WE GO SKIING

Virginia is one of the most versatile states in the union since it has ocean, bay, and river beaches, the Blue Ridge Mountains, Natural Bridge, and Luray Caverns.  You can't throw a pebble without hitting a historic landmark.  Living in the home of the first permanent English settlement in America (Jamestown 1607) and the site of Cornwallis's surrender (Yorktown) we are fortunate to have in our homes arrowheads, Civil War bullets and buttons, Revolutionary shards of pottery and a permanent sense of our place in all of this. Not too long ago, we had visited most of our beautiful state and taken in its ambiance, past and present, when serendipity offered us a new experience:  the church sponsored skiing adventure.  Leaping upon such rare opportunity, Husband signed us up.

Me going slow, being safe

Skiers leave home about the same time as bull-froggers and hobgoblins, the absolute dead of night.  We sluggishly boarded the chartered bus in the church parking lot, took a seat in its plush quiet interior and slipped back into drowsy numbness, when the sound of air brakes heralded our arrival at Massanutten Mountain Ski Resort.  Now the fun begins.

We were herded to a locker room and issued rental skis, which should have come with last rites or at least a short term coverage plan of some sort.  Since husband and I had no experience on skis, we were ordered to the beginners class being taught on a small rise just outside the lodge.  People were lined up at the windows having their hot mugs and enjoying the stand-up/fall-down comic revue.  We were the only mature adults having to endure this humiliation; however, neither of us could fake our way through the day without instruction.  As we executed the basics, the children needed little help; we however had to have our poles extricated from each other.  Husband had stuck his pole through the hole in my pole...he lives to embarrass me.  Oh married people, must you be so symbolic?  The teacher declared that in all her years of teaching she had never encountered that particular problem.  When we finally received clearance to try the "Bunny Slope," the teacher waved goodbye, or crossed herself, I couldn't tell which.

Husband spears my pole and we flunk beginners class

The recent thaw on the trail had added a delightful thin layer of pure ice, ensuring that our descent would be lightning fast and thrilling.  First there was the lift, a novelty to us.  It stopped, we boarded.  One would naturally assume this process to be mirror imaged...stopping, disembarking.  No.  We were ordered to jump off as it slowed - two brittle-boned seniors - and gun it down the ice-covered Bunny Trail with our recent instruction still searching for a permanent repository in our brains, soon to sport concussions.  The lift slowed, we jumped, fell sprawling onto the ice and were followed by nice people who scooped our abraded bodies up to a standing position.  How can this get any worse?  Read on.

Who in their right minds would let us do this?

As we gazed down the first slope, we noticed it snaked through a pretty stand of forest trees covered in ice. It was truly a  Christmas card.  I began my herringbone descent finding some soft snow on the sides.  Husband, being the daring one, fearlessly sailed ahead.  In our class, it was discovered that husband was only gifted to turn right.  No  matter what the teacher told him, he turned right.  (He has this problem dancing too.)  Happily the first curve on the trail turned right.  As he sailed forth, Husband overdid his right turn and slowly plowed directly through a thicket and into the woods.  Being helpless to save him, I summoned a more experienced skier in our party, who found him with poles flailing and both skis planted firmly under a log.  Freed from his predicament and  uninjured, we continued on with me cautiously herringboning and Husband giving all to sport.

When we finally reached the flats, I tried skiing and was doing bravely when wiped out by a preschooler with his sails full in the wind.  I looked up from my seat in the snow to see Husband slowly turning right, heading for a ditch where he remained digging furiously with his poles.  Oh what fun.

We got those things off and headed for the lodge fireplace where all the sane people were.  Husband found a Bubba with a flask and returned to the Bunny Slope to get his money's worth.  The last time I saw him from the window in the lodge, he was in the distance slowly turning right.

DANCE, DANCE, DANCE

In the summer of 1952, my best friend and I took a crash course in tap, ballet, and ballroom dancing.  Our mothers sewed valiantly the costumes required, including a short-skirted white satin military tap uniform (lined in red for exposure when doing a high leg move) and matching red, star-studded cadet hat.  I looked like a nutcracker.  We were all of 11, and had triumphantly sprung out of our sedate shells, rushing toward the bright lights of prepubescent dance recitals.  Oh the excitement of performing before adoring audiences packed with parents - all convinced we were the next Shirley Temple.  We wore makeup and grown-up stockings, we were something to see!  And then we danced.  I honestly don't remember that part, but it must have gone well enough.

