CALL ME SLOW, BUT . . .

NOVEMBER 14, 2021 – Snow fell overnight and stuck. It was a warm-up (“cool-down”?) for what lies ahead.

I used to feel excited and frustrated with the first snow—excited by the approaching ski season; frustrated that the first dusting of snow wouldn’t be skiable. In my (halcyon) dinosaur days, winter couldn’t last long enough. With this attitude, I was the odd-man-out in most circles. Only among my skiing buddies was “thinking snow” in vogue.

Then one day I grew up by falling down. Overnight a thin sheet of ice had formed over all pavement. With the bus stop as my destination, I negotiated safely the distance between our back door and the street that runs perpendicular to our alley. I accomplished this by sliding my feet in careful sequence while maintaining the “Neanderthal lean” to avoid falling backward, striking my head, and killing myself.  I’d perfected the method from years of walking in ski boots across vast, icy, ski area parking lots.

Upon reaching the middle of the street, I attempted to adjust my briefcase, which I’d slung over my shoulder. This shift altered the finely-tuned equilibrium of my personal universe. In a fraction of a nano-second, ice and gravity slammed me to the ground.

My first thought was to roll out of the way of oncoming traffic. Fortunately, there was none.  My second thought: Gimme air!—the right side of my rib cage allowed only shallow breaths. In great pain I crawled to the side of the street, dragging the errant briefcase like a ball and chain. Somehow, I made it back to our house—then to urgent care.

Ninety minutes later, following x-rays and diagnosis of a cracked rib, the sun had risen enough to melt the ice that had reduced my view of winter to ground zero. For the next week I existed in excruciating pain. I had to sleep in a chair, pretending that each night I was aboard a trans-Atlantic flight, strapped to a seat ahead of an exit, which meant I couldn’t recline.

Recovery took weeks. To this day, if I’m not careful, the injury reminds me of the downside, so to speak, of winter.

Then came severe sciatica issues, exacerbated by shoveling snow off the roof onto walkways below, then from there onto towering snowbanks. (The next season I broke down and bought a snow-blower.)

Yesterday, in the middle of hill-hiking in “Little Switzerland,” promised snow fell with a vengeance. Grass turned into a giant banana peel. On my final hill descent, I nearly went down, so to speak. As if on skis, I counter-acted “peel” and gravity and remained upright—but not without wrenching my back.

On my return to our neighborhood, I proceeded like an older man, wary of snow-covered leaves on slippery sidewalks. I recalled that I used to run down those sidewalks—with skis, boots, and poles in hand to limit my foot contact with ice and snow.

Call me slow, but I’m beginning to understand why “snow birds” fly south.

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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson