Words: Michael Israelson 2020-09-15 14:42:24
Kayla taught us the worst word in the world in the third grade. It was like a lightning bolt of truth and freedom. We all gathered around as she held court on the playground, unleashing not one, but all the bad words. Every one. I won’t repeat them here; not for decency’s sake, but because there isn’t enough room. Why do I bring this up? Because at this exact moment, each of those curse words is issuing from my mouth. And not by choice. The autonomic nervous system is that part of our unconscious circuit board that controls body functions without our having to think about it. Heart rate, meat sweats, the urgent need to pee from the edge of the hot tub. And this torrent of filth I’m spewing from my piehole. This, it turns out, is my guttural reaction to a powder day being squandered by the whims of my elementary schoolchild who is, in his own words, “wanting to chillax with my oatmeal.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph. This is my own spawn. Fruit of my loins. And at this moment, instant oatmeal is for some godforsaken reason trumping the best day of the season. Son, do you see what’s falling outside the window? Yes, Daddy. Do you remember what you tell me every day that we aren’t skiing? Yes, Daddy. And what is that? I love skiing best of all. And you are aware that we pulled you and your brother out of school with a sinister lie so that we could ski all of this snow? Yes, Daddy. So what is it gonna take to get you to eat that oatmeal? Can’t, Daddy. It’s too hot. Gently, I tell stories of my favorite days on skis. It’s a ruse. An attempt to rethink the conversation. I am met with blind stares. Some hardcore chillaxing with the oats. Looking out the window, I am strongly considering wholesale abandonment. Family, job—everything. I mean, it’s puking out there. Things go from bad to worse when the boys find Lego Masters on the idiot box. A complete 180 from the Candide Thovex videos I was showing them last night. For a split second, even I am mesmerized by the Lego creation coming to life, until I hear the second bus leave. Mind you, there are several ways to the mountain. But on a day like this, powder flu has swept the Front Range. Mary Jane’s parking lot has been full since 6 a.m. The bus is our ticket to the goods. The local lot is served by an old-school bus, completely covered inside with stickers three decades deep. The driver, Jim, has a classic ski patrol mustache and the stoke reminiscent of a soul who has spent the majority of his adult life skiing only on weekdays. And now, on this weekday, the bus that drops us off square at the heart of awesome has just motored away for another 30 minutes. I can’t handle it. My parenting cool has left the building. It has left the damned planet. If there is a true-life equivalent of that cartoon moment when the character’s head turns red and starts billowing smoke, I have passed it. My kids remain unmoved. The ole autonomic nervous system kicks in again. Boots on. Coat on. Lid on. Mittens on (yes, I am a mittens person). I shoulder my fattest pair of skis and, without a second thought, head outside. The snow is falling in that indescribable fashion where the speed and angle of the flakes are different wherever you look. Where a minute ago I was loudly debating the merits of powder snow versus Lego Masters, I have slipped through some magic door to a world of quiet tranquility, a world soon to be enhanced by skis. Unapologetic, I hoof it to Jim’s stop. It is so quiet standing in the onslaught of snow that I don’t hear the diesel engine until it turns the corner. You can hardly see the bus as it blends in with the whiteout. And so I am surprised to feel a small hand tugging at my coat from behind. I turn to see a smiling face looking back at me, disheveled from a rapid oatmeal-to-ski-gear turnaround. Buddy, you made it! Sure I did, Daddy. It’s a powder day. Photo Caption: Casey and Fletcher Ogle showing up when it counts. Photo: Steve Ogle
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NO KIDS ON A POWDER DAY
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