Friday, December 12, 2008

The Ski Bum

Our local newspaper, the Stowe Reporter, celebrates its 50th anniversary this week with a look back at outstanding and not-so outstanding events that have taken place over the years in this town. When I arrived, the paper was just 8 years old. Now, reading again about the high jinks of the late sixties, stories that fortunately did not make the paper, come flooding back to mind. Some I can't tell in this public forum but there are a couple that may be worth sharing.

The true definition of a Ski Bum is one who works only enough to allow for 120+ days of skiing per season and a healthy social life. In 1966 and 1967 I was one of those.

I arrived in Stowe to work and live at a charming inn known as Ten Acres. It was just 6 days before Christmas and not one flake of snow had fallen that year. The temperatures were well below zero so the ground was frozen solid and frosted white but without snow-making the lifts were yet to open and the tourists yet to arrive. Two others moved in on the same day and we shared staff quarters behind the kitchen. One of these fellow 'bums' was to become a friend for life. The other vanished midway through the season for reasons that were only whispered under one's breath.

Locals were nervous. No snow, no guests, no money! Some were happily imbibing no matter the time of day or night while others paced, watching the grey skies for the first snowflake. We strapped on some old skates, grabbed brooms and a ball and flopped our way around the backyard pond until we were so sore that a drop of the Yuletide grog was prescribed for purely medicinal reasons.

Our innkeeper, a very colorful lady over 6 feet tall and just about as wide, ran the show while her husband, the self professed table tennis champion of the world, lubricated himself from morning to night. He was a very happy drunk and quite harmless and would soundly beat us at ping pong regularly, with a glass of Johnie Walker in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Our jobs were to serve breakfast and dinner, seven days a week and clean up afterwards. During the day we were free to ski and a pass was provided in lieu of pay. Those first few days were rough with not much to do but on Christmas Eve the snow began to fall coating the trees and blanketing the trails. It was the most beautiful sight. By morning 16 inches had fallen and it was still coming down. Our first guests were not due for another day allowing for an early start on the mountain.

I may have neglected to mention that to this point my skiing experience was negligible. A school trip to Austria at 15 and a weekend on the ice at Canon Mountain did not a skier make. But unfazed and believing, as we all did at that age, that I was invincible, I strapped on my skis and jumped onto the T-bar that would take me to the top. Now that first hill was not exactly a black diamond but as I gathered speed it might just as well have been. I was quickly to realize that slowing down required turns and stem christies were not part of my repertoire. I was sure I had heard that in deep powder one must lean back but that was not working in a foot and a half of fairly heavy snow. I adopted the gorilla stance and tried to muscle my way out of the fall line and for a split second I thought I had it. Then my edge caught and I was airborne. Wow, that was exhilarating...but as we all know, it is not the falling that hurts, its the landing. When I finally came to rest my skis were still firmly attached to my laced boots but every other piece of equipment and loose clothing was shed over a 1000 square foot area. Many falls were to follow but none quite as demoralizing as that first. Day after day for two winters I fearlessly and determinedly flung myself down trails, far too advanced for my ability, until finally my errant limbs became conditioned and trained enough to slow my speed. Many years of ski instructing followed and even though I wouldn't go back to punishing my body like that again, it sure was a blast at the time.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Great Auntie Do

My grandmother on my father's side had a younger sister Doris, known to most as Do (pronounced doe). By the time I came on the scene Auntie Do was a confirmed spinster, living with her widowed sister as her self appointed caretaker. So the story goes, she had loved and lost an American soldier stationed in England during the 1st world war and no man ever proved worthy after that.

Her main purpose in life was to clean and cook for her ailing sister, my grandmother. Even in her twenties, grandmother was known to have a weak heart and for the remainder of her life was instructed by doctors to avoid any undue stress. This included childbirth, walking upstairs more than once a day or any domestic duties. She did give birth to my father well into her thirties and survived that but for the rest of her 83 years was pampered by her sister and everyone else around her. Fortunately she was a much beloved lady.

