The Reluctant Publisher

Category: Uncategorized

  • Family Crest or Family Nest

    I don’t have any tattoos and I probably never will. I can’t commit to any one image to permanently ink on my body. There are so many symbols I love that are part of my persona. However, the recent death of my sister has nudged me to reconsider. The grief process has made me realize the most important symbol to me is family.

    So what would a tattoo that symbolized family and the death of a sibling look like? For me, it is certainly not something as obvious as the image of a broken heart or a teardrop or her name in calligraphy (although I love her name and the word Polly looks great in cursive.)

    Because I am part of a family of six siblings, I first thought of a series of six lines of varying heights . . . none of them straight, all of them slightly flawed. They would all be dark blue like the shared color of our eyes. Polly’s line would be a lighter, brighter blue because her eyes were lighter and brighter than the rest of ours. 

    We are so much more than six individual lines though. We intersect and weave in and out of each other’s everyday lives. But we are always connected. In my vision, the lines then became sticks. Still, none were straight but they would be sturdy and maybe a little gnarly as if they had a past which we all have. 

    Perhaps those intertwined sticks become a nest. Maybe my symbol for my family is a nest. Nests are seemingly simple but often quite complex. They can be neat and tidy but constructed of very messy things like bits of garbage and saliva.

    Families can be messy, too. Often the bigger the messier. Nests can look precarious but are surprisingly stable. A nest’s interior is often lined with soft things like downy feathers, moss or cloth. Our family nest is lined with soft things, too. Mostly love and forgiveness.

    No matter how strong and sturdy a nest is, a strong wind or violent storm can break it. A piece of our family nest fell away when Polly died. Unlike nesting birds, we cannot rebuild or repair our nest. We have to go one with a hole in our nest. And we will. It’s not going to be the same or as much fun. We’ll use our memories of Polly as a patch but the nest will never be whole. 

    Is my tattoo a nest? If so, the nest would have a door on the side of it, slightly ajar, because the Polly spirit is always welcome.

  • Visiting My Mother’s Things

    Recently my niece posted a photo celebrating her baby’s first birthday. He’s adorable, front and center grinning in his festooned highchair. Getting to glimpse my great-nephew on his first birthday is one of the truly wonderful things about social media. As I often do, I looked behind the scenes of the photo and it was the background that really caught my eye. Hanging on the wall in my niece’s kitchen is the antique Regulator Clock that hung in the kitchen in our family home for decades. Seeing it there, again, was a little like running into an old friend. 

    My mother had good taste. She had a good fashion sense, too. She wasn’t chic or lavish but she loved clothes and jewelry and she wore both well. She knew and took advantage of a bargain when she saw one. One of her favorite pastimes was “antiquing” with her best friend. Thanks to her many outings, she acquired things that made our home lovely.  Vases, bowls, ornate letter openers, furniture, lamps, the Regulator Clock and so much more found just the right spot in our old stone house. 

    When it came time for my mother to sell the family house and move to a more manageable space, you would have thought downsizing would be the goal. Not really, She chose a large apartment with a formal living room, den, dining room and more bedrooms than she needed. I think she opted for this spacious apartment so she would have room for her lovely things. It’s not a fault. She was alone at this point with children and grandchildren visiting often but busy with their own lives. Her things were a little like old friends..

    Several years later, my mother died after a short and exhausting illness. The night she died, all six of her children slept at her apartment among her things. Her will stated that everything she had be divided evenly between the six of us. Over the years, each of us pointed out something that we were particularly fond of and she remembered. My brother always loved the grandfather clock. I loved her diamond and sapphire pinky ring. My sister, the Regulator Clock. Beyond that, we six children gathered in her apartment and began to select the items we wanted. One by one we picked something and then started over again. Round after round, most of my mother’s things were headed to new homes. It was incredibly civilized. I don’t think anyone left feeling slighted.  Several times one of us would offer, “I think you should have that” because of a certain tradition or memory.

