PeterGlenshaw.com

Winter

Tonight, as I walked my dog, Bear, from our house around the Lyme Common and back, a light snow fell.   

This was day was like any other in Winter 2008-2009. 

The day began today at 6am.  I woke and discovered it was -14 degrees Fahrenheit outside.  In the darkness, we stumbled and dressed and cursed the early hour.  We found our way to the kitchen.  We drank tea, ate sugar food (doughnuts, cereal), and got into the car.  We were headed for the hills – this time, Mount Sunapee for a day of ski racing.  Yesterday it was Burke Mountain in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.  A week ago, it was Ragged Mountain in Danbury, NH.  On so on.

This has been an amazing Winter in northern New England.  Amazing, not because of the snow fall – which has been solid -- but because of the consistency of the thermometer. 

With the exception of a few days around Christmas, everyday since early December has been below freezing, and many of them far below the comfort zone of 15 degrees Fahrenheit.  For the most part, snow has fallen and stayed.  None of this snow-thaw-freeze cycle so typical of more recent northern New England Winters, particularly in the era of global warming.

This Winter has just been solid cold. 

So, what does that mean?

It means there’s been no relief from the dry air.  My skin cracks and breaks every other day.  I rub and pour and rub moisturizers over my skin without any sense of relief.  I ride our indoor bicycle for the sheer joy of feeling sweat dripping down my back and sides and front.

It means I feel no regret in wearing as many layers as necessary to play outdoors.  Fashion, be damned!

Yesterday was one of the finest days of riding I’ve experienced ever.  We were at Burke Mountain, which is one of the purest places to ski or ride in the Winter.  The temps were bitter:  upon arrival at 8:15am or so, I think the register in my car suggested an outdoor temp of some 2 degrees Fahrenheit.  And that’s not counting the wind. 

I donned layer after layer, and jumped aboard the chair lift.  I felt like a marshmallow with all of my layers, but so what?  I was warm. 

It means I wear funny colored ski socks to work.  One morning I found myself wearing something equivalent to white socks with black pants and shoes in a meeting.  The only thing missing from my wardrobe that day was horn-rimmed glasses. 

It means that if you want to sleep-in on a weekend, go to bed early.  We have three ski racers in our family, and virtually every weekend brings an earlier wake-up time than during the week.

It means we eat four meals a day.  Breakfast at 6:30am.  Lunch at 11:30am.  Big snack at 3:30pm.  Dinner at 6:30pm.

It means I know how to tune (sharpen and wax) three skis in an hour.

And as the year progresses, as the sun stays longer and longer, it means there is more time to enjoy the snow and colors of light which come from the setting sun.  After a day on the hill, there is no greater joy than a mellow cross-country ski in the falling light of a late Winter day.  Snow is an incredible illuminator.  The woods seem less foreboding in this season.  Instead of being dense and dark, there is a lightness to the forest in Winter.  Snow softens and brightens the thicket everywhere. 

It means realizing that this season dominates our calendar in northern New England.  November is pre-Winter – cold temps, but not a lot of snow.  Our first ski/ride of the season occurs that Thanksgiving weekend.  The solid Winter season runs from December thru March.  And April?  Whether it’s mud season or not, it’s as transitional a month as November.  Which means, in one form or another, Winter is a part of northern New England for six months:  November thru April. 

The snow banks around my house are at least four feet high tonight.  The ground is solid.  It is cold.  There is at least four feet of cold hard snow outside my front door.  This is Winter in northern New England.  It is a season that tests and rewards.  Your budget, patience, and heartiness are examined closely.  Two weeks ago, on the coldest morning of the year so foar (-20 degrees Fahrenheit), two small batteries in our heater failed, rendering the downstairs portion of the house to some 50 degrees Fahrenheit indoors.  It took all day for the house to slowly warm itself back to 68 degrees.  Patience?

And yet, I would not trade Winter in northern New England for all of Florida.  It teaches me more about myself and my neighbors than I would ever know in a warmer climate.    Out here, there is less margin for forgiveness or obfuscation.  A person’s true self emerges despites the layers of clothing.

Finally, it means that Winter – for all of its cold and hardness – offer as much promise as the sweet corn of summer.  Sweeping through a glade, eating spicy chili, staring into the sky as the blue sky melts into the white snow – all of this is a part of Winter.  I would not trade these moments for anything. 

Wonderful Winter.

Bush's Last Day (and Mine)

If you’re a Democratic activist, tomorrow marks the last day when George W. Bush can be President of the United States of America.  It’s a day for celebration.  It’s a day for joy.  Not only is Bush gone, but the best possible man on the planet to replace him, Barack Obama of Chicago, Illinois, will be sworn into the nation’s highest office at noon tomorrow. 