Auntie Do, on the other hand, had a sharp tongue and could give you a look that would drop you to your knees, when she was displeased. Many feared her, most avoided her but I always rather enjoyed her. She was straight and told it the way it was. Her diminutive size was misleading, barely 5 feet 2 inches even with her ever-present 3 inch heeled court shoes. Her hair was always perfectly permed, coiffed and held in place with a very fine hairnet. She was never seen without makeup including a blacked-in beauty spot just below her lower lip, highly colored rouge and bright red lipstick. To me as a child this was all absolutely fascinating but the best part was her legs. She never wore stockings, summer or winter but applied liquid make-up to her movie-star gams. During the war, nylons were not to be had so the habit begun and continued for her entire life.

My grandmother was grateful for her sister’s care and was quick to praise her publicly and only a couple of times did she let her frustration show. Auntie was heavy handed and moved quickly often knocking over priceless ornaments and breaking dishes. But the occasion that sticks in my mind, although happily I was not there to witness it, concerned a certain budgie named Mickey. This little bird came to my grandmother right from the nest and was lovingly cared for and encouraged to fly free in the house. Every evening the two sisters would sit in a darkened room watching television (at this time, quite a new invention) and Mickey would sit on one shoulder or the other. On this evening, Auntie left her seat briefly to make a cup of tea and on her return resumed her position, sitting heavily into her chair. It was not until many minutes later when Mickey was missing that one flattened little bird body was discovered under Auntie’s ample derriere.

Great Auntie Do lived into her eighties until she decided she was quite old enough. She stated that she would stay around long enough to see me married but after that she would only become a nuisance. She attended our wedding in all her finery - pale blue, matching dress and coat, large upswept hat, high heels and, of course, make-up. Even before we returned from our honeymoon she was dead of pneumonia. Now there was a strong-willed woman!

Friday, November 28, 2008

The British Clockmaker

After my mother's death I inherited a beautiful clock dating back to the 1760's. I like to think that it has been in my family for its entire life but I don't know for sure. I first remember noticing it when my sister and I spent Wednesday afternoons having tea with our grandmother and great aunt back in the forties. The clock sat on a bracket shelf on the wall in the hall and chimed rather grandly on the hour. It sounded and looked like the top section of a grandfather clock in smaller scale with a mahogany case, glass panels on four sides and a domed top with a handle for lifting it into place.

In time the clock moved to my parents and once my mother's estate was settled it was shipped to me in the U.S. It did not travel well arriving with the glass in the front door shattered and unknown damage to the rest of it. For safe keeping, my husband mounted the shelf on the wall and carefully lifted the clock into position by the handle. There was a nasty splintering sound and the cabinet disintegrated into many pieces. My expression of dismay was only surpassed by his. Like the clock, he was shattered. Fortunately it was mostly the joints that had come unglued and the workings were still intact

Many of you will know that I am married to one of the finest woodworkers you will ever meet but not necessarily the speediest. His intentions to repair the damage were well meaning but with his busy schedule the clock kept slipping down the list. Now, more than two years later the cabinet has finally been restored to its former glory, much improved from it's 20th century condition. It looks truly splendid.

Thinking that, once again, the chime of the family heirloom would be heard imagine my disappointment on finding out that the pendulum had been dislodged in the repair process and things were definitely amiss. My poor husband was mortified and even before sharing the bad news with me made a phone call to the British clockmaker in Newfane, VT. For years we have heard his name as a sponsor of Vermont Public Radio and now it was time to pay him a visit.

Earlier this week we loaded the clock and the two dogs into the car and set off for southern Vermont. Ray Bates, the British Clockmaker is a refined gentleman from Scotland who knows everything there is to know about the inside of a clock, especially English ones. He works out of his home with his son, and a backlog of 6 months of repairs. On first glance he determined that severe damage had not occurred, surprising to him since we were so ignorant on the workings of such a valuable clock. He noted that cleaning and general care had been lacking for many years and so, much chagrined, we agreed to a full overhaul. This does not come inexpensively!

The bracket shelf will sit empty for an additional few months it seems, and then we will make another pilgrimage to Newfane. Our pockets will be emptied but we will return home, triumphant, with a clock that should be good for another couple of centuries.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

More socks

Socks, socks and more socks!
As Camp Director for a sports camp for boys and girls, I spent many very busy summers keeping teens and pre-teens focused on tennis, soccer and riding rather than each other. Their days and evenings were filled with activities, overseen by athletic young college students, who needed their own occasional refocusing.