    We all have pieces of her and it is evocative to see those things when we visit each other. The Persian rug looks warm and lovely in my sister’s house. Different vases and bowls reflect new light in another sister’s space. My brother still winds that grandfather clock and that Regulator Clock has moved onto the next generation in my niece’s house.

    I am glad  to have a few pieces of her furniture and a couple of funky brass letter openers. More importantly, I have a few pieces of her jewelry beyond that diamond and sapphire ring. I wear a piece of her jewelry to events that my mother would have liked. To me, I am bringing a piece of her with me to weddings, birthdays, reunions. My mother loved a good party and for a few minutes she’s there because I can see her in that piece of jewelry.

    , #antiques #clocks

  • Where the People Are Not

    I shall be telling this with a sigh

    Somewhere ages and ages hence:

    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.

     From The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

    Where the People Are Not

    June, 2025

    I recently saw a t-shirt that said, “I want to be where the people aren’t.” It was a play on lyrics sung by Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Her lyric is “I want to be where the people are” in her longing to live on land instead of under the sea. The shirt made me chuckle and think that I should get that for my husband. He definitely wants to be where the people aren’t. For the nearly 34 years of our marriage, my husband has successfully avoided most parties and many family gatherings. He goes to the big important things like weddings, graduations, funerals and a few parties that are important to me. It’s not that he’s anti-social. He’s heard the stories and had the conversations and that’s enough for him. 

    Being where the people aren’t has been an unspoken theme for most of our family travel plans. More often than not when people ask where we have been or where we are going, their reply is Where is that? or I’ve never heard of that. For us, that’s a good sign. We are going where the people aren’t.

    We are not going to wildly exotic places. Most often our destinations are not that difficult to get to and we find comfortable places to stay. We are definitely not roughing it. Typically, we are taking the left turn when most people turn right. In The Bahamas for example, most people opt for a cruise stop in Nassau or a stay at the Atlantis Resort. We opt for a small out island called Eleuthera. The people are friendly. It is remarkably safe. The beaches are pristine and usually empty. The restaurants are owned by locals and usually feature the fresh catch. The challenge and the reward is having to make your own fun. Amazing memories were formed by making our own fun.

    My husband is a great skier. Growing up in New Jersey, he took countless road trips alone or with friends to destinations in Vermont, New Hampshire and New York. As a dad, his pick for teaching our kids to ski was one of the most challenging mountains on the East Coast, Whiteface Mountain, affectionately known as Ice Face. There are no ski in ski out accommodations, not much of an apres ski scene, in fact not many amenities at all except for bathrooms and a warm lunch when you want it. It is notoriously cold, windy and yes, icy. Consequently, lift lines are minimal because, as you might guess, we were where the people aren’t. Fast forward, our kids, who are now adults, can and will ski anything.

    When our children were ages five and nine, they were perfect ages for a trip to Disney World. My husband suggested Iceland instead. It was a trip full of natural wonders and exhilarating experiences. Even there, we ventured beyond Reykjavik which is the typical stopover for most travelers when they stop in Iceland on their way to another European destination.  We drove to the northern city of Akureyri, less than 100 kilometers from the Arctic Circle. (Ask us about our whale watching trip.) We happened upon the Icelandic National Arts Festival. Opera, symphony, folk music, performance art . . . it was one of the most serendipitous experiences. There were carnival rides and some magical Norse characters walking around but it was definitely not Disney World. 

    We can thank the British novelist Patrick O’Brien for inspiring trips to Mallorca and later Menorca, two of the three Balearic Islands of Spain which were important ports and key battle sites during the British, Spanish and French naval wars. The Azores? Nine Islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean which are Portuguese. Incredible trip.

    There are more. If you ask me about our destinations, I’ll tell you about them but I usually use the phrase “Amazing place but it’s not for everyone.” And that is why we choose to go where the people aren’t.

