Perchance, to Hibernate

Sometime in the distant past, my wife and I thought we would give cross-country skiing a try, but we never got around to it, what with the cold and all.  I also grew to dislike the smugness of the people who do it, winter and summer.  As soon as a blizzard hits Chicago or New York, there they are with their skis and poles snaking down the middle of State Street or Madison Avenue.  Then, when the snow melts, they take to the bicycle paths, poles in hand, practicing the proper technique.  I have yet to hit anyone with my bike, but, if I ever do, may it be one of these clowns.

For a few years, when Clare was in the primary grades, we went sledding in the neighboring suburb of Riverside, where they have a nice bluff that leads down to the Desplaines River.  The first time we went, Clare was maybe seven.  We waited our turn in line, my child as excited as all get-out.  When it was time, she got in the sled first with me bringing up the rear, so to speak.  We both held onto the steering rope, if that’s in fact what it was.  Then off we went.  Let me just say that there comes a point in life when your back does not enjoy hard bumps and sudden jolts the product of sledding down a hill, with your daughter wondering if we’ll end up in the river.  And wouldn’t that be fun?

This went on for several years, until I told Clare I didn’t want her to get hurt.  She never did, on a sled, at least.  The scooter—producing a broken arm—is another story.  When she was in high school, I wouldn’t let her go skiing; I didn’t want a broken leg affecting her softball skills.

In our house it’s a long way to spring.