I have always loved snowy days; that’s how you know I am from the South. Seeing snow makes me giddy. If there is snow in the forecast I am more likely to run towards it than away. Back before 4 kids and 2 knee replacements, I was a skier. There are certain days, like today, when I feel the chill on my face and I long for those days flying down the slopes with the wind in my hair. (Rather than a hat, whenever possible I opted for a headband to cover my ears so my hair could fly free!)

I learned how to snow ski in Georgia, believe it or not. Our family farm was thirty minutes from the only ski slope in the state. Sky Valley had two small slopes and a bunny hill. I started on the bunny hill. I hated it. I could not get my balance if my life depended on it. Everyone else in my family had graduated to the chair lift and I was still on the pull rope. I went into the lodge because I was cold and covered with snow. I was done; convinced I would never be a skier. Mom never skied, so I decided I would just sit with her…but Dad was inside. He insisted, once I had rested and warmed up, that I give it one more try. He buckled up my boots and came with me to encourage me. I don’t know if it was the boots were tighter or his encouragement, but it finally clicked and I could stand up all the way down the little hill. Next, he guided me to the ski lift and stayed with me all the way down my first slope. I think it took hours…seemed to me, anyway.

That was the beginning. We went back every weekend, and somewhere between the slushy and the icy conditions, there was enough occasional snow that I got pretty good. Skiing became an addiction for our family. We skied in the pouring down rain. In the freezing cold. At night, when the slopes turned to concrete. In the day, when there was more mud than slush. It didn’t matter that we waited in the lift line for an hour to ski down in 2 minutes. We had a blast.

There was a whole group of “regulars” who met at the slopes each weekend. I think we pretty much terrorized everyone around us. We made little jumps and then lined up to take them and see who could get highest. In our minds, we were Olympic ski jumpers. (I’m pretty sure I got maybe a few inches off the ground.) We skied with poles and without. We zigzagged across the slope trying to make the run take longer than 2 minutes. Or we skied straight down wide open to see if we could make it down in 30 seconds or less. When the lift line got partway up the slope, we would come sliding in and the line of people went down like dominos.

I took plenty of tumbles with this haphazard ski style. Remember the “agony of defeat” from the Wild World of Sports? One night, while skiing on ice, I was trying to get one more run before closing. Didn’t see the jump in the shadows and went over it unaware. I felt my arms and legs flailing in the air before I wrapped myself around a tree. I couldn’t breathe and I was sure it was my last run for life. At the hospital, the doctor said nothing was broken. Bruised ribs. I know if I had been filmed, they could have used that footage on Wild World of Sports!

Turns out, it wasn’t my last run. I continued to ski all through college. Anytime it was supposed to snow I would throw my skis on the car and head to the nearest slope. (You know, I have skied Alabama?!) Over time, the slopes got further and further as my friends and I sought out better snow. We skied Beach and Sugar, then onto Snowshoe. Up to Vermont, and then out West to Montana, and Colorado where we were ruined for skiing any place else. For years, I skied with friends or family wherever I could. It was the only sport I was ever good at.

Bill and I had been skiing together for years with a group of friends from college. We graduated and married and went on our way. Then we found some skiers at our church and planned a road trip out West for some skiing. Five couples. One condo. Sleeping on beds, couches and floors. Skiing as soon as the sun came up and the slopes opened every day. There is a certain feel in the air when the temps are in the single digits and the sun is shining; a deep breath burns your lungs and your cheeks feel hot with the cold. Those are the days skiing is the best; fresh powder and short lift lines…because most people are not as crazy as Southerners. It was a great trip. Two weeks later, Bill had his car accident and brain injury. We never skied again. Life got significantly harder then.

We never got to teach our kids to ski. We encouraged and paid for them to go on trips with school or church, but it was never a family activity we did together. That makes me sad because it brought me so much joy when I was growing up and I wanted that for them. For us. Still, on days like today, windy blustery frigid snowy days, I ache for the slopes. Like skiing is still a part of me.

However, I’ve made peace with never going skiing again. The risk of breaking either of my expensive knees is enough to hold me back. I get colder now than I did in my younger days. I think it might be more fun to breathe in the cold air and time travel for a bit of nostalgia on days like today instead of actually being out in the elements. I will settle for remembering and reliving the days of the wind in my hair and snow on my face.