  • Trigger Warning

    May 2025

    Recent months for me have been full of emotions. Grief, joy, stress, happiness, pride; they have all shown their faces in large and small ways. Most recently, within the last 24 hours specifically, these emotions have been BIG. Our family, extended family and wonderful collection of life long friends gathered to celebrate the life of my sister. It was beautiful, sad, poignant, funny and she would have loved it. As my son said yesterday, “the takeaway is that we are truly lucky to be part of such an incredible family.”

    This morning, the day after her service, I was full of reflection and memories. I felt the full meaning of the phrase “my heart is full” when thinking of my eight year old great niece on the altar reciting the Irish Blessing. Remembering literally made me clutch my heart (in a good way.) The Irish Blessing is now a trigger for me. 

    I started thinking about other things that are emotional triggers for me. They are the things that open the door for emotions to show themselves.  I am lucky these triggers are not based in the negative. They are not rooted in harm or fear. They stem from love. 

    Bagpipes are a trigger because they will always remind me of my father. If you see me weeping at a St. Patrick’s Day Parade it’s because I am thinking of my Irish dad. He was a sucker for a good parade

    Night Swimming by REM is forever linked to the memory of my sister and the opening base line to The Talking heads’ Burning Down the House will always make me think of her husband, my brother-in-law. If you knew him you would know why he is such an unlikely fan but I am grateful that he introduced me to this art house band in the early 1980’s. Every time I hear it, I am ready. Ready to run, ready to accelerate, ready to play. Just ready. Both songs, triggers.

    Lemon Sticks are a trigger. A cheerful, simple treat from my childhood growing up in Baltimore, a lemon stick is joy in your hand. If you are not from Baltimore, you probably don’t know what a lemon stick is. Slice the top off of a ripe lemon and insert a peppermint stick and use the peppermint stick as a straw. It’s so simple but so pretty and sweet. I’ll be sharing lemon sticks more often because I will be sharing joy. 

    The Hymn, On Eagles Wings is a trigger. It’s a safe bet that I will be tearful as the lyrics of the refrain crescendo. “And He will raise you up on eagles’ wings, Bear you on the breath of dawn, Make you to shine like the sun, And hold you in the palm of His hand.” I am thinking of my mom.

    My triggers make me feel. Sometimes the feelings are hard to bear but when I sit with them I feel whole. I love my triggers.

    An Irish Blessing

    May the road rise up to meet you, May the wind be always at your back, May the sun shine warm upon your face, And may the rain fall softly upon your fields, And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

  • The Lion and the Lamb

    “March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb.”

    The Lion and The Lamb

    My March Lion was a particularly fierce one this year and it was completely unrelated to the weather. I don’t remember the weather. With a ferocious roar, the month began with the sudden loss of my beloved sister. Her death left a hole in the middle of a large and loving family and she will be forever missed. My lion continued its looming stalk as the month wore on. Another pounce was on the horizon. This time my March lion came for our family dog. Sully was a longtime loyal friend who made us laugh and we loved him. This damned lion was toying with me and I was about to curse this whole month of March to hell.

    Then in these last two days of March, The Lamb appeared. The lamb came in the form of warm spring weather that has brought my spring garden to life. Perhaps this spring is more surprising  and delightful because it is our first spring in our new old house. We moved into our 225 year old house last summer. The gardens were well-tended and established. The plantings were plentiful and varied and fortunately, nothing too fussy. Late into the fall, we enjoyed the fruits of someone else’s labor in the form of flowering irises, lilies, hostas, ornamental grasses and more. Throughout the winter we stayed inside and didn’t think much about the gardens.

