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As I Went Down By Victoria Greenleaf Email: vgreenleaf21 at yahoo dot com (above email address formatted to reduce spam) February 14, 2008 As I went down to the river to pray, Studyin' about that good ol' way... The sun is shining brightly again this morning in lovely Lake Tahoe, as it is most mornings. The sun shines 350 days a year out here, so when it's not shining, it means there's as storm of some kind brewing. Snowstorms, for the most part. Donner Pass is just beyond the ridge I'm looking at from the bay windows here at the winter-rental house, and I often wonder if those poor souls in The Party also woke to blue skies and cheery winter sunshine, which melts the icicles but just turns the 10-foot-high drifts into 8-foot-high cement, and wondered if Nature was mocking their suffering. I wonder if they did what they did — not just because they were starving — but also because there was no decent place to either bury or even scatter the ashes of the dead. Scattering your loved one's remains over eye-level, mercilessly-white snow just doesn't seem right, somehow. I'm here because Peter, my partner, loves to ski. He's come out here every winter for 15 years without fail, no matter who or what he left behind, or how they felt about it. Peter skis like a dancer's dream about flying. He can ski backwards just as gracefully — I've seen him. He looks on chest-deep powder and Volkswagen-sized moguls as personal, special-delivery gifts from God, just for him. He calls skiing "making love to the mountain", and for him, it's that personal. Well, maybe not THAT personal. Last winter, when I made up a fictitious personals profile named "Sonya" for A Popular Dating Site (and found a terrific public domain photo to go with it), to find out if Peter's personal ad was still active, he answered "my" email and used that "making love to the mountain" line in the same practiced way I've heard him do when talking to—well, a LOT of women. Good thing Sonya knew it was just a line — it might have worked on her, too. O sinners lets go down Come on down, don't you wanna go down? I put on skis for the first time in my life just about a month ago, at the presently-uninsured age of 42. I'm from Ohio, where we usually deal with snow and ice with sensible boots and snow tires. I've been sliding around the base of a beginner's hill while Peter takes the lift to the top of one of the double-diamond runs. I can see him smiling and chatting with some fresh-faced, fearless girls in their cute matching outfits while the chair goes overhead with him in the middle — a ski-bunny sandwich. I'm wearing a borrowed winter jacket (too-big enough to look too big, but not quite too-big enough to look kinda winsome and cute); cheap sunglasses that keep falling off, and a big wet spot on the backside of my jeans (I can't afford ski pants, and haven't quite mastered the staying-upright part yet). I manage to slide down about 100 yards before I wipe out; red-faced and oofing and probably scaring the children who are taking their lessons on the baby slope. And then, there's the problem of getting back up again? I don't cry, but I think about it. If my Mom were still alive, she'd take one look at me and say it was time to come in and have a cup of tea, for god's sake. For the present, I'll settle for a cigarette. They don't allow smoking at the Lodge anymore, but it's a short walk to the parking lot. Smokers are dedicated people. Any dilettante can take a few hits off a borrowed menthol light in front of a bistro on a lovely summer evening, but it takes real devotion just to light up in the teeth of a stiff north wind. And who shall wear the starry crown? Good Lord, show me the way? The stars are out tonight, as they are most nights. One thing about the high elevation and thin air: the stars are so close and bright, they almost startle you. The constellations are as clear and obvious as they must have been two thousand years ago. I'm here because I think I need to be, even though I really need to be home in Ohio, looking for a job with good insurance. I'm here because if I wasn't, there would most likely be any one of a dozen Sonyas here, admiring Peter's ardor for the mountain and awaiting her turn. Good Lord, show me the way. I smoke my cigarette in the clear, frozen air, and scatter my ashes everywhere. About the author: Victoria Greenleaf is quite frankly shocked that she made it "under the wire" with exactly 2000 characters to spare! She is an Ohio native, but is currently on the lookout for better places to put in front of "native". If you have any great job leads, please feel free to pass them along, too! | | | |
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