POSTSCRIPT

postscript JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2023 / DONNA MOFFLY

“I was terribly near-sighted, my glasses got all fogged up, and I couldn’t see where I was going.” OF SKIING AND SLIPPERY SLOPES

Right after Christmas people around here tend to take to the slopes—some to Colorado, others closer to home. Not me, unless I can help it. There aren’t any mountains in Ohio where I grew up, but after Jack and I were married and moved East, I ran out of excuses.

My first challenge was Stowe. No fancy new equipment, of course. Jack was old fashioned, from Philadelphia. Any pair of long wooden boards—like he had learned on—had been good enough for him. But by all means, Donna, borrow whatever you need. So a nice friend loaned me some gear. The boots didn’t quite fit; by the end of the first day my ankle bones were bloody, and I had to insert foam donuts around them. Plus I was terribly near-sighted, my glasses got all fogged up, and I couldn’t see where I was going. Nope, skiing wasn’t much fun—and it hurt. But I persevered.

Next, I tackled Stratton, enjoying my time off the slopes more than on at the Vaughns’ farmhouse where we learned how calves are born and maple sugar is made. Same was true when Jack bid on two ski houses at a silent auction for the Greenwich Symphony, figuring he’d get one, only to find out he’d won both. Yuck. But we made it happen. Besides, the Rindlaubs’ house in Vermont had a hammock in the kitchen—a great spot for watching other people cook dinner.

Skiing is a lot of work. Once we rented a lovely home at Bromley where I spent most of the time making sandwiches and doing major cleanup. It had been trashed by the owner’s unruly teenagers. Arms fell off chairs; one bathroom had a light we couldn’t turn off, another a light we couldn’t turn on; the master bed fell down (with us in it); the vacuum caught on fire, and a neighbor’s puppy pooped on the living room rug and growled at Jack when he rubbed his nose it.

Skiing can be embarrassing. My downhill finale came sitting beside a ski instructor on a chairlift at Stratton. My husband had been asked to skipper a boat back to Newport after the Bermuda Race and was mad because I wouldn’t join him. I’d been there-done-that on Newbold Smith’s Reindeer and hadn’t slept for a week. So when I discovered this young gorilla was dying to go, I began super-selling him on the idea. But when we reached the top where the lift pauses to allow people to disembark, he got off while I, still talking, kept going. This was instant decision time: Ride back down in disgrace or jump off midair? I jumped, landing in a heap of skis and poles circled by concerned witnesses. The only thing bruised was my pride.

After that, I turned to cross-country, which Barbara King and I did at Okemo when we weren’t shopping. Once we rented a house right on the slopes; and after seeing the gents off the first morning, we rushed through the breakfast dishes, eager to get to the discount stores in Manchester. Then came a knock on the door from an apparition in a ski mask saying: “My boots fell off!” Jack was standing there in his liners, a trail of plastic in his wake. Due to the extreme cold, his ancient boots had detonated. He had to buy new boots, new bindings and (gulp) new skis because, said the wily salesman, “you don’t want to put new bindings on those old skis.” The final tally came to a whole lot more than I spent in Manchester.

Someday I’m going to write a book called I Married a Jock. Jack wanted me to join him in every sport that turned him on, from skeetshooting to waterskiing. I could only better him at ice-skating.

Being old enough now to do what I want to do is wonderful, but guess what? It’s not nearly as much fun.