"I think that after having six children in eight years, I deserve the chance to let myself go downhill for just one day" I wrote in 25 words or less to Channel 4's Ski Utah competition back in 1983.
Folding the paper with my reason for wanting to learn to ski, I stuffed it into an envelope, little knowing that my 20-cent stamp would be the purchase price for one day at Snowbird Ski Resort and 352 assorted bruises, bumps, and abrasions, not to mention the new note of awe that raised my kids' voices half an octave when they proclaimed to the world that "Mommy really has gone over the hill!"
Actually, it was just a little hill. When most of the slopes bear names like Second South Salt Lake or Bone Crusher, the first-time skier is careful to choose the one called Chickadee!
But although Nance, my sun-tanned, ski-lean instructor, assured me that the chick didn't stand for chicken, I couldn't help but notice how appropriately yellow all the padded tree bumpers were.
Seasoned skiers who had long forgotten what it was like to go snowplowing out of control kept referring to my chosen path as a "slightly over-sized mogul," while two-foot midgets disguised as little children went zipping down 90-degree washbasin inclines without either poles or padding.
"Just make a bigger piece of pie," they kept shouting.
That was about the time I found a better place than my torso for the down-filled parka I had borrowed on sacred trust from my 19-year-old brother.
After strategically stuffing said parka down the south side of my likewise borrowed bib overalls, I finally found out just exactly what a ski bum is.
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I finally found out just exactly what a ski bum is. |