    Spring has revealed a treasure trove of surprisingly beautiful blooms in some unexpected places. There is a stand of trees lining the back edge of our property. It looks like someone may have used part of it as their personal dump for yard waste. There is no garbage but it is a bit of an eyesore. Add it to the list of outdoor chores. But wait, maybe not. Under the leaf litter and broken tree limbs an embarrassment of daffodils has bloomed. There are hundreds of yellow, white and orange blooms showing off to no one.  I can’t help but wonder how, when and why those bulbs were planted in a place where I am the only one who will see them. I am so grateful for this brilliant surprise.

    Likewise for the sprays of leucojum vernum or Spring Snowflake bursting up from the roadside in front of our house. Thank you to the phantom gardener who seemingly tossed unwanted bulbs along our country road. You have surprised and delighted me.

    Spring is always a time of renewal and emergence but this year I think I am feeling it more than ever. I need this first spring in an unfamiliar garden. I need the unexpected surprises of beauty. That is where the healing is waiting for me. Thank you to the phantom gardener and thank you to my March lamb for helping me find the daffodils.

  • Women’s History is My History

    It is Women’s History Month. I am surrounded by women in my life who make history every day. They are not in the headlines or trending on social media. But they make the world better as healers, teachers, artists, writers, readers and nurturers. Most are still here but many have passed away.

    Margaret Ryan Wagner, my maternal grandmother worked for women’s suffrage as a young woman and then as a young mother found herself alone, raising five children during the Great Depression after her husband died suddenly. Life was hard but she did it. The grandmother I knew was always a serious woman, focused and determined. She had to be. She found and held a job which put food on the table for her family. It may have been a meager meal sometimes but it was there. Her five children grew up to become college educated professionals, veterans who served their country proudly and then parents themselves. She never made headlines but she lowered her shoulder and pushed forward everyday of her life. Her history is my history.

    Anne Henrietta Mueller Troy, my paternal grandmother’s fate was similar but you might say a bit more extreme. Her husband also died suddenly leaving her with FIFTEEN children to raise ranging in age from six weeks to 22 years old. . . during The Great Depression. The stories those fifteen brothers and sisters could tell. They made it and found their way to success and created loving families of their own. Their history is my history.

    My sisters and me: Two business owners, an executive and a NP, PhD

    This army of cousins, sisters and friends who tumbled into my life are part of my history. They are healers, teachers, artists, writers and nurturers. They are founders of small businesses. They do things that make me say “wow”. They are talented. They inspire. Their achievements may not be historic. They are living lives of purpose and they hold others up rather than beat them down. On the way through the glass ceiling, they built their ladder not on the shoulders of others but with support of, and while supporting, others. And their ladders are strong enough to hold others. They are the mothers of successful female executives, physicians, educators and perhaps the grandmothers of a future president. They are wise and grounded. They love and care deeply. They may not be making headlines or be written about in history books but this world is better because they are in it. I am so proud that women like this are part of my history.

    Let’s recognize and celebrate the achievements that women like those who make up my history make everyday, often through necessity, adversity or inequality. Let’s celebrate the quiet strength and compassion of women this month and every month.

    There are lots of wonderful, loving and inspiring men in my history but this is Women’s History Month. I’ll write about the men when this administration officially declares the remaining eleven months of the year Men’s History Month.

  • Ski Legs: Seconda Parte

    It is December, 2022. The omicron strain is gone as fast as it erupted. Or maybe people just got tired of COVID restrictions. As soon as they were able, our kids were flung like objects from a catapult back into their twenty-something lives. 

    We were supposed to go to Italy a year earlier but we cancelled our plans due to the above-mentioned Omicron strain. Fortunately everything we had reserved and purchased for the original trip was held for us for twelve months. One year later than planned, we were going on a ski trip to the Italian Alps. Cervinia to be precise. Choreographing the travel from three different places proved challenging but it worked. The four of us met at the rental car counter at the airport in Turin, Italy and we were off. 

    Driving through the Italian Piedmont surrounded by farms, you could see why the area was known for its delicious cured meats and cheeses. The mountains were in the distance and we were headed that way. We started to climb . . . and climb going through a few picturesque villages. 

