Like many of the good people raised in Calgary, I am a skier, well, that’s not entirely true, since I haven’t skied in at least 15 years, but I used to ski a lot. There have been some bad runs, like when I wiped out, bouncing over moguls, skis and gloves trailing behind me, screaming “DADDY!!!”, while my brother and father nervously giggled below, relieved that I was finally moving forward, and not still standing at the top of the hill crying. There have been some good runs too, like when I finally managed to get off the chair without having a panic attack and needing the lift operators to slow it down, or the joy I felt when I realized that I could navigate on my new 180” s.
I started in the days of safety straps, with bindings so tight that the strong men I would ask to help me, visibly struggled to get them undone, “well, little girl” they would grunt, “those really are some tight bindings”, I was about 7. As I grew and moved from snow pants to stretchies and safety straps to brakes, I also became a better and braver skier. In part I have my brother to thank, we were on a run one day, and I was rallying for yet another hot chocolate break. Al wanted to continue skiing, and we weren’t allowed to separate. His argument was compelling, although at the time I pretended it repulsed me. He suggested, that someday a cute boy might ask me to go skiing, and I would be sorry if I didn’t know how. Simple, powerful and effective.
My junior high winters were all about skiing. Every Saturday I went to Norquay, famous for it’s black diamond run, The Lone Pine. Apparently someone once hit THE lone pine and died, which is pretty weird, because it really is the only tree on the run, and you would actually have to try to hit it for that to happen. Norquay is a second rate Banff hill, tied in its relative mediocrity with Fortress, the hill I went to on Saturday’s when I was in elementary school. Lake Louise and Sunshine are the diamonds of the cluster, but at least I wasn’t going to Paskapoo or Shaganappi, which any self respecting Calgarian knows are a joke, they’re within city limits and in those days consisted of rope tows.
I went to Norquay on Norm’s ski bus, which was organized through Norm’s Ski Hut, a store in the mall. Norm’s chartered a few Saturday buses, I was on “the Jewish bus “; go figure. The Steinberg’s chaperoned, and our bus was loaded with loud Hebrew school kids in turtlenecks, it was THE place to be for any young snowbound Semite.
It was necessary to wake up at some ungodly hour, to be at the bus before the sun rose. The Greyhound buses would idle in the parking lot, melting the layers of ice on the asphalt, kids tumbled out of wood paneled station wagons and Jeeps, dragging poles, skis, hats, goggles, comic books, and Walkmen, sleepy parents chatted while drinking coffee, still in their p.j’s. Every week I tried to get away with faking sick and sleeping in, and every week I was rudely forced out.
I was glad once I was on the bus, as is the way with most things in my life, if can just get out of bed to do it, I’m usually happy that I did.
Riding up to the mountain sitting with Danielle listening to ‘ Our Lips are Sealed’ or rocking out to ‘Pass the Dutchie’, I would mentally prepare for another ski day.
The day was divided into lessons and free ski, or if you were Danielle, Julie or I, free ski and free ski, with breaks for applying Lip Smackers, drinking hot chocolate and eating sour cream and onion rings.
One Saturday after we arrived at the hill, I spotted two cute boys from another bus, tall, blonde, adorable. I caught one’s eye, giggled, turned purple and then looked away. The other girls on my bus noticed too, they were after all, not blind.
Someone eventually spoke to the cute boys, and found out their names were Jay and Mark, it was probably Julie, she was good like that.
Did we have lunch with them? I’m not sure, it’s a blur, but what I do remember is Jay offering to carry my skis at the end of the day, I almost passed out. I was shy, and was emerging from a seriously awkward, awkward stage. I was used to boy’s attention coming in different ways, like stealing my pencil case and writing on it in liquid paper, making fun of my knees, snapping my new bra or laughing about how pale I was.
Jay carried my skis for all to see, and put them underneath the bus. Then he did something even braver, he asked permission for he and Mark, to ride on our bus back to the mall. This beautiful, polite, thirteen year old boy was definitely into me!
The Jewish Bus however, was not into Mark and Jay; they upset the fine balance of the ecosystem. My new love, Jay, sat in the back and he and Mark, were cross -examined as though they were absolutely without question, Hitler youth. I sat in shock, unable to mobilize and stand up for my ski-carrying hero. The boys definitely handled it well, but I am pretty sure it was not what they expected (or wanted) when they got on our bus hoping to mack on some nice uncomplicated girls.
I never saw Jay again and I hope that he and Mark weren't scarred by the experience. I strongly suspect they have recovered and are still out there opening doors, and carrying skis for all to see. Jay was the first boy to confidently show that he liked me, and for that I will always be grateful, and after 25 years, I still think of Jay and smile, that's pretty cool, right?
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
TFC- too fucking cold
I am freaking cold, it’s not just me right? It’s cold! I know I should be tough, being that I grew up in Calgary, but I don’t think it really works that way, although I know how to layer, and wear cute boots. When I was in junior high, it was cool not to wear socks no matter how cold it got, and it got COLD. Stupid, but we did it anyway, no socks, and top-siders or penny loafers. Who did we think we were?
It was around the same time that Moon Unit Zappa came out with Valley Girl, and I learned the word Galleria. I had spent most of my life in one, but we just called it Chinook. I think that I got confused and thought I was from California and didn’t need socks.
I recall going to a school dance in a white mini skirt and turquoise ski pants, objectively not a good look, but I wasn’t allowed out without them (the ski pants, not the mini skirt). Things were bad, in fact I used to wait for the school bus in minus 40 degrees, no kidding. I think they call that child abuse now. We were tough, Lee Hirsh with his lisp, Peter Kitchen with his foggy glasses and his sister Sarah who always had dirt and snot on her face.
