A Skier's First Attempt

This is the story I heard from the back seat of a van on the way to the airport after Christmas.

                                            *****************************

Our friends had a place at Attatash Mountain in the Mt. Washington Valley of New Hampshire. They kept bugging us to come up to visit and take a ski lesson, with a few brews and laughs thrown in. They went on and on about the unbelievable views for twenty miles across white peaks. I figured if I wanted to see that much white I could book a trip to Antarctica.  The brews I could get at home.

But my wife persisted that we never went anywhere or tried anything different.  Her friend Gloria kept calling from New Hampshire and finally both women wore me down.

The trip up wasn't so bad...just three hours in the car and the weather held without any black ice.  Their house was on the side of the mountain, so it's a good thing we didn't get hit by a storm or we'd never have gotten out of there.  I was ready to go after day one.

Marilyn, my wife, signed us up for a lesson on the bunny slope.  First we had to rent the gear.  I couldn't walk more than two steps in the boots, but the guy in the shop said I'd get used to them. At least the skis were short and wide.  I could put them together and ride them down on my belly in a pinch.

At 10:00 we went from the rental shop to meet the class on the mountain.  I had my skis and poles on my shoulder but Marilyn had to show me up and put the contraptions on.

After he introduced himself, our 125-pound instructor Adolf (my name for him - his was Jake) began sidestepping up to a large rock platform.  "Follow me!" he said. The rock was in front of a glass window where I could see some hungover dudes enjoying their meal inside.

What the hell am I doing here? I thought.  I could be in there enjoying myself!  But I kept walking up to the rock with my skis and poles on my shoulder.  Needless to say, my boots sank into the snow the lightweight Mr. A  (no longer "A" for Adolf, but "A" for Ass****) had NOT packed for us.  I lost sight of my feet till he came and pulled me out.  I would never have guessed he had that kind of strength in those chicken legs.

"OK, folks, now I want everyone on their skis.  You're going to practice sidestepping down to where we met."

Was he serious?  My thighs were already burning.  I stood in the middle of the rock and put the things on.  I didn't care how much wax got scraped off the bottoms.  I felt like Sylvester Stallone from "Rocky" up there on the side of the bunny slope in front of that window.  I gave the guys inside a wave.

"Now take a few steps sideways off the rock," Mr. A said. "Dig in those edges and you'll keep  from falling."

Enough, already!  But I didn't want to disappoint Marilyn.  She was already down at the meeting place.  I placed my first ski sideways below the rock.  Unfortunately, it didn't stay there.  I could feel it sliding down toward Marilyn and it started to get away from me.  Since my other leg was still on the rock, I thought my privates were each going in a separate direction. I did the only thing a wimp could do... I collapsed like a deck of cards. The guys in the window were giving me the thumbs-up.

Mr. A pulled me upright.  "Try it again," he said.  "Lean IN toward the mountain. Make the mountain your friend."

Did this guy  hear himself?  My friend, Attatash?  He was Mr. A, all right!  I tried again and got the same result.  He had to tow me down to the rest of the class.

"Next I want you in a circle," he said to us. "I'm going to demonstrate the snow plow turn."

At that moment we heard a woman screaming above us on the bunny slope.  "Help!  I can't stop!  Help!"

The red pompom  on her ski hat bobbed with each thrust of her head while her poles plunged through the air toward the skiers in her path.  Some of them took off right into the woods. Her straight run created more speed as she got closer and closer.

"Fall down!" Mr. A yelled.  "Fall, fall!" all of us began yelling.

It was too late.  Her path headed right for our circle, which parted like the Red Sea. She whizzed past toward the parking lot. We unlocked our boots (the first thing I'd learned!) and ran after her.

"My God, don't hit a car!" Mr. A yelled.

She didn't.  Instead, she went across the snow-packed lot right for the mammoth pile the plows had made. That's where she ended up, with all of us running after her.

When we arrived, her legs stuck straight up in the air but we couldn't see her arms. She must have used them to stop her fall.  They were somewhere under the snowbank.  Mr. A dislodged her head and neck and the ski patrol was right behind us with a toboggan.  "That's it for me," I said to Marilyn.  "I'll see you inside for lunch."

She found me at the bar.  By then I'd made real good friends with a bottle of Scotch.

