JANUARY 25, 2025 – This morning I picked up on our granddaughter’s cue yesterday. I eschewed the latest news, put all woes and worries aside and plunged into a self-directed art project. Actually, it’s an arts and craft project in the form of a “gnome home,” long neglected because in theory, anyway, the longer it sits unattended, the more elaborate the design grows . . . inside my head. It’s intended to serve as a “memory” box. With a hinged roof (to be covered with birchbark) the inside can be used for storing precious keepsakes. This morning’s work involved a Z-brace door I’m making for the front of the structure. In a prior work session before I was so rudely distracted by the Pyrite Prexy, who himself is never distracted from his ego, I’d created small templates for a stylized loon and fir tree to be cut out of select birchbark and affixed to the outside of the Z-brace door.
At high noon I put my tools and materials aside and prepared for my daily ski workout up and down St. Moritz in “Little Switzerland.” The first step in this routine is a temperature check—lately, to determine how many layers to wear against the bitter cold. My gauge is the thermometer on the casement window beside our back entryway. The temperature registered at exactly 29F—a downright balmy place compared to readings of the past week. The picture changed, however, when I adjusted my focus from the close-up thermometer to the trees and shrubs in our backyard and beyond, all bending and shaking in the mighty blow of Zephyrus.
This duality of cold wind and balmy temperature reminded me of a paradox I discovered years ago while litigating a case: Many things are not what they seem to be, and few things are only what they appear to be. I thought about the application of that little revelation to matters of politics and public policy, especially in light of the excellent discussion on The Ezra Klein Show in today’s edition of The New York Times (“Let’s Get to the Marrow of what Trump Just Did”).
Before I thought too much about that or anything else, I focused on getting myself out the door. I donned my “layers” minus the extra pair of (sub-zero) socks and down vest that are reserved for sub-zero days; slung my backpack (with ski boots) onto my shoulders; grabbed my “skinny” skis and poles off the back porch; and . . . launched. After a brisk 13-minute walk, I reached my transition point from hiking to skiing—below the “summit” of St. Moritz and in full view of the “Matterhorn” (in reality, the long steep slope along the western boundary of Como golf course). Using the pruned-up trunk of a mature spruce tree as a prop and landmark, I traded shoes for x-c boots, snapped the ski bindings closed, secured my hands in the pole straps and skate-skied from “base camp” to the top of St. Moritz.
On the east slope multiple ski classes were in session—mostly young kids under the tutelage of a dozen or so instructors identifiable by their dark green parkas bearing the word “STAFF” on the back. All of these good-natured volunteers were young; some looked barely older than their short charges. I liked their energy and cheerful encouragement of the next generation of downhill skiers. As I reflect on the scene now, I realize that I’m easily 10 times older than the average age of all the other skiers on “the mountain” and nearly three times as old as the skier next oldest to me. The good news—for me, anyway—is that nothing about any of the other skiers made me feel old or decrepit, at least for the hour I was out there having a splendid time of it. In fact, I channeled their energy.
If the east slope was filled with ski learners and their instructors, the west slope—with its fresh blanket of artificial snow nicely groomed to a seamless corduroy—was vacant. I could—and did—“own it” for my entire workout. With each stride going up and every S-turn going down, I felt gratitude for the snow-making/grooming crew that amidst our drought of natural snow, works the “mountain” during weekday daylight hours. I’ve become buddies with them, and whenever I see them on the hill, I exchange “thumbs up” and a friendly wave. When we meet at the summit (where their warming quarters stand) I always make sure to express my appreciation for their professionalism. They reward me with express appreciation for my appreciation. As a result of this mutual regard, I don’t worry as much about messing up their beautiful work. In fact, recently, two of the guys manning one of the snow-making machines that look like brand new jet engines told me I had nothing to worry about—that soon 100 skiers would be carving up the corduroy, and meanwhile, it was good that I was out there enjoying the crew’s work.
The notable feature of today’s conditions was that despite the relatively high ambient temperature, the wind bordered on ferocious. The good news, however, was that I had it directly at my back each time I ascended “the mountain.” At my transition spot after my workout, an older couple came walking along. Bundled up well against the wind, they stopped to chat for a bit, albeit with frozen jaws. In response to their question, “How was the skiing?” I said that the cardio-factor had been cut exactly in half by way of the wind pushing me uphill. Their light chuckles were enough to warm my earlobes for the walk home.
As I hiked back to our ’hood, I marveled at how refreshed I felt—and how refurbished my attitude seemed. When I entered the house through our back porch entryway, I heard the laughter of our good friend Ann. She was visiting with Beth in the latter’s second week of home convalescence following back surgery. From the levity I knew the subject wasn’t politics, and I was relieved.
None of which is to say I’ve abandoned politics as a subject of deep concern or interest. In fact, by focusing on the non-political, I’ve gained perspective, fortitude, and even . . . drum roll, drum roll . . . a measure of optimism. To hear more on that front, however, you’ll have to wait another day.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