Imagine this is me

Brush step and step, brush step and step, brush step and step,

pickup hop step toe

The following fall, my friend Carolyn and I tried a dance duet for a talent show.  We wore white blouses and rhinestone-embellished, aqua short skirts.  I guess when you dance, something has to glitter.  We clickity clicked to the piano rendition of "Walking my Baby Back home," and all went well, meaning nobody fell down and all the clothing stayed on.

Clickity-Click, Clickity-Click

I can remember tap dancing all over the house when Mother wasn't around.  She had this thing about scratching the floor.  What was a budding talent to do?  Answer:  Practice the clarinet...or the piano...or blow my water-filled bird whistle (it looked so like a canary and was yellow too!).

I grew dizzy, but could not stop!

What my poor parents suffered in aggravation is unknowable, but I am certain tuning me out became a regular practice.  Perhaps that's why they were always encouraging me to go outdoors and blow beautiful bubbles - for all the world to see!

Beautiful pink and blue glass-like bubbles!

MRS. JOHNSON'S GOAT

Mrs. Johnson lived across the road from Grandfather in a two-storied farmhouse with a huge front porch.  In her yard was a bubbling spring with a small but well-built spring house.  Inside even in summer, it was dark and cool, a welcome refuge in the heat, complete with a dipper hanging on a nail for a cold drink.  Mrs. Johnson was popular with ladies who gave luncheons requiring watercress, which grew prolifically in the spring water.

She always spoke softly and never showed temperament, which was a testament to her inner strength since hers was not a life untouched by tragedy.  The second of her two sons suffered from birth defects which compromised his walk and his speech; even so he worked with his father and brother in their family owned garage.  She and her husband seemed happy and all seemed well until one day he walked into their smokehouse and shot himself in the head.  No one could ever understand why and it remained a mystery.

This all  happened before I was born, and I only knew Mrs. Johnson as the soft-spoken, nice lady who had a cow and traded butter for eggs with my Grandparents.  I also knew her huge white, demonic goat named "Billy."

With no pictures, I sketched my recollection of "Billy"

Once in a while, Mrs. Johnson would tie Billy on the bank across from my grandfather and Billy would clear the tall brush and fill one of his enormous stomachs (one for grass and one for little girls).  I would be seized with a desire to befriend the shaggy, surly creature whose inscrutable stare gave no clue of affability or hostility, just alien-eyed wonder.

Again, no pictures so imagine this is me

I eased up the bank carrying delicious grass for Billy to sample, making sure I wasn't far away from his rope's end.  He made a goat sound and tossed his head, sending up little red flags in my fearful mind.  Perhaps he's just eager for grass, I reasoned.  With that I threw the grass to him and fled for my life.

Me, better swift than sorry.

It was an indisputable good move on my part since I lived to tempt other fearsome foes another day.  Mrs. Johnson soon came and moved Billy back to his night lodging.  She was to be admired for all her courage.

'TWAS THE WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS!

Last Wednesday, our internet provider informed us he had numerous messages that our internet was out.  It was then I remembered turning off the power strip for the Christmas tree which also contained the plug-in for the internet thing-a-ma-jig.  He then asked us never to unplug it again.  Problem identified.

So that night as I got on my knees under the tree to specifically unplug the lights (not the power strip) I lost my balance, which is otherwise as precise as an atomic clock, and fell head-first into a small tilt table (which tilted graciously) slamming my head and left hip to the floor.  I went over like a top-heavy bowling pin, all the while thinking - this is just the sort of yule tide event that adds to the nostalgia of Christmas!

Husband was already nestled snug in bed with visions of the long run carrying oysters to Harrisonburg dancing in his head.  Therefore I hobbled off to bed to await the holidays with a throbbing hip.  Joy to the world.

Husband, finally home from his run, determined the solution to be a separate power strip for the tree lights.  Friday morning saw him on his back deep under the tree accomplishing that end.  Problem solved.  Then I heard him say, "I can't get up."  Problem #2 identified, to which there was only one solution, since all that was reachable were his feet.  When I checked behind me I realized I had to be the one to grasp him by the ankles and hobble backwards until his head cleared the tree.  He got up on his own.  Problem #2 solved.