    The weather was kind of gray and cloudy which made me anxious that we were going to have bad weather for this trip. The climb continued and then WHOA! The mountains came into view. That was not bad weather we drove through. It was the clouds. Now we were above the cloud line and the snow covered peaks were in front of us, specifically the Matterhorn. The grandeur is beyond my writing skills. Suffice to say that we saw a few folks rounding hairpin turns hanging out of their car windows to snap pictures. The view may have been worth risking your life for. Cue the nervous excitement. 

    Checked into our cozy apartment, equipment rented and our daily plans started to unfold. 

    Day one: We skied over 25 kilometers to a town in the Valle d’aosta, passing by a few other potential stops along the way. The trail ended and we sat outside at a small bistro and ate wood-fired pizza topped with local meats and cheeses. Magical. 

    Day Two: The kids decided to take the day and ski to Zermatt, Switzerland. I mean when you can ski to a different country, you do it. Dave and I took it a little easier and got more familiar with the slopes and trails closer to us. Great day.

    Day Three: Another gorgeous ski day on wide open slopes. We skied to a cafe right on the border of Italy and Switzerland and stopped for a late breakfast. This trip is going so well. We decided to skip our plans to explore away from the mountains and just stay where we were. 

    Onward down the mountain. Icy Patch. I fell. It was not a yard sale of a fall. I just slipped and fell. And I felt something . . . in my knee. A twinge. I thought, “Ok, let me regroup and get myself up.” I tried and tried again. I kept falling. Frustrated. I needed help. Literally at that moment a member of the ski patrol appeared. He said “Are you hurt?” I said, “No, I just need a hand getting up.” He obliged and I got up only to fall down again. He said, “Can you ski?  I said “Yes, I just can’t put any weight on my right leg” and he replied in his suave Italian accent “Then you cannot ski.” I guess he was right as much as I did not want to believe it. It didn’t even hurt. A moment later, the sled arrived and I was heading down the mountain, on my back facing the handsome Italian ski patrol rescuer who was singing Coldplay’s “Sky Full of Stars.” 

    An X-ray revealed no broken bones. The Doctor pointed me in the direction of a Pharmacy with a picture of the brace and the crutches I should get and a prescription for a pretty high dose of Ibuprofen. I left the pharmacy with the brace and the ibuprofen and skipped the crutches. I was not going to let this ruin my trip. I conceded that the skiing part of the week was finished for me but not the rest of the family. Don’t feel sorry for me. I was in the Italian Alps and Dave was a good nurse. He took a day off of the mountain and we did some exploring, on foot. It was slow going but I did it. The rest of the time I spent reading in our room literally in the shadow of the Matterhorn, eating traditional Piedmont lunches of meats, cheeses, bread and wine. And meeting the family for memorable dinners. Heavenly. On the seventh day, we headed home.

    Five or six weeks later, I was still using the brace. That twinge on the mountain? An  MRI revealed a torn ACL, a partially torn Meniscus, and some floating bone fragments. In the words of my wise husband, “That doesn’t sound good.” I blew out my knee in the Italian Alps. Was it worth it? That’s a topic for another essay.

  • All Keyed Up

    That is an expression my mother used. I don’t know if it is still used today but it means restless, anxious, excited, stressed all in a tight bundle. Revving with no place to put the energy. I woke up that way this morning. I had one of those college dreams. I just forgot I was enrolled or something. Anyway I never went to any of my classes and there I was at the end of the semester trying to figure out a plan. Thankfully, I woke up.

    Still keyed up after reading the newspaper. I resisted the news leading up to the election but now I cannot turn away. Why are we not talking about impeachment? I want to scream this. I guess the reason is that the Republican party holds both the House and Senate. Is there really no man or woman on that side who is not scared by the unhinged abuse of power that is happening right now. Elon Musk scares the crap out of me. Why won’t anyone stand up to these bullies? 

