Snow Day

I just discovered another great thing about being over 60 – you don’t have to wait for somebody else to declare a snow day in order to stay home.  This is a huge relief for someone like me who worries about driving in the snow as much as she worries about misplacing her cellphone, getting a computer virus or running out of red wine.

Of course, everyone knows that fear of driving in the snow is genetic.  Neither of my grandmothers drove in the snow.  As soon as the first snowflake fell, Nana K. dug the keys to her Plymouth Duster out of her purse and went home.  It got to be a family joke – when my dad said, “I think it’s snowing,” the guests, including Nana, were supposed to leave.  And, as I said in my post “A Tale of Two Nanas,” Nana A. never drove at all, so there you have it.
 
We all knew that there was nothing that flipped out my fearless mom more than the thought of driving us to school on a snowy day.  It didn’t help that our no-outlet street absolutely never saw a snowplow.  Well, actually, during the years when a judge lived in the corner house, the plow did come to Gilna Court; but it only cleared past his driveway.  One year Mom agreed to drive the carpool every week if the dad down the street would drive whenever it snowed.  It only snowed twice that winter, but she was happy with the deal.

I inherited the family musical talent, the family taste for Miracle Whip and the family attitude toward snow driving.  If it snows, you can always put off driving to the grocery for a few days but you can't leave your kids at school until the roads are clear.  My kids attended a small, private elementary school located on top of a hill (like everything else in Cincinnati) on a narrow, residential street that never got plowed.  The director never declared a snow day because most of the parents depended on the school for day care and most of the staff lived nearby. My choice was to make a Slip-N-Slide run to and from school with our snow-challenged Volvo or to declare a personal snow day.  Talk about a no-brainer.

I absolutely loved those snow days. I loved taking our time getting up and dressed.  I loved helping David and John put on their gloves and snow pants and boots and watching through the window as they built snow forts and rode their saucers down the neighbors' hill.  I loved warming them up with dry clothes and hot cocoa when they came back inside.   And I loved the hum of their activity around the house as they dressed up as cowboys or spacemen or as they laid out yet another battle with plastic figures, vehicles, weapons and blocks.  (See my post “Toy Story.”)  Yes, I did feel guilty, just like I feel guilty when I beat Paul to the last sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies – guilty, but not very. 

Of course there were sometimes those “terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad” days when the snow started falling right after I dropped the kids off at school.  I spent anxious hours at home watching the snow pile up on our street and wondering how early I could go pick the boys up.  Those painful memories have been blocked out along with the memories of the time we missed our flight to Canada because we didn’t bring the boys’ birth certificates and the time I got distracted while making pumpkin pies for dinner club and left out the sugar.

Fortunately, the boys rode a bus to junior high but the snow anxiety was back, bigger than ever, after they reached high school.  When I woke up to snow, I cowered under the covers, holding my breath while Jim Scott read the interminable list of school closings, hoping to hear St. X and Cincinnati Public Schools.  Some days I contemplated a move to Kentucky or Indiana – their schools were always closed for snow.  The best days were Sundays when a big snow came in early enough that Monday was declared a snow day by Sunday evening.  High schools frown on personal snow days. As a result, when school wasn't called off, my kids were driving to and from school and mixing it up in a snow covered parking lot with a bunch of other new drivers all of whom were confident that the car would stop dead the moment they touched the brakes.  It was an inexpressible relief when everyone was home and all the cars were safely in the garage.

When I worked at the boys’ old elementary school, everyone there already knew about my snow phobia which made things easier.   Nobody was surprised when I said, “I’ll be here tomorrow, unless it snows” or when I made about 300 trips from my desk to the big windows in the main office to see if the snow was sticking in the parking lot.  Now, the teacher whose students I tutor knows I won’t be there if it snows on a Monday.  The woman who cuts my hair calls to reschedule my appointment if snow is in the forecast.  Paul’s office staff doesn’t even think about calling me to fill in for a cancellation on a snowy day.

At 60 plus, I’ve given up the guilt thing entirely where driving in the snow is concerned.  I used to feel like such a weenie, especially since women of my generation were encouraged to be assertive and independent and strong.  Then I told myself that women like Betty Friedan (below) and Germaine Greer (right) all lived in New York, where driving in the snow was some taxi driver’s problem. If they had had to drive a Volvo around a snowy, hilly Midwestern suburb, they would have sung a different tune.

