First Ski

I slept as I always sleep, which is to say, as if I were in training for death. I am blessed by the gift of sound sleep; the minute the light goes out, all thought ceases (if ever it began in the first place) and I embark upon the soft glide into unconsciousness. It is not uncommon for me to surrender in less than a handful of minutes, which drives Penny mad with envy, for she is one of those poor tormented souls whose brain remains active long after her head hits the pillow. Ah, well. We all have our crosses to bear.

This morning I snuck out the door before the sun to ski across the moonlit expanse of our pasture and Melvin’s hayfield. It was cold – four below zero by our thermometer (for all my socialist readers, that’s measured in fahrenheit, not the wussy celsius way. I mean, really: You’re telling me 0 = 32? That’s ’bout the softest shit I ever did hear. Crikey, at 0-degrees C we’re packing for the beach) – and the snow was squeaky and slow. But I soon had a nice sweat going, and by the time I’d circumnavigated Melvin’s high mowing, first light was coming to the eastern sky, and I could see wood smoke spiraling from the twin chimneys of our house. I thought of doing another loop, but then I thought of those fires, of coffee, of warming my fingers over the kitchen stove, of all the things that wanted doing before the impending storm.

So I slipped under the fence and skied for home.

A couple of folks asked about the birch bark stars. Penny learned from a friend, but there are also instructions in this book.