My Cycle of Life in Tennis

I began playing tennis in Rhode Island while our sons were toddlers.  As often as we young mothers could arrange a game at the summer pool and courts, we’d put the kids in an expandable wooden fence and hope they’d make some new BFF’s with the kids penned up with them, while they slung mud at each other or wailed about a bully who'd grabbed one of the toys dumped inside.  Our games seldom lasted an hour.

When the kids grew old enough to use the pool under the supervision of a lifeguard, I graduated to games every day – sometimes twice a day.  My friends and I used to call the players who’d never invite us to join them “the biggies.”

The next step was to join an indoor tennis club from September to May.  We deposited our kids in an upstairs play room with a staff member and began to take lessons. Our friendships grew; so did the kids, who began playing tennis themselves, sometimes better than we did. 

This group of ladies became my network.  We enjoyed get-away's at the beach and in the mountains, while our husbands babysat.  We supported each other through diseases, deaths, and kids' divorces. 

One is still my best friend (see photo below). We discovered tennis wasn't the most important thing in life.

At the indoor club we tried out for a Division 3 team that competed throughout R.I.  We attended drills.  Although many of us had successful careers, we had to learn to control our nerves. Some had diarrhea the night before a match; some had tears afterward.  

When Charley and I retired to Florida for eight months a year, I tried out for a Division 4 team that competed throughout South Palm Beach County. There were eight levels in each league, with eight to twelve teams at each level. Floridians played year-round, despite the heat. These ladies were tough and competitive.
Some with injections and
facial surgeries didn't show the wear and tear.

Tennis buddies

Under-forty opponents showed up with diamond necklaces layered over their POWER RED bra-lettes.  They announced before matches they’d have to finish in two hours because they had to pick their kids up from kindergarten.  They stood in a huddle to chant a middle-school cheer before the match and asked us why our club didn’t have a juice bar or hot towels. 

In their hands they had protein shakes instead of water bottles and some were hung over from the weekend.  If we called their ball “Out!” that hit two feet beyond our baseline, they’d respond from the other side of the net, “You’re calling it out?  Really???”

If we hit an overhead in their direction, we would get a long, cold stare and “That wasn’t necessary.”  Their pony tails swung from side to side as they hit the ball with what sounded like a horse giving birth.  At the end of the match they avoided our eyes while they did a “drive-by,” shaking hands by bumping fists (to avoid germs, right?) or grazing our fingertips.

Afterward, we had soup and sandwiches at our clubhouse.  After a match at their club the buffet consisted of roast beef, turkey, or ham at carving stations; omelette creations whipped up by a chef; tri-colored sauces cooked to order over al dente pastas; and desserts that filled a 12-foot table.

A match at Trump's Mar-a-Lago

Our team moved up to Division 3.

Now I play in an over-55 league in Florida.  It’s called “55Love” to promote a feeling of camaraderie while we go out to kill each other with lobs that bounce over the fence or spin serves that no-one our age can reach.  With braces hiding our knees and ankles bound in support tape, we say  “Nice shot”  to anything we can't chase and we mean it.  We’ve spent decades practicing putting the ball where they ain’t.

Here’s a poem I wrote about my tennis life these days.

We 55-Love’s

Have plenty of “cool,”

We’re on-the-go grandmas

And we ain’t no fools.

We wear ‘lastics and braces,

Sun-block without traces.

Our bras must have wire,

And we’re always on fire (inside and out)!

Our few Facebook friends

Are all on our team.

Our talk is of grand kids,

Not how to get lean.

We can’t run five miles

So we get on machines,

Till laundry’s in piles

And the knees get real mean.

Our uniforms don’t match,

We choose from three colors.

Our bodies have patches

Our faces…well, duller!

We eat healthy fruits

And veggies galore,

No colas or caffeine,

But no wine???  What a bore!

“It’s my shoulder!” we say.

“I didn’t sleep” from another.

“I don’t like this gear,

I’ve got bunions like mother’s!”

“Nice to meet you,” we say,

With a smile for their team.

Our 55Love Team's Sportsmanship Trophy for the League 2016

They all match in gray

As they shake hands and beam.

We don’t check the internet

For all the league scores.

“What team have we met?

I can’t hear anymore.”

“Out??  Are you sure?

The ball hit the line.”