So, this morning, with big flakes falling and four to six inches predicted, I saw Paul off to work without even a twinge of guilt.  After all, he’s the one who loves everything about snow including driving in it, so, he’s getting exactly what he wishes for all year long.  Here's what I'm going to do today -  finish reading “Fall of Giants,” work on ideas for our vacation in June, keep up with the snow shoveling and make Verda’s Barbeque – the stringy kind not the crumbly kind.  And I won't be alone.  If I want to talk to a friend today, I know I’ll find most of them at home.

Click the link below for my new attitude toward winter weather
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mv_I_EIBtrk&feature=fvsr

Comfort Vacation

We just came back from our annual comfort vacation - cross country skiing at Stokely Creek, in Sault Saint Marie, Canada.  Comfort vacations are uncomplicated, familiar and satisfying like macaroni and cheese or bread pudding.  You don’t have to figure anything out on a comfort vacation because you already know how everything works. You can just relax and start having fun right away without any hassles.

For ten years, Stokely Creek has offered us and our friends Maria and Chris the perfect comfort vacation.   It has a lodge, which houses a dining room and two cozy lounges with fireplaces, plus 7 or 8 outbuildings with guest rooms, set among 10,000 acres of woods, lakes and trails and dedicated to silent sports, meaning no snowmobiles.  By now, we know exactly what to pack and what to expect - a peaceful walk from the parking lot to the lodge, our usual snug room with the view, the friendly welcome of everyone on the staff and a week where good company, great food, and outstanding skiing are just outside our door. It doesn’t get any better than that.

Now, I know some people would call this a discomfort vacation.  “Let me get this straight,” my neighbor said in the midst of an unusually snowy January.  “You’re flying hundreds of miles and paying hundreds of dollars to spend a week where there’s SNOW?”

“Actually we’re driving, not flying,” I said, “but we love it.”  It is true that the temperature started at 31 below zero and warmed to about 19 below on the day we arrived.  Skiing in those conditions either impresses people or convinces them that you’re crazy; but, either way, it does serve as what Nana K. used to call “a conversational piece.” One year, Paul’s Office Manager marveled that there was a 100 degree temperature difference between her January vacation in Florida (80) and ours at Stokely (-20.)   Anyway, you may not believe this but, by Tuesday when the thermometer read 20 above zero, it felt like a heat wave and the snow was fantastic.

Regardless of the temperature, every day of this comfort vacation follows a predictable routine, starting with a hearty breakfast of hot cereal, fruit, yogurt, bacon or sausage, eggs or pancakes and homemade raisin toast.  Table conversation sticks to a few key topics – where you skied yesterday, where you plan to ski today, which body parts are begging for mercy and what might be on the lunch menu.  After breakfast, we take off for about a 3 hour ski on Stokely’s endless kilometers of groomed trails which range through snow-covered woods, alongside half frozen creeks and around frozen and snow-covered lakes.  It is breathtakingly beautiful. This year, our neighbors Tim and Kathy made their first trip to Stokely; and, every few minutes, Tim stopped to take in the view and say, “This is worth the price of admission.”  As an added bonus, there isn’t the slightest chance of being taken out by a snowboarder wearing earbuds while cross country skiing.

We cover a lot of ground at what is a leisurely pace for Paul and a brisk pace for me.  Just before this trip, I finished up a course of steroids for a stubborn cough and was hoping for major benefits in terms of big, strong muscles; but all these steroids did was keep me from getting poison ivy. There are a few warming huts and outhouses on the trails – one member of our group has the outhouse locations engraved in her heart.  Often we ski for an entire morning without seeing anybody else; but, in case you’re wondering how we would get help in an emergency, don’t worry.  No matter how isolated the route you’ve chosen, all you have to do is stop for a trailside potty break and, in about four seconds, someone will come skiing right past you.

