All Downhill from Here
Sometimes a good dad leads, but there are times when a
good dad follows. I learned to cross
country ski from a friend whose family owned a little cabin three miles back in
the woods from Crooked Lake. There were
no groomed trails nearby; instead, we skied the many two-track logging roads
that wound their way through miles of local forest. There was a groomed snowmobile trail which
served to divert all the loud motorized traffic safely far away from our
adventures. I quickly fell in love with
the quiet and serenity of the sport.
My attempts to lead my family, especially my four
children into the sport were fruitless.
Much to my dismay, they considered cross country skiing to be too much
work. They did show an interest in
downhill skiing though because it offered the excitement of speed. I didn’t get any help from the children’s school
as annually they brought sixth graders up to a ski hill in the U.P. for an
exposure to the sport. The oldest one
reported home that downhill skiing was “a blast”. I tried to ignore that. Then the next in line child also had a “great”
time when he got his turn at the sixth-grade trip. It became hopeless when my wife shared that
she also had skied downhill before we dated and she enjoyed it.
The winter when I realized that the votes were 3-1,
with the two youngest voting “naïve” was a hard winter for us. Work had been especially demanding including
much out-of-town travel. I grew up in a dictator
authority household when it came to spending any family free time. We did what my father wanted to do. What it lacked in participation it made up
for in simplicity of decision-making. I
considered hard that winter that I had followed my father’s lead perhaps a bit
too closely. So, one evening at the
supper table, when the subject came up about the winter break long weekend
coming up for the kids, I asked, “How would you all like if I took a day off
and we all go skiing?” I have to say
that it was more of a shock than I expected, which told me a little more about
my parenting to that point than I perhaps wanted to know. Finally, the oldest Jacob, asked for very important
clarification, “You mean downhill skiing?” It was almost an out-of-body experience to
hear myself say “Yes”.
A few weeks later we were headed to the same ski hill
that the school visited because they had a deal for beginners that if you
signed up for their skiing introduction class you got a free lift ticket. All you had to pay for was equipment rental
and medical bills.
I held my nervousness inside until we turned off the
highway onto the road to the ski hill.
The terrain became noticeably rolling with the hills almost seeming to
grow before my eyes. When we neared the
parking lot and I had to crane my neck to follow the steep rise of the hill my
doubts grew faster than the hills. “There’s
no way”, I thought to myself.
It got worse when we joined the group on the bunny
hill for ski class. The instructors
demonstrated just how easy it was to slow down, to stop, and to turn. It looked easy. However, when it was our turn, I soon discovered
that my “pizza wedge” slowing/stopping left a lot to be desired. It was embarrassing when everyone in the
family got their lift ticket and were allowed to head for the chairlift, but
the instructor looked at me and said, “You better stay and go through this
again.” Alas, a perpetual ban to the bunny
hill. The bunny hill. The shame.
My second class went no better than the first. Then my two oldest sons stopped after their
first trip down the slopes to ask if I had passed yet. This, after I had just demonstrated how to
run into your instructor and just about knock him over. He looked at me, looked at my sons with
sympathy, shook his head, and handed me a lift ticket. “Here, before I get hurt.”
On the actual hill I found out that I wasn’t nearly as
dangerous as that instructor worried that I might be. With each run I gained experience and
confidence. After lunch I tried hills
that were a little more challenging.
Surprisingly I did not break anything. I hadn't even actually wiped out, although a time or two it was more than a little iffy. By the end of the day, I had pretty much gotten over the sensation that I was going to plummet to my death from the chairlift. I was also a little tired, much relieved and even more
surprised that I had a good time. That’s
the day that I graduated from the bunny hill of fatherhood. Sometimes a good dad leads, but there are
times when a good dad follows.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Anna Surovková on Unsplash
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