat over charcoal. He fumbles for the keys with cold, stiff hands, drops them into the snowbank, curses, then plunges his hand in to pull them out, noticing how the snow hurts his skin as it turns quickly to liquid in his palm. The key fits into the lock, the door opens, and he climbs the stairs. He's home.

Winter Days

I hate the cold. I didn't realize this until after three years of living in Michigan, driving thousands of miles a month, and not feeling warm since September. Today's one of the few days in the last couple weeks that it hasn't snowed, for which I'm thankful, but instead a bitter, "through your clothes and into your bones" kind of chill has set in. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating.

Here are some of the upsides of winter. I love waking up in the morning (if it's not still dark outside) and seeing a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, before the snowplow goes through and dingy gray tracks begin to crisscross the snow. It's also quiet, especially on warm winter nights (right around the 30 degree mark) when thick flakes fall and create a solitary world, where it's just you and a few others, watching the flakes drift down in the streetlights andChristmas lights. Thick, white blankets cover the trees, the traffic is silenced or muffled, and it's just . . . peaceful. I like those nights, and love ending those days by lighting some candles, grabbing a blanket, turning out the other lights in the house and sitting by a window with a warm drink in my hand, watching until I fall asleep.

Another thing I like about winter: skiing. Though I've only been skiing twice, I really liked it. Most of my life, however, I've lived in Illinois, and not the hilly parts of northern Illinois or southern Illinois, but the flat, windy, icy cornfield area of Illinois. Before that we lived in Indiana. On Christmas day, 2001, I went skiing with my mom and a cousin out in Boise, Idaho. We went to Bogus Basin, and waited until it was dark to go skiing. Only the lights from the cabin, the slopes, and a clear night sky lit up the night. And I remember it being bright as it reflected off the snow.

For a skiier, thinking about snow is different. The snow wasn't snow that night, but "powder" and it was something to play in, not complain about as it piled up on our cars and on the roads and stiffened our joints and axles. For the first time, we wanted more of it, and watched with excitement as it accumulated. "A couple inches of powder today? That's great? That'll make for some good skiing."

My cousin has been skiing a lot, and she taught me a couple ways to slow down or stop (very important). "Spread 'em like you want it," she said, meaning the skis, into a V-shaped position. After a couple tries, I had it down, and practiced on the bunny slope while she moved on to more challenging runs, to work on her S-curve and wipeout techniques. I'd have plenty of practice with that just on the beginner run.

One thing about the beginner slope though at Bogus Basin. It wasn't just any bunny beginner slope, but the "slope of terror!" Maybe not, but on the left side of the slope was a 10-15 foot dropoff onto the 2-lane road below that had brought us up the mountain. A few trees and some brush would have cushioned the fall if one were to get too close and go over the edge, but if the trees and the highway didn't stop your descent down the mountain, a 50-70 foot sheer drop on the other side of the road would be sure to take you to the bottom, fast. However, it didn't end there. The ground wasn't as sheer after that, but the slope only gradually became gentler, leading to the foothills and the city below.

The only reason I mention all this is because of something that happened that made me more aware of the edge of the run, the road below, and the sheer dropoff after that, in my mind's eye if not through the actual experience. I was taking a run down the slope, beginning to get a feel for small turns and speeding up and slowing down. I wasn't falling, and had only fallen once or twice that night. Below me, further down the hill, my mom was practicing some wide S-curves (back-and-forth, back-and-forth), and I heard and sensed a snowboarder further up the hill and to my right. I was going pretty straight, angling toward the edge but trying to keep a safe distance from it. I looked down at my skis to make sure they were running straight, and when I looked up, it happened. My birth mom made a wide left, crossing my path. In 20 yards, we would have impact. I began angling further to the left (and further to the edge of the cliff) to avoid her. Meanwhile, the snowboarder behind me had picked up speed, was right on my tail, and then on top of my right ski (literally). A three-way collision was quickly developing and I had to do something fast.

Here were my options:
Option 1: Hit everyone and go down in a pile.
Option 2: Bite it now, and be the only one to wipe out.
Option 3: Go over the edge of the cliff
Option 4: Shift weight hard to the left side and hope to shoot out in front of the snowboarder and Mom, and ski to safety further down the hill.

I wasn't sure I could do option 4, and Option 3 was looking like more of a possibility every second. It was then I realized where Option 3 would lead (as described earlier). Option 1 could cause some serious injury (not just to me), and Option 2 could also cause some injury (mainly to me. Did I also mention how much I don't like cold?) Biting it in the snow didn't seem like an option.

It was now or never, so I decided to try Option 4, with Option 2 as a backup to avoid Options 1 and 3, especially to avoid Option 3. I leaned hard on my left ski, somehow broke away from the snowboarder, narrowly missed my mom, and sped down the hill, sticks tucked under my arms, knees bent like I was doing time trials for the Winter Olympics. I heard shouts behind me, then let loose with one of my own. I had skied to safety.

Later, over a cup of hot chocolate, my mom said, "You did that perfectly! You didn't even seem nervous.""I was terrified," I laughed, then took another drink of hot chocolate.

* * *Now, the downsides of winter. It's dark, it's cold, and driving through blizzards is downright scary. But more about that later . . .