On average, one hundred and fifty campers and 70 staff were in residence for each of three sessions which adds up to one heck of a lot of socks! 99% of those socks were white athletic socks when they started, bought new for camp. I would guess that only 10% ever made it home again. Weekly laundry was responsible for a good number. Once white socks get loose from their laundry bag, matching them to their owner is next to impossible. Inside the cabins, socks disappeared when they were swept under the bunks, hidden in the trash or stuffed under the mattresses in a last minute attempt to pass Cabin Inspection. But most of the unclaimed socks, were discarded by their owners in the course of their very active day.

Often the day started with tennis. That required clean socks. Next was soccer with uncomfortable cleats and shin guards which were quickly discarded once practice was over. Then a dash to the pool. You don't need socks for swimming so often a single missing sock was not immediately detected. Flip-flops could get you to lunch and through rest hour and then oops another clean pair was necessary for afternoon tennis. You get the picture.

Odd socks and sometimes pairs littered the grounds. Staff collected these delectable objects on a daily basis and along with found sweatshirts, caps, towels, tennis rackets and more and carried them to mealtimes for redistribution. Not so strangely, socks were rarely claimed.

Rainy days were the worst. Wet, muddy, stinky socks festered everywhere. All Camp Cleanup was declared as soon as weather permitted and candy wrappers, care package materials, and some unmentionables along with socks now brown with mud were shovelled into the dumpsters and disappeared for ever.

Over the course of an eleven week summer several garbage bags of keepers were gathered. I'm not sure what happened to most of those but one bagful made it home with me each year. Those nearly-new socks were soaked, boiled, bleached and dried and unceremoniously dumped into a large hamper, unsorted. My three kids were some of those campers who came home sockless. They never worried about matching up pairs so for the next 9 months would happily dive into the hamper, again and again, to retrieve two somewhat similar items for their ever-growing feet. Those camp days are long past but socks still seem to be in short supply. Thank goodness for Sock Sales!

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Sock Sale

The most mammoth sock sale in history occurred this weekend in Vermont. Cabot Hosiery manufactures socks of all weights, sizes, colors and shapes for many of the largest brands in the US and on the first and second weekends of deer season sells off its overruns, seconds, samples etc right at it's plant in Northfield, VT. I haven't been for the past couple of years and never have I made the trek on the first day, until this year!

The whole population of the State of Vermont is a little over 600,000. That includes grandmas and grandpas, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, singles and couples, male and female and I swear, all who could walk and those who could be pushed or carried were there yesterday.

The company ingeniously constructs a maze of passageways with large cardboard cartons that leads you into the main hall. With plastic bag in hand you can travel through the many shelves, bins, tables and boxes of socks selecting your purchases. When I arrived, the line to the checkout snaked around and around but I chose not to think about that. My mission was to fill my bag and a second bag with bargains that would be included in my Christmas packages and a few for myself. Even as thousands of socks were bagged more replaced them. Double and triple checking my stash to ensure that I wouldn't need to make a return trip next weekend, I stepped into line and checked my watch. It had taken me about 27 minutes. It was only then that it became clear that the check out was going to take fortitude and perseverance. The line moved at a snail's pace and took up much of the standing space in the hall. Some couldn't face it and dropped their partially filled bags and fled. Most, like me, were patient and in good humor and not about to be denied. The trick I was to find out, a little too late, is to take your place in line immediately upon arrival and shop your way around. My queue mates were hopping in and out of line, with a quick smile and "hold my place, I'll be right back" over and over. Great idea! Next year I'll know.

23 pairs of socks richer and an hour later, I emerged, very happy with my booty. So family, now you know what you will be getting for Christmas this year and every year to come.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

My mother, the Queen

My mother was raised an only child in the coal mining district of South Wales. Her father was a butcher and they lived modestly in a row house with an outdoor toilet and potties under the beds. My sister and I spent two weeks every summer with our grandparents while our parents took their summer holidays abroad. I remember fondly the times we picked vegetables from their garden, climbed the surrounding hills in search of whinberries and evenings around the table after dinner, playing cards and board games. As the lights dimmed one of us would race to the front parlor to deposit large copper pennies into the electric meter to keep the lights on for a few more hours.

