IslandRoar

Trusting My Gut

I was supposed to go to New York City the weekend before last, to visit my 22-year old son.

We had tickets to the Tim Burton Exhibit at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art), and First-Born Son had decided weeks ago where we absolutely had to go to dinner.

But then came the weather report. You guessed it: more snow. At least 16 inches were predicted for Manhattan.

I got all kinds of advice. Fly; drive to Connecticut and take the train; cancel the trip.

I've spent my whole life in the Northeast, so driving in snow rarely fazes me. I'd even driven to Manhattan in a raging blizzard once before (not on purpose; it involved Broadway tickets, last minute changes in the weather report that somehow got overlooked...don't ask).

That trip took eight hours and exposed every last raw nerve in my body. Nothing could ever be that bad again; of that I was certain.

I'd just read Vodkamom's post about listening to your instincts, trusting your gut. So I drowned out everyone's words and concentrated on what I really thought was the right thing to do.

And I went.

The road was somewhat crazy weather-wise. Rain, snow, sun-showers, sun-flurries. It changed every 20 miles at least.

Crazy weather, yes. But unsafe? No.

I rolled into Manhattan in just under four-and-a-half hours. Record time.

It was still snowing. Huge piles created by plows. Slush and ice everywhere. Central Park got almost twenty inches before it was over. For once I was happy to be behind the wheel of my gas-guzzling environmental monster of a truck.

But I got to see First-Born Son and meet the new GF. Tall, smart, lovely. The three of us walked all around Times Square in the snow Friday night before dinner.

First-Born Son and I hit MOMA on Saturday. Saw the loveliest little snow-person sculpted jauntily in the middle of Park Avenue. We shopped uptown and down.

He watched in triumph as I chowed down on sliders and a tall Guinness shake in his restaurant of choice on St. Mark's. Not exactly the menu I might have chosen, but delicious nonetheless. Even the Guinness shake. Especially the Guinness shake.

I wouldn't have believed it myself, but, like everything else about the weekend, I'm counting the days till I can try it again.

What chances have you taken lately? Or, what have you done that you weren't sure you should, and then were so glad you did?

 

Mush!

I've already shared with you the joy of my winter wonderland getaway. But if you'll indulge me for one more post, it seemed to me that our night time dog-sledding adventure deserved something more.

Have you seen Balto, the animated film depicting the real life sled dog that delivered anti-diphtheria serum over the frozen tundra in hurricane winds at temps of fifty below,helping save the lives of children in Nome, Alaska in 1925? There's even a statue of him in Central Park.

Maybe it was Balto I had in mind when I made our dog-sledding reservations. Starlight, adventure, and speed, followed by a crescendo of inspirational music and a poignant, happy ending.

Alas, I had not factored in the wind-chill factor or the frostbite warning. Not to mention the odor of dog poop.

Did you know that when you are lying in a dog sled at ground level your nose is just about even with the butts of the eight adorable husky dogs on your sled team. Dogs who apparently wait until the sleds are in motion to relieve themselves.

Daughter #1 and I shared a sled, her lying in front. The parts of me she covered would be my last remaining body parts with any sensation.

"Umm-bye!" our musher called. The dogs made a half hearted attempt at moving our sled. Then stopped. "Go dogs, go," she yelled, as they stalled several times on the trail like a car out of gas.

She sounded like an inexperienced parent entreating their toddler to stop dawdling. Say it like you mean it, I silently begged.

The sled carrying First-Born Son and Daughter #2 raced by us. "Umm-bye!" their musher called out in an authoritative voice. Now that's what I'm talking about!

We rounded a curve in the trail and the sled stuck in the snow, dangling precariously at an odd angle. "Do you need us to get out?" we asked, clutching the sides.

"Oh, no." The musher ran forward to move the dogs and pry us loose.

Not a foot above our faces, pine branches laden heavily with snow swayed in the wind. I pulled my hood further down over my head and held my arm over Daughter #1's face, much like I had many times over the years when she was in the front seat of the car with me and I'd stepped on the brake.

But, no matter. The sled loosening jostled the tree and a miniature avalanche landed on us both.

"I'm so cold and tired," Daughter #1 whispered. "I just want to shut my eyes."

"Me too," I replied, "but don't fall asleep."

I didn't have to add, Because we might never wake up; the words hung in the air along with our frozen breath.

We laughed about it later. The inexperienced musher. Our frost-bitten digits. Our big, arctic adventure.

I'm glad we did it. The woods are beautiful at that time of night. Completely still and white. Huge evergreens shimmering with snow, lighting up the trail. Glorious.

No doubt infinitely more so than in the lush green of summer or the fiery blaze of autumn, the only two ways, incidentally, I plan on viewing them in the future for any extended period of time outdoors.

And if there are any dogs around, you can bet I'll make damned sure I'm several feet above the level of their butts.

 

Winter Wonderland?

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

 

My Amniotic Pool

Floating Away


 

I never wanted to own a pool.

I love to swim, but I preferred to do it in a pond or swim club, or someone else's pool. I assumed it would be way too much trouble to keep up.

But when we bought this house it had a pool. Built in, enclosed by an ugly, graying wooden fence almost six feet high.

Well, I thought, I guess I'll learn to deal with a pool.

It's turned out to be the best thing. When the kids were younger, they were in and out of it all day long. Even after a day at the beach, we still like to jump in the pool.

But it's only the last few years that I've learned to indulge in my favorite backyard pool activity: floating.

Yes, that's right. Floating.

There's nothing like coming home from a long day at work, putting on my suit, and climbing onto my floating lounge, complete with backrest and drink holder.

Sometimes I read or write, but mainly I lean back, trailing my hands and feet in the cool water. I shut my eyes, losing all track of time as the raft is pushed about by the breeze, bobbing off the sides of the pool, the sun warm on my skin.

Occasionally I load up my drink holder  with a cold beer (what? you thought I was more sophisticated? that maybe I'd be sipping a fine wine as I drifted about the pool?). I'm not usually a beer dinker, but there's something about an icy cold Coors Light on a hot summer day that is extremely satisfying.

Perhaps it has something to do with the whole return-to-the-womb phenomenon. The floating, I mean, not the beer. I'm nearly 100 percent sure there was no beer involved in my prenatal experience.

I'm always grateful for the shelter of the ugly weathered fence. You see, I like to float in private.

Maybe I don't want anyone to see me indulging in such decadence. Or maybe I just don't like to share.