There’s no yelling, no gore.

“It’s yours,” we say, “fine!”

Spectators and noise

Don’t bother at all.

Our sportsmanship trophies

Sit on a wall.

It’s not wins or losses –

We’ve learned what will glue.

It’s laughter and memories

And friends who are true!

To those past five-five

And to those even more,

Raise a glass!  We're alive,

There’s more LOVE in store!

Cooking the Turkey

     Growing up, I didn't help my mother cook.  There was a good reason  - my mother hated cooking and the dinners she served consisted of things like frozen fish sticks warmed in the oven or creamed eggs on toast. These were not things I enjoyed eating, let alone cooking!

     For holidays,  we usually went to my father's side of the family in New Jersey.  There, my mother didn't have to cook anything.  My grandfather, Lucius  (can you believe that name?), and his wife (whom we called "Aunt Marion," since he was a widower and she was his third wife but we adored her!) hired a cook and her son and daughter-in-law to run everything in the kitchen.  We had both sets of grandparents there, and sometimes my two aunts with their families.  When Mary sent word came from the kitchen that the turkey was ready for carving, we all gathered in the dining room at a large mahogany table with wall paneling to match. My grandfather disappeared into the kitchen and re-emerged to "Ooh"-ing and "Ahh"-ing with a platter boasting the gigantic turkey, browned and crisp that Mary had put in the oven at 5 a.m.. Lucius placed the platter on a sideboard and flourished his weapons (carving knife and fork), telling us to watch his time-honored method.  As he sliced deep next to the breastbone, white juices followed the sluice. Our mouths salivated.  After each slice, he raised the shimmering knife and fork head-high and brought them down again into the tender breast. When the slices and dressing covered a serving platter, Mary's son appeared to hold the platter so each of us could help himself.  My grandfather stepped on a button in the floor and the side dishes began to appear, Mary's daughter-in-law rotating through the swinging kitchen door with her husband.

     So when I got married, Charley knew he'd be my guinea pig.  He married me anyway.  I tried simple meals first, like baked boneless chicken breast with a slice of orange on top (I called it "chicken a l'orange") or omelettes, usually burned on the bottom but runny in the center.  Somehow, Charley forgave me and kept eating whatever was put before him.

     On our first Thanksgiving we were stationed at Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. One of Charley's four brothers came down for a visit.  I attempted my first turkey - a boneless roast.  I didn't dare attempt cooking the entire bird.  I took the roast out of the freezer Thanksgiving morning, put it in the oven in the early afternoon, and proceeded to make the apple pie, mashed potatoes, and beans.

     When I put the browned roast on a platter for carving, Charley's flourish of weapons didn't exactly resemble my grandfather's.  In fact, his knife got stuck in the center, where it was still frozen solid.  I put the boneless breast back in the oven and we continued drinking.

     After the meal, I asked Charley's brother how he liked the apple pie.  He said, "Well, the apples were good" (meaning the crust was a soggy pile of dough). That taught me never to ask a guest's opinion of my cooking!

Someone else's apple pie without soggy crust

     After that, I bought Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  It taught me a lot about sauces and what wines to serve with what, but didn't teach me how to cook a turkey.  This was in the dark ages, before I could Google "How do I cook a turkey?"

     After a couple of more years in the Air Force, we lived in New England.  We went to Charley's parents' house for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. All I had to do was buy some pies.

     Then we had kids.  I'd already graduated to chicken parmesan, rib roasts, and lasagna, so I brazenly bought my first whole turkey to cook on Christmas.  I made the stuffing and put it in a casserole dish because one of my girlfriends had told me it was unsafe (bacteria-wise) to put it in the cavity of the turkey.  I weaved together the legs and tail with metal skewers and dutifully basted the bird every hour. Charley brandished his weapons to carve, reading from instructions on a sheet I'd picked up at the grocery store.  It was a repeat of Delaware.  The center inside was still frozen, where the bag of unthawed giblets hid.

     It was The Joy of Cooking that finally gave me specific instructions, but to this day my kids claim they suffered with my cooking.  I blame it on my mom, who can't answer.

This year's side dishes

Snapshots from Italy VI - Women's Feet

Women's feet take a beating in Italy.  When people pass you on the street there, the first thing they look at is not your eyes or even your watch or your jewelry.  It's your shoes.

