I started learning to ski when I was 6 years old. We were living in Germany at the time. My rather vivid memories are of my Mom and Dad dropping me off at all day ski school where no one spoke a word of English. I hated it. I cried. I hated it. I was furious that they abandoned me!! I hated it. (Poor Julie was only a 6 month old and they left her with some random German nanny! Nice guys!!) My Dad now laughs when I remind him of the torture he put me through. He loves to remind me that I learned to ski in the Alps. No 6 year old cares one whit about that. He and my Mom were in similar classes of their own, learning to ski. Now, in hindsight, I'm so glad that I learned when the distance from my rear to the snow was much closer than it is today. Thanks Dad. I forgive you.
Fast forward to the next time I was living in a land of snow. Utah. BYU. Matt had never had much of an opportunity to ski because he was so involved with basketball and basketball coaches that wouldn't allow him to ski. I think the first time we skied together was Matt's second or third time in his life. I was LOVING it. It was the one and only sport that I could whip him in. Needless to say, the competitive Matt didn't love that so much.
We've had lots of practice since then, but still fondly recall the wipeout of '97. It was one of those falls that you see on tv that makes you grab your eyes and peek through your fingers. Thankfully, it wasn't me. Poor Matt. If only I had video. He managed a triple back flip, double cartwheel, back handspring, and finished it off with a wicked roundoff. All the while he left a trail of glasses, gloves, hat, poles, skies, granola bars, prayers, a scarf, chapstick and a few choice words from the top to the bottom of the mountain. I giggle each time I think of it.
Fast forward to two weeks ago. All of the above feelings were replayed when we took Brett and Ben to Alta for a beautiful day of skiing. Someday they'll thank us.