My mother came from humble beginnings which she promptly forgot when she married my father in 1942. During these war years life was not easy but they prospered through the fifties and sixties and when Dad retired early they travelled extensively. I'm not sure at what point my mother determined that she was royal or pretty darn close. As children we practised our curtsies to be ready for when we would be summoned to Buckingham Palace. Instructions on how to address Her Royal Highness, The Queen and how to do the 'royal wave', elbow elbow, wrist wrist were frequent, and given lightheartedly, or so I thought. My father had a great sense of humor and kept my mother from taking herself too seriously but after his death her sense of entitlement grew expeditiously. Her later years were spent as the "Queen" with her two daughters in the roles of Ladies-in-Waiting. She wore large hats, matching dress and coat outfits and always carried a handbag. Unlike the Queen she did carry money and also cigarettes in her handbag. On her arthritic fingers were diamonds, sapphires and rubies, mostly purchased in some foreign land. Even in her later years she wouldn't leave the house without 'the crown jewels', as she herself referred to them.

She would have made a fine queen. She carried herself with good deportment, never let her real feelings show and was always right. What more could you want? Well, actually, I think I would rather have had the "Queen Mum" for my Mum.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Women's Weekend

How very fortunate I feel! I have just spent the weekend with 7 wonderful women for the 15th year in a row. It is too long a story to tell about how we all came together in the beginning and looking at us you would never guess, so for now, that will remain a mystery.
Sadly we have lost 2 of our group. The eldest, a farm woman, who was truly a lady, died with great dignity at 98. The last time, she was already 96 but entered into all of our conversations, laughter, dining, movie going and shopping with vigor and a marvelous sense of humor. Every year her mission was to buy a new sweater. Never mind that she had many, almost all of which were navy or black, wool cardigans. She needed another and who were we to say that she couldn't or shouldn't? Only the best quality was considered, they had to last, and even though other colors and styles were offered, she preferred a sensible navy button-up. And that is what she had. We miss her terribly.
Our second missing member was stricken with cancer and before we could blink, she was gone. Another salt of the earth, octogenarian with a hairstyle that reminded me of a newly hatched bird. Every hair stood up on its own, independent of all others. She wore crazy, light-house earrings and whacky scarves and greeted everyone with arms outstretched and a huge smile that crinkled her entire face. She loved owls and would have chosen to be reincarnated in that form, I'm sure. Imagine our delight, the very next year following her death, on seeing a large Barred owl looking down on us from the branches of a tree, right in the center of our shopping street.
The remaining 8 are hale and hearty and range in age from 50 to 81. Our numbers will, of course, dwindle in time but no new ones are invited. The younger ones joke about the time that they will be spending their weekend as a twosome or a single, but we made a pact. Only charter members can attend.
As we departed, the hotel manager commented on how much he had enjoyed witnessing the love and caring we all showed for each other. That said it all.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Stick Season

In Vermont, there is a fifth season that not everyone knows about. It took me a few years before I realized that fall does not naturally slide into winter in these parts. Fall means bright colors of foliage, green grass with just a frosting here and there and some evenings where outdoor work is still possible. Winter begins December 21st or 22nd, I can never remember which, and by then Christmas lights are sparkling everywhere, fireplaces are roaring and snow is thick on the ground. Folks are ready to snuggle in for the duration and accept the daily shovelling, de-icing etc in order to venture out.
Stick season lasts for about four weeks, right around the time we move our clocks back. All color has disappeared, seemingly overnight, leaving lifeless grass and sticks for trees. Night falls early and the sun on the few occasions it breaks through the heavy cloud cover, barely melts the morning frost. It is a bleak time, dreaded by many, most of whom head south for a short respite if not for the whole winter. Some, however welcome this brief period in which to button up the homestead in preparation for winter. Wood must be stacked, storm windows applied and last minute garden chores completed.
Hunters wait all year for stick season. Once here they can begin growing their beards, stocking up on necessities i.e. beer, target practising, tuning their weapon of choice or just allowing their fingers and toes to become accustomed to the cold.
Local businesses also find this time to be of great value. Some close their doors, giving their employees time to rest up for the big rush ahead. Others shorten their hours conserving resources just like squirrels.
I've come to terms more with stick season over time. It is still not my favorite but there are some advantages. For a while the early mornings are lighter when we walk the dogs. Trying to keep my small Yorkie, Lily, in the beam of light to make sure she accomplishes her task has been challenging. She wears a little flashing beacon, much like one of those disco balls of the 70s but once under the ferns, even that doesn't help. Few visitors are in town and there are more parking spaces available and more time to chat with those remaining locals. I like that! My satellite reception is better now all the leaves are off the trees. I like that! Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is coming soon. But that is it.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Warm enough to play golf

