10 Years a Family
Year 10 from 12/28/1990 to 12/28/1991
Ski Trip Extraordinaire
When I started this series of postings, I limited myself to the best events each year. That was my goal. I could write a realistic blog, which includes tragedies and mishaps, instead I deliberately chose to focus on uplifting, positive moments. That said it is important to preface some posts with sad facts that preceded events. For example, I miscarried twice before the birth of Allie. Therefore, when Allie finally arrived, we celebrated even more because we understood how fragile life and pregnancies were. I miscarried again following Allie. The doctor suggested this unusual loss at nearly 20 weeks was likely a cord problem, so I was reticent about another baby. I decided the best attitude was “Que sera sera” or “Whatever will be will be.” I remember our discussion on our ninth anniversary at the Carmel Mission Inn about trying once more. Dale was nearing 40 and I was 37. Our little “Que Sera” came nine months later and with an attitude to match.
A drive to work on a January morning, my radio tuned to the local 60s & 70s station, I half-listened to the D.J. pitch the station’s latest contest for three nights at Squaw Valley Resort. “The lodge front doors just steps to the ski lift, the 5 star restaurant atop the mountain, Olympic Village ski runs for Olympians through beginners,” he rambled on. I was on “autopilot,” ready to sing along boisterously, no passenger to correct my sharp notes or to complain about my interpretation of songs from my youth. The morning whizzed by and I headed home around noon, ready to begin my alternate life as supermom. As I drove up the hill, the afternoon D.J. said, “We will take the 7th caller for our contest. Call now and you could win three nights at Squaw Valley Resort.” I screeched into the driveway, sprinted into the house, ignored my kids and their Nana, grabbed the phone and dialed.
I never do this. I never enter contests. I never win. If I buy lottery tickets, it is once a decade. If I go to Las Vegas or Reno, I go to the shows. I do not throw coins in the machines or on the tables. I am not a gambler. But, on this one day in my lifetime, I was.
And I was the seventh caller.
The man on the other line asked, “How many steps from the lodge to the ski lift?”
Me—“37, 37, 37”—screaming, shaking, leaping up and down, and nearly crying–I knew this answer.
The man—“Are you sure?”
Me—“Yes, yes, yes! I know this! I heard it on the morning show,” I yelled into the phone. Nana and the kids stared at me as though I lost my mind.
The man—“Okay, congratulations, you just won three nights for a family of four to stay at the Squaw Valley Resort. Stay on the line for more details.” I heard the background noise of the radio as he put on the next set. He returned with the direct line to the resort and the reservation redemption code. Apparently, many other stations were offering the same package. It was a drought year and rocks were showing on the main slopes.
I called immediately to make reservations for spring break in March. The reservation clerk of Squaw suggested I save the trip until the following fall or winter, as there might be better skiing.
Clerk—“You won’t be able to ski in March,” he explained. “We expect to close the resort in a week, unless we get more storms. It doesn’t look promising.”
Me—“No, I need to go this spring, not next fall, because I am pregnant. I have two kids now, but I will have three kids next fall. It will be simpler in March.” I could not convince the guy it was easier being pregnant with two kids than having three little ones.
So, I made our reservations for a trip seeing wildflowers and hiking in the woods instead of skiing on Olympic runs. Then, the rains began and did not stop the entire month of February. In fact, January to February went from being one of the driest on record to the wettest in a month. Salinas had two 100-year floods in a row within a span of weeks. The snow pack exceeded 50 feet, nearing Donner Peak record levels, and the resort stayed open until mid-July. We skied fresh powder and walked all of 37 feet to the ski lift every day.
Love is Complicated 