Preserving Bits And Pieces Of Your Favorite Things
Nostalgia was never the point.
Ski lodges have such a distinct smell.
It’s part locker room and part wool sweaters that have been stored in cedar closets. There’s a hint of hockey-rink entryway to them, but with a splash of high school cafeteria thrown in for good measure.
It was late afternoon, and Isobel and I had just grabbed a few snacks in the lodge. I haven’t snowboarded all that much in the last few years, so it was nice to get out.
After making our way to a table by the windows, we slid an assortment of hats, gloves, and goggles out of the way for our laptops. When I was a kid, my cousins and I would pile in through the door, goggles fogging up immediately, after racing from the top of the mountain. The race would continue to the cafeteria while taking off our gear. We’d lunge for those huge, paper-plate-sized chocolate chip cookies in the plastic wrap. Then, the real competition was getting the best seat by the fire. That’s when the boots would come off. Those cookies just tasted better when your feet were popping and fizzing like freshly opened cans of soda.
Sitting across from Isobel, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth thinking about it. My laptop sat in front of me, unopened, as I thought more about all the ski lodges I’ve been in over the years… Wiggling my toes beneath the table, I looked around the room—at the kids crawling between bags and under tables with exasperated parents half-heartedly giving chase. It probably looked a lot like my cousins and I during those family ski weekends as kids.
It dawned on me that the chapters of my life can largely be marked by time spent around ski lodges: teaching lessons in high school, studying for finals in college, working throughout the Rocky Mountain West in my twenties. I even got to officiate and celebrate my friends’ wedding in a ski lodge. I’ve said goodbye to friends and mourned their passing in ski lodges. It seems like my mom and I have had our most memorable life-conversations in ski lodges, too.
Now in my thirties, I was sitting in a lodge across the table from Isobel with our laptops and a cookie between us. Feeling extremely grateful, I reached for another bite.
Earlier on the mountain, we’d split off from the others to tone down the pace a bit.
Since Isobel’s new to snowboarding, that gave us a chance to work on a few things. I’d agreed to help her (even though couples teaching each other how to slide on snow is known to be disastrous). She’d gone as a kid, but it’d been many years since she’d tried again. I like teaching, but it’d also been a bit since I’d done it professionally. In less than a day, she’d progressed from standing up to linking turns faster than any student I think I’ve ever had. That’s how we’d found ourselves lapping the upper mountain while the temps continued to drop.
Once she was carving confidently, and playing with different turn sizes and shapes, I let her lead so I could watch and follow, acting as a sort of body-guard to protect against anyone who might get too close or try to speed past. When there was no one coming, though, I also took the chance to play a bit. I’d scanned back uphill, over my shoulder, finding no one. In front of me, Isobel had been cruising without issue.
Feeling good, I’d swerved over toward the side of a roller at the last second and set my heel-side edge. My shoulders started to wind up out of muscle-memory. Everything slowed down and I’d popped off of the nose of my board into a miller flip 540.
I’d ridden away shaking my head and smiling. Snowboarding was still something I didn’t have to think about. Part of me needed to know that.
And, up ahead, Isobel was still carving smoothly.
Pulling my gaze away from the lodge window, I was surprised to see the crowd had died down significantly. Across from me, Isobel was still wearing her focused face behind her laptop. She’d let out a sigh of joyful relief earlier when taking off her boots, and a “yummmm” when taking a bite of chocolate chip cookie, too.
That’d made me really happy.
I’d been worried that snowboarding wouldn’t feel like it used to. Before my traumatic brain injury, it’d felt like I was more comfortable on a snowboard than walking down the street. Since then, it hasn’t felt the same and I hate it more than I let on.
Sometimes having it feel different is worse than just not going snowboarding at all. But that hadn’t happened this weekend, though; I’d had a lot of fun. Sitting there in the lodge, I couldn’t help but grin at the familiar things sprinkled within this new chapter. Like sharing a paper-plate-sized cookie. Or being gobbled up by cedar closet cafeteria smells.
For all those chapters of my life marked by ski lodges, I’d been avoiding the possibility of adding any new ones. Afraid of changing what shaped so much of who I am. Turns out, nostalgia was never the point… it’s getting to share bits and pieces of your favorite things with the people you love. And writing new chapters together.
onward.
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