We would wait outside, on the wide open, sweeping, suburban plains of Lakeview, with scarves covering all but our eyes, and ice crystals hanging off the wool where the humidity escaped from our mouths. We wore mitts rather than gloves ‘cuz they were warmer, and you had the body heat from your other fingers for insulation- similar to the idea that if someone is suffering from hypothermia you are supposed to get in a sleeping bag naked with them, trust me, it’s true, I learned it on my three day trip to nature camp.
There were days that school was canceled because the pipes had frozen, those were good days, very good days, and we prayed for those.
Me and my Hebrew school posse would wait for the bus, leaving our houses at the last second so that we would have to wait as little as possible. Missing the bus sucked, because it meant I would have to ask my mother, or worse, my teacher Mrs. Unger who lived nearby, for a ride.
My Mother had to get to work, and my school was nowhere near where she worked, and frankly she was pretty uptight and angry for most of those years, so the margin for error was very slim. Mrs. Unger had a nasty demeanor and would growl “Garbage” anytime someone got a wrong answer in the math-ladder. I still attribute my panic around the times table, to her hard ass antiquated teaching style, although I must admit she was kind in the lesson of plagiarism, gently illuminating the definition after I penned the same story that she had shared with us that day.
Anyhow, my point is, that it was cold, Mrs. Unger was, for all practical purposes, a bitch, my Mother was under a lot of stress and wasn’t up for morning surprises like having to take me to school, and that waiting minutes longer than I had to for the school bus could mean the difference between life and death.
I know you are feeling really badly for me now and you should be, but remember that I did survive, and it only made me stronger.
It’s about 33 degrees today (1 celsius)in New York. I worked late, got up late and went out to drop of some dry cleaning and see if someone had turned in my ipod at the gym (I subsequently found it in my jacket pocket). My hair was looking especially good. I had straightened it the day before and just the right amount of moisture had crept back in to give it some bounce and not be total Jair (an expression I read once, referring to Jewish girls with straightened hair- LOVE IT).
I marched across 9th avenue tossing my fabulously coiffed hair and felt the frigid air hitting my cheeks and ears, my junior high school, sticker collecting, California dreaming, school bus waiting, galleria going self, confronted my adult, coffee carrying, parka wearing, taxi taking, scarf yielding, Manhattan self, and I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cap and made a choice. I took a moment and mourned the years of hard fought Farrah waves that died under many a toque, my cold top-sidered ankles, my mornings waiting with my crew for the yellow bus, the recesses forced to play outside, and I thought about how grateful I am to be here, and how maybe, just maybe, it's not actually that cold after all.
It was around the same time that Moon Unit Zappa came out with Valley Girl, and I learned the word Galleria. I had spent most of my life in one, but we just called it Chinook. I think that I got confused and thought I was from California and didn’t need socks.
I recall going to a school dance in a white mini skirt and turquoise ski pants, objectively not a good look, but I wasn’t allowed out without them (the ski pants, not the mini skirt). Things were bad, in fact I used to wait for the school bus in minus 40 degrees, no kidding. I think they call that child abuse now. We were tough, Lee Hirsh with his lisp, Peter Kitchen with his foggy glasses and his sister Sarah who always had dirt and snot on her face.
We would wait outside, on the wide open, sweeping, suburban plains of Lakeview, with scarves covering all but our eyes, and ice crystals hanging off the wool where the humidity escaped from our mouths. We wore mitts rather than gloves ‘cuz they were warmer, and you had the body heat from your other fingers for insulation- similar to the idea that if someone is suffering from hypothermia you are supposed to get in a sleeping bag naked with them, trust me, it’s true, I learned it on my three day trip to nature camp.
There were days that school was canceled because the pipes had frozen, those were good days, very good days, and we prayed for those.
Me and my Hebrew school posse would wait for the bus, leaving our houses at the last second so that we would have to wait as little as possible. Missing the bus sucked, because it meant I would have to ask my mother, or worse, my teacher Mrs. Unger who lived nearby, for a ride.
My Mother had to get to work, and my school was nowhere near where she worked, and frankly she was pretty uptight and angry for most of those years, so the margin for error was very slim. Mrs. Unger had a nasty demeanor and would growl “Garbage” anytime someone got a wrong answer in the math-ladder. I still attribute my panic around the times table, to her hard ass antiquated teaching style, although I must admit she was kind in the lesson of plagiarism, gently illuminating the definition after I penned the same story that she had shared with us that day.
Anyhow, my point is, that it was cold, Mrs. Unger was, for all practical purposes, a bitch, my Mother was under a lot of stress and wasn’t up for morning surprises like having to take me to school, and that waiting minutes longer than I had to for the school bus could mean the difference between life and death.
I know you are feeling really badly for me now and you should be, but remember that I did survive, and it only made me stronger.
It’s about 33 degrees today (1 celsius)in New York. I worked late, got up late and went out to drop of some dry cleaning and see if someone had turned in my ipod at the gym (I subsequently found it in my jacket pocket). My hair was looking especially good. I had straightened it the day before and just the right amount of moisture had crept back in to give it some bounce and not be total Jair (an expression I read once, referring to Jewish girls with straightened hair- LOVE IT).
I marched across 9th avenue tossing my fabulously coiffed hair and felt the frigid air hitting my cheeks and ears, my junior high school, sticker collecting, California dreaming, school bus waiting, galleria going self, confronted my adult, coffee carrying, parka wearing, taxi taking, scarf yielding, Manhattan self, and I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cap and made a choice. I took a moment and mourned the years of hard fought Farrah waves that died under many a toque, my cold top-sidered ankles, my mornings waiting with my crew for the yellow bus, the recesses forced to play outside, and I thought about how grateful I am to be here, and how maybe, just maybe, it's not actually that cold after all.
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