Golf is one of the most difficult sports I have attempted to date. You are probably wondering why I am thinking about golf in Vermont on Halloween and the answer is that every time I drive by my local golf course I think about golf. My office is just a 7 iron away from the first tee so coming and going several times a day distracts me quite a lot. The sun was melting the snow today and the emerald greens stood out sharply as I went by but the flags are stored away and the course is closed until next season.

It is probably just as well. My last round this year was about as pitiful as it can get. On a really, really good day my score has come close to a hundred. On a really, really bad day...well I just can't talk about it. My golf partner and I play quite similarly or at least, I like to think so but whenever there is money on the line ….

On this day, with a promise of sunshine, temperatures in the 50's and two free vouchers, we headed to a mountain course never before played by us. It was certain to be beautiful but windy we hadn’t considered. They talk about wind chill more in the winter than summer but on this day we had a serious wind chill.

The wind whipped my ball into the woods, rolled it off the greens and even managed to blow those pretty red leaves over it to cleverly conceal it on the fairways. I would like to blame my major loss on climate conditions but of course, that wouldn’t be fair. Were my frozen fingers and stiff back the reasons? No. My partner is a little younger but not that much. Could it be that my ball was not well suited to the altitude? Since I had lost at least 4 balls on the way around and found another 5 belonging to others who went before, I can’t use that excuse. The real truth is that I choked. Choked! There was a wager on each hole and each time I came close to dropping that little white ball into the cup first, the pressure became too great for me. I know I am a better golfer than my partner but on that day she took me for $1.75.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Snow on the ground

Waking up to total whiteness after several glorious weeks of sunshine and foliage colors ranging from pale yellow to the deepest reds was not what I was dreaming about last night. But there is was - a blanket of snow over everything and it is still October. Now some will be sharpening their skis and hiking up the mountain for that first run but I will not be with them. Don't get me wrong, skiing is still wonderful fun on the perfect day, especially with my Colorado daughter and son-in-law. Then I turn into a maniacal downhill racer thinking I can still outrun the younger generation.

Three or four years ago after a 12 year hiatus from skiing but with the encouragement of the kids, I sallied forth from the top of the chairlift at Beaver Creek on my rent-for-a-day skis. My confidence grew over the first few hundred yards of flat terrain. Turn right - turn left - feeling good - can still do this --- catch edge - collide head on with small child under the tutelage of his instructor - all parties flattened.

No one was hurt but the ego was severely damaged. In my 23 year career as a ski instructor nothing infuriated me as much as a full grown person mowing down one of my students. Aagh! The young ones were mightily amused and to this day warn me of small children with teachers ahead.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Working in the woods

Today was a work in the woods day. The property where we currently live has several trails where we walk our dogs daily and on occasion another loop is added to make the walks more varied. We also own an additional 18 acre parcel which is to be the site of our new home, one day. Clearing, installing systems and dreaming keeps us well occupied while we wait for the right buyer to come along for our old house. On this bright sunny day we took the opportunity of adding to the already existing trail network by cutting a new path close to our house site.

My husband has an excellent sense of direction and light or dark, sunny or overcast, can find his way with barely a misstep. I can get lost trying to find the elevator in a hotel.

One evening, when alone at home, my cat failed to make an appearance by nightfall. With foxes, coyotes and fisher cats roaming the woods, my young kitty's life was in peril. Waking suddenly from a sound sleep I was sure I heard a cat crying outside. Out I dashed into the warm night air in just a ragged t-shirt and without shoes or a flashlight. I followed the mewing sounds into the woods, calling all the way, quite sure Miss Kitty was just one more step away. But no. There was no cat and I was far enough off the path and turned around to the point of being completely lost. Could it be possible that I was going to spend the rest of the night wandering around deep in the woods with no way out? It certainly felt like that. Anyone finding me with bare feet, almost no clothes and looking like the wild woman of Borneo would have me arrested or committed to the psychiatric ward, I was sure. Many frightening minutes later I stumbled upon a large structure shrouded in darkness. Maybe there would be a telephone and I could call for help. Duh! I had found my own house! It was with much embarrassment that I slunk back to bed that night, quite sure that I would never tell a soul. By morning, the cat was back and I was telling all. Never could keep my mouth shut.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Getting married in Vermont