Fendi Runway Mules $925.

Prada Silver Stiletto Sandals $700.

Prada Gladiator Sandal $950.

Capri-Girl Embellished Sandal $250.

Italians are famous as shoemakers throughout the generations and the leather is soft as butter.  Especially in cities they dress smartly and never look sloppy. Even jeans can make a statement with a lace top on the ladies (sometimes sheer) or a fitted jacket. Only women tourists wear shorts in Italy.  Milan, the fashion capital of the country, is the home to the design houses of Armani, Bottega Veneta, Canali, Dolce & Gabbana, Etro, Les Copains, Marni, Missoni, Miu Miu, Moschino, MSGM, Prada, Tod's, Valentino, Versace, and E. Zegna, among others.

Dolce e Gabbana poppy print dress $1315.

Of course, not many people there wear designer shoes or clothes.  Nevertheless, there is pride in the way a scarf is tied around a neck or in a chunky necklace or in a pocketbook, no matter how tiny,  that matches the shoes.  As a guest in their country, I try to dress with respect for their customs and a nod to affordable fashion. I don't pack sweatsuits.

However, I cannot acquiesce to the Italian women's custom of wearing stilettos or any kind of heels throughout the day. All I can walk in these days are sneakers with cushiony inserts, having spent my teen years in pointed Cappezio flats, with resulting bunions.  When I taught high school classes I stood in three-inch heels for years. I wore heels up and down the inclined cobblestones of Hong Kong as a guest of Charley's bank, while our host tried not to smirk. Four months before visiting Italy this year I tore the Plantar Fascia ligament on the bottom of my foot, necessitating a soft boot for six weeks, followed by six weeks of therapy.

In preparation for our departure I packed two pairs of extremely comfortable walking shoes (sneakers), a pair of flat shoes for dinner, and one pair of sandals for the pool. All of them had orthopedic inserts.

In southern Italy, where the weather is warm, sandals predominate...the higher the better.

Capri is famous for its jeweled designs, but flip-flops are everywhere...even on women who ride their bikes home after a weekly trip to the grocer's.

Eighty-year-old women walk up and down steep, often crumbling steps in sandals, carrying their satchels. Steps are a way of life, leading from village to village.

Steps to the sea at our hotel on Ischia

Up to our room, Mezzatorre Hotel, Ischia

However, women in five-inch heels also parade their baby strollers over cobblestone streets.  Fashion is always on display.

Men in southern Italy, like American tourists, wear sneakers!  Charley was no exception (see photo above).

Snapshots from Italy V - The Inevitable Weight Gain

Some breakfast pastries, Mezzatorre Hotel, Ischia, Italy

Despite our walking every morning and brief work-outs in hotel fitness centers, our stomachs always looked like a Buddha's after several weeks of travel, especially in Italy. We had no will power when Caprese cake with chocolate and almond bits or apple tart with homemade jams every color of the rainbow sat slivered on platters for breakfast.

More breakfast pastries

After staying seventeen years at the same hotel on the island of Ischia, our breakfast chef (Sylvestro) delivered his SURPRISE specialties to us, split onto two plates, usually after we had finished a Continental breakfast with yogurt, fruit, and a slice of cake or some granola with a croissant. We received, for example, omelettes with creamy ricotta filling or over-easy eggs on thick homemade toast, topped with fried mozzarella.  We loved the pride he took in his work but resorted to sneaking in and out of the breakfast room before he could spot us. It was just too much food - troppo!

Breakfast chef Sylvestro at the Mezzatorre Hotel,  Ischia, Italy

Pastas are all made daily in any establishment that serves food in Italy, no matter whether it's a five-star ristorante or the tiniest neighborhood trattoria.

Local food products and liqueurs on Ischia

My will power completely disappeared when flat spaghetti with vongole and cozze (clams and mussels) in a butter Parmesan sauce was on the menu and Charley caved in the minute he saw rigatoni in minced veal ragout or lasagna.  It helped our waistlines that Ischia was in the southern region of Italy, since Southern Italian food is lighter (local catch of the day from the sea) than Northern Italian (ragu sauces and Bolognese, consisting of local meats). Nonetheless, pasta was always a course on the menu prior to the entree. We tried to skip at least one course and dessert. Of course, we sampled local wines or Prosecco (my favorite) with every meal and Limoncello afterward.

