MUSINGS AND MISHAPS

Author: Lindsey Whitton

Cold weather, especially six months straight, is my worst enemy. I walk outside and no matter how many layers I am wearing, my body temperature plummets. I shiver uncontrollably, rapidly reaching a semi-convulsive state. Recently, walking from Bicentennial Hall to Hamlin, the person behind me thought I was having a seizure. A lifetime spent living in New England and generations of stoic Yankee ancestors have not even slightly immunized me. My only solace is to fantasize, as each blast of north wind sends me reeling, about a week in Florida at my grandparents' place over the February break.

Unfortunately, my current bank account did not include the resources for the plane ticket. Luckily, I had an epiphany in early December — I would work as a ski instructor over Christmas break! I have skied the same Vermont mountain my entire life, shivering my way up the chair lift and down the icy trails, so I might as well get paid for exposing my body to the elements. I pictured the scene: happy little kids trailing me down the mountain having the time of their lives, grateful parents showering me with generous tips, time by the fire with all the other great ski instructors.

I should have been suspicious when the ski school hired me without verifying that I could ski. Skiing, I was to learn, was not necessarily a key component of the job. My boss was named Cherry, and she sported permanently bright red cheeks (residual frostbite damage no doubt) and a walkie-talkie covered with Winnie-the-Pooh stickers. When I reported for duty the day after Christmas, Cherry hissed at me, "Here, take Damian, and SMILE."

Damian…wasn't that the name of the devil-child in one of those horror movies from the '80s? I forced such unattractive thoughts from my mind. Damian, age four, seemed incapable of standing up on his own, of looking me in the eye or of responding to the simplest questions. "Nothing wrong with him except he's spoiled rotten," another ski instructor told me. Obviously Damian was the proverbial hot potato passed to every unsuspecting rookie. Well, I would be up to the challenge. I managed to find his skis, which his parents had helpfully labeled Lu Lu and Poo Poo, and stuffed him into his layers of outerwear. "I have to go bathroom!" he then wailed, the first real sign of life.

I spent the day scraping Damian off the snow and hauling him up the Magic Carpet, the rubberized purgatory where all novice skiiers and their hapless instructors live. Lu Lu and Poo Poo appeared to have minds of their own; on or off Damian they made frequent contact with my shins, knees and other innocent body parts. But there was good news also. Sweaty and struggling to survive Damian and the Magic Carpet, I had spent the entire day outside without getting cold.

The next morning cheery Cherry handed me five kids. Four were sobbing. One unfortunate soul was on the floor writhing with abandoned-to-ski-school agony. Several of my charges had noses running like faucets, and I could swear one had conjunctivitis (pink eye, highly contagious, but maybe it was just swelling from all the hysterics). We spent the day on the rope tow, one step up from the Magic Carpet, one giant leap up in stress for me. The kids held onto the rope until they felt like dropping, randomly and like flies. I ran up and down the hill removing them from the oncoming traffic flow and carrying them the rest of the way to the top. Once again, I felt no cold.

By the third day I could hardly drag myself out of bed at 7 a.m. I gazed wistfully at my three friends and my cousin who were sleeping peacefully in my room. Keep your eye on the prize, think Florida, think warm, I thought.

I lucked out this morning: eight children actually capable of skiing on the mountain! I felt like it was Christmas all over again. Not even the crushing weight of carrying all their skis while we waited in the gondola line dampened my spirits. We found a nice intermediate trail but then it branched out into a couple of expert trails. Hundreds of holiday skiers and snowboarders swooped in and around us. My eight little kids were behind me and I began to ski backwards, counting desperately. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, six… seven. Oh no!!! Not a good thing to lose a child on the first run. And which child? They all looked alike in their helmets and Patagonia clothing. A small voice piped up from within the bowels of a neck warmer. "I tink it is dat whittle guil with da flowa on her helmit." Yes! Chapin was her name. She had a red jacket on. Now I was on a mission. I was skiing a bit quicker than I would normally ski with a class, but we had to find Chapin. Suddenly, we hit a big patch of ice. One boy slipped and slid off the trail into the snow making equipment. He was still conscious, a good sign.

When we reached the bottom we were still Chapin-less. I made the dreaded call to Cherry, who was suddenly not so cheery. A squad of ski patrollers was dispatched to locate the little fallen angel. My remaining class, in a strong show of solidarity, were grinding each other's faces into the snow. My friends, sister and cousin skied by. "Yeah Linds!!" they all shouted. "Oooo, you look so professional!!" And then, as if on cue, a tall man stepped out of the crowd and called out to me. "Hey! You're Chapin's instructor aren't you? I'm her father. Where is she?"

And so the week went on. After wiping 300 noses, putting on mittens 450 times, desperately counting my group 200 times, mis-counting and panicking 15 times, having two children almost fall off the lift, losing (and finally retrieving) Chapin and best of all, pulling one bloody tongue off the frozen chairlift bar, I was $400 richer. The hidden benefits of such work? They included 15 babysitting requests (none of which I accepted), a summer job offer from Chapin's father, lots of gooey kisses at the end of each day, an enduring case of pink eye and a decision to put off having children of my own for as long as possible.

Oh, and I never felt cold.