skis
When we left Michigan in 2015, we made a lot of decisions about what to take and what to leave behind. Some of the decisions were really straightforward--giant pink velvet couch, no; cello and violins, yes; toaster oven, no; cast iron skillet, yes. Others were much more difficult.
Will we use this? Do we love it even if we won't use it? Will it even fit in our apartment?
We brought a lot of things just in case we might be able to find space for them in our new life--bicycles, camping gear, cross country skis.
Bringing the bicycles was definitely the right choice. At this point, we've all upgraded, and none of us is riding the bike she brought from Rambling Farmhouse, but that first summer, those old and ill-fitting cycles let us explore this new region enough to know we wanted to keep on riding.
The camping gear has been used once in the last three years, and it takes up enough space that I'm starting to think about what else I could be using the space for. But someday we won't have a rabbit who needs a petsitter when we're gone overnight, and someday the kids won't have Saturday activities anymore, and some of our camping gear is really quite nice, so it stays, despite the square footage it consumes.
The cross country skis fall between these other two. It rarely snows enough here to ski, and the snow that does fall melts quickly, so there are no parks or golf courses where a ski club grooms trails over the course of the winter. We have used them but rarely--several times in one week the first winter and once each subsequent winter. Sofia has outgrown her original equipment. She can use Anna's but Anna can't use mine, and this is a point of much consternation. I have promised Anna new kit if she goes to college in the land of snow and winter.
Why do I keep the skis and the camping gear? I've been thinking about that a lot this winter as we put down ever deeper roots in an apartment we all initially thought of as temporary.
It's a little bit nostalgia. These objects connect us to our former life, to the friends we left behind, to Adam.
But it's also a little bit hope for the future. Hope that we'll figure out how to get to the woods again. How to make time in the wild part of our lives.
And it's also an awareness that our lives could again change as drastically as they already have. We might all three of us return to the land of snow and winter--for education, for work, for family.
Two Saturdays ago, we got serious snow. Shut down the city snow. French toast and hot chocolate snow.
And I pulled out my skis.
On Monday morning when the busses were running again, my skis and I hopped on the 16A headed west. The driver was incredulous, 'Are you going skiing?'
me: yes!
her: Where you going?
me: The W&OD.
her: Yeah, I guess that works! *shakes head*
Then I had a lovely chat with a rider who had lived for a while in Wisconsin and was feeling nostalgic for his land of snow and winter.
The trail had been plowed--it's a major thoroughfare for bicycle commuters and fitness runners--but there was ample snow along the edge for me to ski, and mine were not the first skis on the trail that day.
This is why I still have skis.
Will we use this? Do we love it even if we won't use it? Will it even fit in our apartment?
We brought a lot of things just in case we might be able to find space for them in our new life--bicycles, camping gear, cross country skis.
Bringing the bicycles was definitely the right choice. At this point, we've all upgraded, and none of us is riding the bike she brought from Rambling Farmhouse, but that first summer, those old and ill-fitting cycles let us explore this new region enough to know we wanted to keep on riding.
The camping gear has been used once in the last three years, and it takes up enough space that I'm starting to think about what else I could be using the space for. But someday we won't have a rabbit who needs a petsitter when we're gone overnight, and someday the kids won't have Saturday activities anymore, and some of our camping gear is really quite nice, so it stays, despite the square footage it consumes.
The cross country skis fall between these other two. It rarely snows enough here to ski, and the snow that does fall melts quickly, so there are no parks or golf courses where a ski club grooms trails over the course of the winter. We have used them but rarely--several times in one week the first winter and once each subsequent winter. Sofia has outgrown her original equipment. She can use Anna's but Anna can't use mine, and this is a point of much consternation. I have promised Anna new kit if she goes to college in the land of snow and winter.
Why do I keep the skis and the camping gear? I've been thinking about that a lot this winter as we put down ever deeper roots in an apartment we all initially thought of as temporary.
It's a little bit nostalgia. These objects connect us to our former life, to the friends we left behind, to Adam.
But it's also a little bit hope for the future. Hope that we'll figure out how to get to the woods again. How to make time in the wild part of our lives.
And it's also an awareness that our lives could again change as drastically as they already have. We might all three of us return to the land of snow and winter--for education, for work, for family.
Two Saturdays ago, we got serious snow. Shut down the city snow. French toast and hot chocolate snow.
And I pulled out my skis.
On Monday morning when the busses were running again, my skis and I hopped on the 16A headed west. The driver was incredulous, 'Are you going skiing?'
me: yes!
her: Where you going?
me: The W&OD.
her: Yeah, I guess that works! *shakes head*
Then I had a lovely chat with a rider who had lived for a while in Wisconsin and was feeling nostalgic for his land of snow and winter.
The trail had been plowed--it's a major thoroughfare for bicycle commuters and fitness runners--but there was ample snow along the edge for me to ski, and mine were not the first skis on the trail that day.
Conditions were beautiful. The snow was neither too wet nor to powdery. The air was still and warm from the sunshine. And the snow on the trees and the river rocks was picturesque.
Gliding along, I missed Adam, who taught me to ski cross-country, and Rachel and Clover who were my ski buddies that last winter in Jones. But I remembered the joys of being outside in the winter--the crispness of the air and the cleanness of new snow and the way that sound is different.
This is why I still have skis.
Love the story about getting on the bus with skis! Reminds me back when I lived in Washington State, and we would hike up to the glaciers on Mt. Baker to ski in late August. The crowded trail we were on was full of people who would look at us incredulously and ask why we had skis, when all they had to do was look over their shoulder where the glaciers were there for everyone to see. Skiing without lifts? Impossible, apparently. 8^)
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