If you have any sense, you make sure to return to the lodge by lunchtime to enjoy soups like cheesy potato or ham and split pea, hot sandwiches, a big salad bar and a colossal, homemade cookie tray.  If I take an extra long ski with lots of big uphill climbs, it’s a three-cookie morning.  After lunch, Paul and Chris rush outside immediately to “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” like the vonTrapps; but Maria and I need a little time out.  We nap or read and then do a leisurely ski or snowshoe for an hour or so later in the afternoon.  Afterwards, I’m always glad that I left my book and the warm fireplace to get some fresh air and exercise, but sometimes it takes me a long time to feel glad. We always watch our time so we get back and are ready for drinks and appetizers followed by a delicious dinner

Believe it or not, we occasionally have enough energy left after dinner for entertainment.  We organized a few rounds of full-body-contact dominoes this year; Paul dozed off between plays while everyone else argued about the rules. Next year we might have to set up an instant replay camera. Our group has also developed a tradition of sing-a-longs; and, with several guitarists, a banjo player and a pianist, we sounded pretty good on oldies like “Puff the Magic Dragon,” “You Are My Sunshine,” and “Feelin’Groovy.”   The group does include a critical mass of people like me who are better with the words than with the tunes (see my post “The Sound of Music.”)  One year Clyde brought kazoos in what I think was an attempt to direct some of us out of the vocal music arena but it was not very successful.

About 6 years ago, drawing inspiration from the bottom of several wine bottles, some of us formed The Stokely Sisters.  We’ve bonded while composing, rehearsing and performing songs like, “Take Us Out To Old Stokely,” “We’ve Been Skiin’ at Old Stokely,” and “Stokely Ladies Sing This Song;” and the group adds members every year. Our husbands have bonded while suffering through these performances together (and they’d better continue to do so if they know what’s good for them.)  You can click the link below to see Paul’s video of this year’s tour de force by the inimitable Stokely Sisters, but, I warn you, it’s not for music lovers. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWtLdERt1yw

 While our annual vacations at Stokely are comfortingly predictable, they are never boring - unexpected events make each year unique.  On our first trip, Maria and I got lost one afternoon, and learned that, if you’re short and don't have your glasses, you can’t read the trailside maps, and that guys, especially guys wearing orange jumpsuits, aren’t always the best source of directions. One year, Chris came flying down a hill, missed the right turn, wound up chest deep in the snow covering a frozen lake and had to wait for help getting out until we all stopped laughing.  Other highlights of the past have included Gelato Week, Fake Teeth Week, and Blizzard Week, when the power was knocked out leaving us without heat, lights or running water for a day.


What doesn’t Stokely offer?  Well, there’s no cell phone coverage, and if getting it would require a cell phone tower in the middle of Home Run Hill, I say forget it.  There’s also no gargantuan plasma TV or any other TV for that matter.  I didn’t hear a radio or even see a newspaper except for last week’s Wall Street Journal.  (Through wireless Internet, we did find out that the Packers beat the Bears last Sunday - that was the only important news.)  You can’t shop for anything, except hand warmers.  Dinner is definitely NOT a fashion parade; in fact, you could even come in your jammies.  In other words, Stokely is absolutely perfect the way it is.  And, if you’re the tinkering type who is only happy when you’re fixing and tweaking things, Stokely does offer ski wax.  There are different colors for different temperatures and you can spend the day taking it off, putting more on, changing it and massaging it around if that’s your idea of a vacation.  Unless I can coordinate my ski wax color with the color of my ski outfit, I’ll go with no-wax skis.

One of my favorite things about this comfort vacation is seeing many of the same guests and staff members each year, so that our week at Stokely is like a big family reunion. (Actually it’s better than a family reunion because no one remembers the time you got carsick all over your favorite Ginny Doll or how you could barely make it home from Brownie day camp because you refused to use the outhouse or how you got a speeding ticket in a school zone right after you got your drivers’ license.)  Year after year, I look forward to finding out who has retired, who has a new grandchild and who has had a traveling adventure. In addition, there’s always the fun of meeting new people who venture into our week, some of whom have the bravery (or the foolishness) to come back again.  The end of the week is like the end of a really good family reunion – lots of hugs and promises to keep in touch and, of course, reservations to meet again next January.  (The photo above was taken in 2008.)

P.S. You can view the Stokely Creek website with this link: http://www.stokelycreek.com/