The Old Lady vs The Snow Bank

She was stuck. Somebody had dropped her off to visit a friend. The plow had cleared the streets, and somebody had shoveled the sidewalk, but there was no way from one to the other. Back and forth she walked along the road, an old lady in a jam. Just another victim of a snowy winter.

When I saw what was happening I asked if she needed some help. Yes, she admitted.

So I clambered over the berm to the sidewalk. She took my outstretched hand. After one unsuccessful step she stopped, held out her other hand and said, "I need both. How pathetic is this." So I grabbed both her hands and pulled gently. She stumbled over to my side and thanked me profusely.

As I protested that it was no big deal she said, "If you ever here me complain about it being too hot, punch me in the face."

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A Broken Leg at Big Birch

Big Birch, now preposterously called Thunder Ridge, was the perfect place to learn to ski — hardly bigger than a leaf pile, easy, empty, and safe.

But when I rounded the hairpin (in my 7-year-old head) turn at supersonic speed (ibid) and hit a patch of grass, my ski stopped dead, my binding failed, and my tibia cracked.

My Dad, a beautiful skier in the early, upright style, raced to my side. He gave his poles, my poles, and my skis to my mother, picked me up by the armpits and took off down the trail, not letting my tears or sobs slow him down.

At ski patrol, he thrust me forward like an offering. "My son broke his leg."

"That's not how we recommend you handle it, sir," was the polite, surprised reply.

It took me years to ski without fear again but I have admired my father's response ever since.

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