I interviewed my Grandmama, Freddie Anderson. She was born in 1921. She just turned 90 and still skis. She is a huge inspiration and I really enjoy talking to her. A Youtube video link about her is:
90 Year Old Ski Instructor
I lie with the blankets wrapped around me and stare at the flat darkness of the first hours of morning. The sweet metallic clanging of the alarm disturbs my reverie. I pull the cord on the light and squint at the thin black hands indicating 4:30 on the squat clock face. After dragging myself out of bed I locate my gear through bleary eyes. I pull on many layers of wool and fasten my kilt around my waist. I check to make sure my bloomers are arranged properly and pull on my long thick socks. My beloved tweed jacket is slung over the back of the chair.
I had the kilt made for myself out of real Scotch tartan and bloomers made to match (to prevent anyone from noticing if my kilt blows up around my knees). The jacket had come from a forgotten romance. I had fancied the man’s tweed jacket that he had worn, and when we went our separate ways, I decided that it was to become mine.
As I stumble into the hallway I practically slam into Andy emerging from the guest bedroom in the same sleepy state as myself. He catches me and murmurs a greeting into my hair. We slowly speed up like a train out of the station and begin to rush about the house, attempting not to wake my parents. After a speedy, whispered breakfast we both hurry up to our rooms to lace up our stiff, leather ski boots and collect our laden ski packs. I slip my arms into the jacket as I stomp down the stairs. We attempt to muffle the closing of the hulking front door and hoist our heavy wooden skis over our shoulders. We begin our trek.
The town is as silent as a graveyard and the cold soaks into our bones. We tromp through the heavy snow on the side roads across the still town for 45 minutes to the bus station. As the skis resting on my shoulder begin to gain weight I commence to curse the war, the gas ration, the earliness of the morning. The sun finally slips over the hills and the gold streams make the snow glint like diamonds.
The small assembly at the bus stop comes into view as we crest the hill. The dilapidated thing pulls around the corner just as Andy and I plod up to the dozen animated skiers gathered at the bus stop. Much confusion and distress is caused to the other passengers on the bus as the gang of us pile in with all of our ski equipment. Thank goodness the bus is almost empty today, as sometimes we have to stand up the entire 30 minute bus ride. The bus pulls up to the final stop, the train station and we transfer to the next convoluted step in this journey to the Bromley ski area.
Andy stows our skis and we climb the stairs into the train car with his hand guiding my back. We settle down into two plush seats. His arm finds its way around my shoulders and my head falls onto his.
I had just graduated from Smith College and felt no particular attachment to any males in my life. I was carefree and swirling in the social gaiety of our young, jovial lives. I enjoyed the company of many young men and felt no pressure to tie myself down to anyone specific.
A few months ago the ski club was showing a ski movie in the auditorium of a local middle school, and the seats were filled with ski enthusiasts. Most of them were buddies of mine. After the movie was over and everyone was stretching their stiff limbs and starting file out, I noticed five handsome young men. Naturally, I invited them over to my parent’s house for hot chocolate. One of them in particular was extremely handsome. This was probably the reason for my attraction to him in the first place.
His name was Henry Anderson, everyone affectionately called him Andy. He soon became a part of the family. My parents loved him. I adored him. He was certainly very friendly. Congenial. Knowledgeable and intelligent. He had an answer for everything you could possibly think to ask. He was so much fun to do anything with, and we had many of the same interests. We both loved to ski, and golfed when we couldn’t.
He was living with 10 other guys in a rented house on the other side of Schenectady, NY. They had all been recently hired by General Electric, and they were here to prove that they could handle the job. The house, “Alka Hall”, was quite a distance from my parents’ and even further from the bus stop.
On the evenings before mornings like these he would come stay in the guest bedroom of our house.
When our gay crowd tromps off of the train, we are met by several worn out pickup trucks. We pile in, and to fit us all, we lay down on our bellies next to our skis and stacks 3 or 4 layers of people like bags of cement.
(telegrams)
ME: “Going to Mont Tremblant to ski with parents. How would you like to come?”
ANDY: “Yay.”
The trails at Mont Tremblant are quiet narrow. We get going awfully fast and it is difficult to slow down. We are flying. My kilt flutters around my knees, the air whips our faces, and everyone on the mountain shares a universal euphoria.
Andy and I go on walks after skiing often, reveling in each other’s company. We lope along side the lake; my small, smooth hands in his large, wood worker’s. Perfect white clouds sail across the brilliant blue sky. The frozen lake expands out, mimicking the heavens. The snow glimmers in the sunlight and throws brilliant beams all around us. We find a boulder that overlooks the picturesque scene and sit down contentedly. Glancing at the vivid sky, I hear him say,
“Well, you know, we have a lot in common. We should get married.”
It is almost as if this statement was said in our hearts, instead of to the air, and seems to require no response. The feeling is mutual.
Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman
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