    Still keyed up after my morning run. I use my morning run to work things out in my head and reframe negativity into positive thinking. I deliberately went for a little longer this morning because, as you know, I was all keyed up. There were a few moments of positivity mostly involving birds and my hips. A bald eagle was spying overhead and then swooped down about twenty yards from me to get breakfast. Poor rabbit, I know but still it was majestic. A few moments later I was in the midst of a black blizzard as a swarm of grackles with their collective whoosh took off surrounding me. But again. Why are we not talking about impeachment? Then there was a moment of gratitude when I realized hey, my hips don’t hurt but that’s a topic for another essay. 

    Still keyed up after my post run stretch. So here I am at my keyboard typing these words quite remarkably fast. When will we start talking about impeachment? How can we let these two men, one of whom was not elected, ruin our majestic nation? We are flawed for sure but checks and balances are a beautiful safety net and if that net is not gone completely there are sure some gaping holes in it.

    Still keyed up. Join me. Let’s start talking about impeachment.

  • Let’s Lead: A Message for Women

    In leadership roles far from me and near to me, some men are failing us morally and ethically. I am not talking specifically about our political situation but there are some leaders there who have used reprehensible judgement or a complete lack of judgement when it comes to exploiting women and children. The number of men in public roles who have been accused, prosecuted or who have paid off their accusers is sickening. The fact they are leading this country is mind numbing.

    Closer to home, there has been a recent wave of cases involving men in educational roles who have been arrested and prosecuted for the sexual exploitation of minors. And then there is the history of sexual abuse within the community of Catholic priests. That is a horror show.

    Women in leadership roles do not do this. They do not use their power to exploit. Effective female leaders empower others.

    Sadly, we are in a space where there is a plethora of online tools that make sexual exploitation easy for predators. These free apps allow anonymous video chats where predators go to groom minors. These users engage in porn but these video chats can also lead to in-person sexual assault. Women do not do this! I’ll say it louder for those in the back: WOMEN DO NOT DO THIS.

    Women are not infallible and yes there are women who have and will continue to engage in the exploitation of women, children and other vulnerable people. These women are not leaders. They are opportunists.  Ghislaine Maxell comes to mind. Remind me, who are some of her friends? She is not a leader.

    We need more women to rise to leadership roles. We need women to be priests. We need more school leaders to be women. We need more women on the Supreme Court. We need a woman to be President. If that happens children, other women and vulnerable populations will be safer. At the moment, we are headed in the exact opposite direction and we are being transported there quickly.

    Ladies, raise your hand. Step up. Speak up. We need you leading. We need you protecting. We need your intelligence, compassion and empathy. We need your courage. We need your morality. Let’s lead.

  • Ski Legs

    January 2020

    My kids started when they were each about three years old. My husband, Dave started when he was about twelve years old. I started when I was a little over forty. The family that skis together stays together? Maybe. We go on the same ski vacations and to the same mountains but we are rarely together until apres ski. My kids are practically natives, excited about the next black diamond or the possibility of laying fresh tracks on ungroomed trails. My husband, seemingly without effort, speeds down challenging slopes and patiently waits for me, mid-slope, to catch up with him. When I do, I am panting and sweaty from the exertion and sometimes, the anxiety. Meanwhile, he’s had a minute to rest and he’s ready to go again. Legs burning, sweat running down my back, I follow him down the mountain.

    Photo from 2009

    I usually do not want to take that challenging route but my family assures me I can do it. Do they think I am a better skier than I think I am? For a few minutes, I am emboldened by their confidence. Okay, I’ll do it. And guess what? I can do it. But it is hard. I am scared of hitting a hidden patch of ice. I am scared of falling and losing a ski because that is really exhausting. I’m a little scared of looking like a fool in front of my family and other skiers. One thing I am not really afraid of is getting hurt.  I ski in control and I do not like to go too fast. I know what I am doing and sometimes it really feels that way. I know what I am doing!