Author friend Margie Miklas in a cooking class in Puglia.  Used with permission.

Sparkling Prosecco wine

Limoncello - an after-dinner favorite 

It would take all summer to lose the added pounds, but it was all part of the experience.  If we went into withdrawal symptoms after returning home to diets, we could always eat at Camille's or The Old Canteen "on the Hill" (Federal) in Providence, R.I., where the Sicilian mob had dined before retiring to jail.

Pineapple symbol of hospitality at entrance to Federal Hill, Providence, R.I., and signage for Old Canteen Restaurant

Snapshots from Italy IV - A Neighborly Dispute

The half-mile driveway to our hotel on the island of Ischia was under construction for eighteen months. The hotel owner was in a dispute with his neighbor (who shares the driveway) as to who should pay to fix the road.  Meanwhile, guests could either walk up the hairpin turns high over the Tyrrhenian Sea or wait at a staging area for the hotel to retrieve them on golf carts.

We first noticed in 2012 that stones from the wall along the driveway had tumbled down the hillside.

Walkers could become ghosts, swallowed by gaping voids that delineated the sides of the roadway. "This is a prestigious hotel and I don't understand why the owners can't negotiate a settlement," I said to Charley. "They're a member of a chain that must demand inspections."

"You'd think they'd have paid off the neighbor," Charley, the pragmatist, said.

"There has been a dispute as to who owns the part that needs fixing," the hotel manager told us with eyes on his shoes.  "They won't accept our offer."

In 2013 a new rock wall appeared where the driveway had been disintegrating.  The neighbor had constructed a ninety-degree angle where the property divided.  The walls created such a narrow turn that large taxis scraped their sides trying to get through. Unless we were in Lilliputian cars, we had to wait for shuttles to bring us up to the hotel. It was imperative we chose a small taxi to manage the turn if we decided not to walk.

I could hear the neighbor saying to our hotel owner, "Gotcha!"

Snapshots from Italy III - Hiring a Taxi in Ischia

Haggling with the taxi drivers in Ischia was "Fun at first," Charley told me.  On alternate mornings we walked the winding half-mile descent to the town of Lacco Ameno below our hotel, then along the coastline another mile-and-a-half to Casamicciola, the town beyond.  On our return we stopped for a light lunch in the marina facing Vesuvius, across the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Mt. Vesuvius across a marina on Ischia

All the shops were closed between 1-4 p.m. on the island, likewise with the hotel shuttle from town.  With a torn Plantar Fascia ligament (mine) and joints complaining from old football injuries (Charley's), we sometimes grabbed a taxi back to our hotel before heading to the pool or the sea.

Lunch stop in Lacco Ameno, Ischia

During the lunch hours in Lacco Ameno, the cab drivers sat along a wall, like birds on an electrical wire. The first time we approached them we made the mistake of asking the driver sitting in the last cab (closest to us) to take us back. No other drivers were sitting in their cabs.

Sunday after church, Lacco Ameno, Ischia

The driver whose cab was first in line hurried off the wall and began shouting at the driver we'd approached, sweeping his arms in large window-washing motions, while their noses got closer and closer and their voices louder and louder. The driver we'd approached ushered us into his van, hurling insults while flinging his free hand toward his pursuer. Thankfully, we've never seen anyone resort to punches in Italy.

Flea market on Sunday, Casamicciola, Ischia

"Un momento!" I said.  "Quanto costa?"

"Quindici Euros."

"Fifteen?  It's only a mile and half up the road!" Charley said.

"Prezzo minimo, signore," he said.

Our driver started his engine and we roared past the curses of the first driver, our necks lurching forward and Charley's leg dangling from the open door.

The next time we approached the lineup, none of the drivers got off the wall.  In fact, they wouldn't even look at us.

"Mezzatorre Hotel?  Quanto costa?" Charley said.

"Venti (20)" was the response.

"No, not twenty!  Fifteen," Charley said.

"Non, venti."

"You enjoy yourselves, have a good rest!  We'll walk," Charley announced.

And we did!

Halfway up the steep, circuitous hotel driveway a renegade driver stopped next to us. "Dieci (ten)," he said.

We jumped in.