Last evening, a young couple rehearsed for their wedding to be held later today with me as their officiant. It was not easy gathering all the players together for a fifteen minute run through. Most everyone was looking strained and unfocused but we pulled it off is just under an hour. The wedding will take less than half that time and for sure will be a joyous occasion.
I have been performing weddings and civil unions for four years as part of my role of Justice of the Peace. Young couples, 2nd and 3rd timers, same sex couples, later life unions, child in utero validations, and even those rushing into it after a ten year plus courtship, have come before me. And what fun it is! There are no sad weddings. Today's will be no exception.
One pouring wet day my cell phone lit up with a call from an older gentleman requesting the services of a Justice of the Peace. "I would be delighted", I said, "when and where?" "We are just here for one night leaving first thing tomorrow but anytime is good for us". My windshield wipers were going at full speed and I still couldn't see the road so I thought it wise to wait for a few hours and maybe the rain would stop. Well that would interfere with their dinner reservations but maybe they could fit it in early the next morning. In my garden at 9:00 am our lovely senior couple were joined to the sounds of birdsong and our old school-house bell pealing, thanks to my husband at the end of the rope. Hugs and tears were shared and as she turned to leave the blushing bride whispered to me, "we have been going together for 12 years but I want you to know that we have been saving ourselves for this day". Phew! Was I relieved to hear that?

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

First snow

Even in the half light of 6:00 am the precipitation was quite clearly in the form of flakes. Not fluffy and floating but wet and falling heavily on my purple robe. Actually not so much a robe but one of those fleece bags where your feet just barely stick out through holes in the bottom. My husband refers to it as my grape suit. Lily, my 6 month old Yorkie, wasn't thrilled either. Most mornings she trots around happily wanting me to chase her to bring her back inside. Have you ever tried running in a grape suit? Happily, today she did the squat and dash for home in 10 seconds flat.
A little later, taking our customary walk through the woods with both dogs we commented on how beautiful a inch or so of snow is on the newly fallen leaves. It emphasizes the change in seasons with skiing just a few weeks away.
All summer, horses have resided in our fields. They belong to a nearby riding stable which closed for the season about 3 weeks ago. The temporary fencing came down and 'our' horses were gone for another year. Imagine our surprise on returning from the walk to see 6 horses happily grazing once more in the field, sans fence. It seems they wanted to spend just one more time under the apple tree before being shipped to their winter quarters. Are these a new breed of homing ponies?
Now that brings to mind one of those classic moments that tickled my funny bone:
The year was circa 1975 and I was teaching riding here in Stowe. A brand new rider was preparing to mount after listening carefully to my instructions. "Put your foot in the stirrup, grab a handful of mane and swing your leg over the saddle", I chanted. She hesitated and then asked, "does it matter which foot you use?" "Not at all', I replied "as long as you don't mind which way you face!"

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

The beginning ...

A page or two of a journal, a few entries in a writing folder, an unpublished short story and even the beginnings of a novel have been written over the years but now I am really excited! My first blog has been launched. Here is the opportunity to write with no other purpose than to please myself and those few of you who will find me.
Now in my 5th or maybe 6th career, and I expect my last, life has always been fun. Funny things have happened to me and others around me. Serious things have happened too, but it is the funny and interesting ones that I want to remember.
Memory is a funny thing all on its own. One day you can remember this great joke you heard and couldn't wait to repeat and just two days later it has flown clean out of your head. Not only has the punch line gone but the beginning, middle and lead up have also evaporated. Months or even years later, parts of the same joke pop into your consiousness but now the trick is to fill in the gaps. Actually being inventive at this time can lead to a whole new line of jokes.
However, it is the real life experiences that I want to recall and wish that I had written down much sooner. Maybe, just maybe, in the writing of this blog, the memory of those events will come crawling back to the surface just long enough for me to put them to paper.