    However, the ski slope is not my natural habitat. First, skiing is hard work. For those who get started in middle age, I have to believe it is even harder. There is no muscle memory. Nothing is automatic. I think about every turn. Every terrain change is a potential challenge. I am never 100% confident. Second, I am not friends with cold weather. I have Raynaud’s Syndrome. While not serious, it is annoying and sometimes painful. My fingers and toes go numb in the cold. The pain begins when circulation returns to said fingers and toes. The best treatment is to avoid the cold. That’s hard when I am skiing, in the snow, when it’s cold. Mittens (never gloves) and a pair of really good socks help. When it’s really cold, hand warmers inside my mittens and toe warmers inside my boots are essential.

    Skiing is hard. So why do I ski? My children LOVE to ski and I want to make them happy. Given the choice between a ski trip or a beach trip, they will opt for skiing. For me, it is an opportunity to be with my family. As they grow further into adulthood, these opportunities to be together will likely become rarer. For that, I will click my boots into the bindings. Skiing is affirming. I am looking toward my sixtieth birthday and I am out there doing this hard thing. I could wait in the lodge and read by the fire, which sounds lovely, while my family skis, but I’d miss sharing the stories, tales and yes, even the embarrassing moments, like the time my husband ended up on my lap on the bunny hill chair lift. I do not want to be a bystander. I ski for the way I feel after I finish skiing. Generally, I have had a good work out and said hello to muscles I have missed. The skin on my face feels fresh and radiant. And if you have never worn ski boots for six hours, you will never understand how good it feels remove them and slip into regular boots. That is a spa treatment of its own rite.

    Until last month, several years had passed since our last family ski trip. School and work schedules did not overlap as nicely as they once did. Then, of course, COVID and lockdown interfered with any 2020 plans. Christmas 2021 offered us a rare window of opportunity to travel as a family and we were going to do it right. Flights were booked, a car rented and an apartment reserved in the ITALIAN ALPS. The kids would ski their hearts out, perhaps even venturing over to Switzerland since some of the trails are linked. Dave and I would ski a few days and spend the rest of the time exploring Northern Italy and eating amazing food along the way. The perfect trip was planned.

    Truth be told, I was going to be perfectly fine if I did not ski for one minute in Italy. This was my chance to explore while the others skied. I was not going to be a bystander. I was just going to do ‘other things.’ Oh wait, a new variant? Omicron forced us to cancel the trip. After a brief mourning period we were onto Project Plan B. Could we find a place out west? Yes, but for a rarified price and there was not much snow. What about Vermont? An elevated tent was to the only available accommodation. The price was right but, even with a wood stove, no way!

    We could make it happen at Whiteface Mountain just outside of Lake Placid, New York. Home of the 1980 Winter Olympics and the unforgettable, “Miracle on Ice” hockey game, Lake Placid is a charming winter village filled with shops, a few decent restaurants, twinkling lights, a frozen lake for skating, walking and bonfires. Whiteface Mountain was the home of the 1980 Olympic Alpine ski races. It is a serious mountain and an adorable town. Sounds like a perfect Plan B, right? Except we’ve been there about thirty times. Everyone was a little underwhelmed but we packed up the car and headed North. We made it and our moods lifted as light snowflakes fell on our cheeks as we walked to dinner.

    But darn it, I was going to have to face those challenging slopes with hidden icy patches and it has been seven years since I last skied. Did I really want to do this? No, but I wasn’t going to let on to anyone. Boots on, clicked in and properly clothed, I went up the first lift. Ahead of me was a short blue (moderate) slope. I felt a little queasy. Do I remember how to do this? Just go. And there it was, muscle memory I guess, and the exhilarating feeling of cool speed and just the right amount of soft snow under my skis. That’s when I decided, skiing should not have to be hard. It should mostly be fun. This was skiing my way. I had my ski legs back and I was going to use them to have fun.