Our family will all be together this year, and we wish all of you a happy loved-filled Christmas.

PS:  Show love to someone who needs it.

A VISIT FROM NELLIE AND BILL

On Saturday, as I lay resting on the sofa, a familiar face appeared at the window.  It was my only surviving aunt and her husband Bill.  There is no better news than the sight of them looking so well and happy.

Nellie Pearl Strigle Berger Braxton and LtCol Leon E. (Bill) Braxton

She at 86 and he at 95 motored up from their home in Tampa, FL, to visit relatives and friends along the way, their ultimate destination in Pennsylvania.  They recently relocated to a small rental home on an island off Tampa, finding retirement community living too full of "old people."  I think that was the right decision.  

Bill has just written his third book in partnership with a friend, "Birth of a Legend, The Bomber Mafia and the Y1B-17."  He was a flyer in World War II and kept friends with his whole crew, some of whom lived near us.  The book is a comprehensive account of the bombers of that era and the pioneers of aviation who contributed so much to the building of today's air force.  It is so interesting to be able to hear accounts of his experiences 70 years ago which began at Langley Field, Virginia, just a few miles from us.

The Cover of the Book Bill co-wrote with CAPT Arthur H. Wagner USCG (Ret)

This book may be ordered online at www.trafford.com

or email orders@trafford.com.

It was so great to see them.

And so hard to say goodbye.

THIS BEAUTIFUL DAY

This morning is glorious.  The air is cool, clean and filled with the bright golden hope of autumn days to come.

The View Out My Back Door

I saw on Waverly Lane the wild flowers my mother-in-law so loved and went and photographed them in her memory.  She had tiny little vases on her kitchen window sill filled with the likes of what I saw growing.

When it comes to beauty, Nature has no equal.

Blues shimmering in the morning sun remind me of 

Husband's mother, who wore the color so well.

Before her death, her son John (who died in 1984) planted this Rose of Sharon Hibiscus at the edge of our yard on Waverly Lane.

A beautiful Reminder of Those Now Gone

Plants are preparing to replace themselves by producing seeds in great quantity, and preparing for the long winter's nap to come.

The Magnolia Tree with Seeds for New Trees

HE SAID/SHE SAID

My mother once informed me that in conduct with the opposite sex, a girl must be in charge.  As a four-year-old, this didn't mean much to me, but I took the core caution to heart and as time went on my posture toward men became mostly defensive.  Actually Mother had me so frozen with fear that I didn't thaw out until 1960.

It is amusing that for so long women's monthly tornado of female mood swings have been given as evidence of unsuitability for high office.  The hormonal hand on the doomsday button was always the implied fear for the safety of all humankind.

Then it should be mentioned that men are governed by debilitating powerful hormones also, which nature found to be successful in procreation, and they are not anchored to any monthly cycle but are in force all the time.  They render men mostly disconnected from reason and ready to pounce with the speed and good judgement of a mousetrap upon any willing or seemingly willing female, forgetting completely about the doomsday button.
-

Dance at Bougival by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

And a one, and a two (as Lawrence Welk would say)

She is dancing in her virginal off-white attire trimmed in passionate crimson, 

he appears to be dancing and planning his next move 

This is the source of confusion that men experience when seeking to explore the subject of rape.  Subjective paralysis overcomes their ability to think straight, as they empathize with the male pursuing the irresistible goal of sex:  Was he the victim of deliberate seduction?  Did she say no, but mean yes?  What did she expect dressed in a hot-red bonnet like that?   How dare she dangle her goodies under the nose of so helpless a victim, ever willing to excuse himself from culpability.

As Mother said, they can't help themselves and all other men believe in their victim-hood.  I think they have run that play for too long.  The good old boys want to go back to the 50's when women wore pearls and only dreamed about enjoying safe sex.  They are stepping all over feminine toes and thinking they're entitled to the privilege.  I think they misjudge us as well as our secretions, which will happily shut down the whole reproductive process when we are raped, as Mr. Akin said.

I think it is time to stand up for ourselves as women and tell the males wielding all the power to stop being so hysterical and just lie back and enjoy it.