For eight long years, we on the patriotic Democratic wing of the Democratic Party have worked hard to end the reign of George the II, and restore Democratic principles and priorities to the nation.  Thanks to people like Governor Howard Dean of Vermont, we got a chance to articulate our principles and, in his role as DNC Chair, implement tactics (like the 50-state strategy) that brought the Democratic wing of the Democratic Party to power in 2008.

So, in this apparent moment of glory and celebration, why I am a bit misty-eyed?

The answer is simple, sudden, and expected.  It came Sunday afternoon, late in the day, after the snow had fallen, after the J3 Ford Sayre racers had bombed down the slalom course at Whaleback Mountain, and were preparing to leaving for a five-hour trip north – way north – that same day for a two-day Super-G training camp and race at SugarLoaf Mountain in Maine.

My daughter, Hannah, all of 13-and-a-half years, was ready to board a rented van alongside nine other ski racers, all similarly bedecked in snow/ski/racing/cool gear.  Like most families in this cohort, our day began at 6am with yet another early morning weekend wakeup call.  Some 11 hours later, both parents and their offspring gathered in the parking lot of a local establishment to make the final preparations for the trip.  Amidst the frantic talk and nervous chatter, I could see the eyes of parents widen and their throats tighten.  It was late.  They would be driving for some 250+ miles, way north, on a night when the snow continued to fall, when the visibility wasn’t great, when the easiest thing in the world would be to have your teenager at home.

But that’s not where I was, and that’s not where these other parents were.  Maybe, unexpectedly, this was our last night to be truly and solely parents.  Maybe on this night we realized an uncomfortable truth:  that from hereon, parenting was out of our direct control.  As the van drove away, as I counted the hours until I thought Hannah might actually be near her destination, I realized that what I missed, in addition to my daughter, was control.

When she was 10 or 8 or 6 or even younger, I could manage and direct virtually everything in her life.  Now was different.  Now people who might seem like strangers to me – her skiing coach, his assistant, maybe even some of the kids with whom she was travelling – were intimate and important companions in her life. 

What?!!!!!

You can’t possibly be serious, I thought to myself.  Let my precious little girl alone with these people, for this long, with only a modicum of rules and boundaries and control.

It can’t be happening.

Only it is, and it must.  To grow at this age, I realized – later, much later, around 3am, as I awoke and wondered around my house in a fitful burst of energy – requires extension beyond parents, beyond the home.

It means having to pee in the snow bank alongside your friends.  It happened with Hannah on this trip.  Would I permit it?  No, of course not, but that’s the point.

It means having a really tough crash on the snow course. It happened to Hannah on this trip.  Would I permit it?  No, of course not, but that’s the point.

And that’s just the news from Day One.  What will happen tomorrow?

I found myself today emailing my daughter with questions I swore I’d never ever ever ever ask in this situation.

1)    Did you get enough sleep?
2)    Did you get enough to eat?

Ohmigod, Dad, can you stop embarrassing me, like now?

No.  I can’t.  Last night was my final night as a parent, complete and toto.  Hereon, I am sharing you with the world.  I will never stop being your parent.  I will never stop loving you, Hannah (and your brothers, Jacob and Noah).  Regardless of what you do or say or think, my love for you is absolute.

But what is not absolute is my ability to control your life.  At some point, reluctantly and with a great deal of fear and worry, I must begin to let go.  It’s harder than I realized, even though plenty of wise people (like my own Mother) told me so.  I look back at pictures when you were in diapers and needed to be fed, and think those days seem so easy. 

Maybe so.  Maybe not.  Maybe raising children is hard work regardless of their age.  Whether they are 2 or 20 years old, children present challenges that arrive full-stop and unapologetic.  They offer the fullest and most complete way of defining yourself and life in general. 

So tomorrow comes, and by noon Barack Obama will be sworn-in as our 44th President.  I can’t wait.  He and his family, and his administration, will bring great things to our country, and demand great and wonderful service from us, its citizens.  In four years, I expect this nation will be in remarkable shape because of his leadership.

Tomorrow comes, and my daughter will come home.  As she grows, she will demand more from me than I am perhaps ready to give.  Within about four short years, she will be ready for college.  Tomorrow night, however, I will met her in a parking lot and bring her home, and maybe even get the chance to tuck her into bed.  It’s a night numbered.  It’s a night not forever. 

On this night, I’m not the only one with mixed emotions.