In a world far, far away, in a time nearly forgotten, my college roommate, Phyllis, and I buckled on skis to ride a T-bar lift.
T-bar lifts are extinct today. (That’s not accurate. See the footnote if you care.)
Back then, T-bars ferried skiers to the top of the mountain while weeding out the unworthy.
You’ll have to decide that part.
A T-bar requires two skiers to step into the loading area, grab a vertical pole attached to overhead cables, and stand as the crossbar hits your thighs.
Here are the rules:
Rule #1: Don’t sit on the bar.
Rule #2: Keep your skis pointed straight forward at all times.
Rule #3: Keep your balance while the terrain bucks like ocean waves under your feet.
Rule #4: Choose the right person for the trip up the mountain.
We stepped into the loading area and up we went. I slid up the incline, my skis holding straight.
Phyllis’ skis, on the other hand, began making giant S-curves on the slope. “Whoooooaaaaa,” she yelled.
I clung to the center pole until the T-bar bucked, twisting to the side, and dumping me onto the snow. The heel of my ski caught on the crossbar , dragging me up the mountain on my back.
After some frantic kicking, I broke free of the t-bar and rolled to the side through deep powder to escape the next pair of skiers.
I lost track of Phyllis.
I finally shoved through the trees and stood at the edge of the wide slope.
As I was resettling my goggles, which were resting more on my ear than my nose, Phyllis skied to a stop beside me.
She gave me a once-over. “What happened to you?” She had righted the T-bar after it dumped me and made it to the top of the slope. Now she looked like a sleek skier while I looked like a snowball.
I could have pointed out that she broke Rule #2 and #3. I could have complained about snow dribbling off my stocking cap.
But I had broken Rule #4. And that might have been the most important one.
Footnote: Today, out of approximately 2,400 ski lifts in the USA, only 88 are T-bars. They’re cheaper to install and operate. But they have more rules.
Things started when I received a patch from Dan Daetz after I backed his Kickstarter for The Hole Man. It had vivid gold letters, a striking jet image, and the words “Sci Fi Jet Pilot.” This could not stay in my desk drawer.
I snagged an Air Force colonel’s jacket from an estate sale and reached out to my sister, who sewed on the emblem with her machine.
Then a badge arrived from another author friend, A.J. Eliot, for her Kickstarter book, Windrider. I knew this patch needed to go on the uniform, too, plus I had a deadline.
I wanted to wear the blazer to a writers’ conference where I’d see A.J. I procrastinated but finally reached into my sewing box. It consisted of four microscopic spools of thread and a tomato pin cushion with all the pins driven to their necks.
And one needle that was already threaded. My miracle needle. Trying to push a thread the size of a hair through a hole the size of two hairs is a great way to spend your evening.
I didn’t have to do that, so I sewed. The strand got shorter and shorter. When I tried to knot the thread, I found out there wasn’t enough left.
I tossed the blazer over a chair. The patch stayed in place so I was set.
I flew to the writer’s conference and got many comments on the jacket and emblems.
During a session, I hung the coat over my chair and a writer sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “Do you know that you have a needle hanging on the inside of your jacket?”
That forgotten needle. I shoved the point into thicker fabric.
I had already gone through security and flown about 1000 miles crammed in a tight seat with this needle dangling inside my jacket. I had to shed my belt, my watch, and a necklace to get through the security gate, but the needle didn’t trigger a single alarm.
My trip home included the same airport security and the same 1000 miles. The needle never registered an alert.
It hasn’t poked me once, so I haven’t tackled the next step yet.
We’re starting to become buddies. I am honoring two authors and a miracle needle at the same time.
A friend of mine recently told me how she hates to run, but does it anyway.
This friend is a kindred spirit. She’s slow. Me, too. She hates treadmills. Me, too. Running is boring. Yep.
But she’s been running circuits in her backyard, and I thought I ought to offer her the 5K experience for a change of pace. Pun intended.
Climbing Mount Everest
If you haven’t run a 5K, you might think it’s like climbing Mount Everest.
You’d be right.
When I started, I found an app called Couch to 5K, which promised to have me ready for my first 5K in eight weeks. It worked, and I ran a 5K two months later.
The People You Meet
So I plan to tell my friend about the app and also about the interesting people you can meet. For example, at one 5K, the first runner across the finish line then ran the race backwards, then ran it again forward.
Which meant I got lapped twice.
Yeah. Interesting.
In the off-season, the high school cross-country team might even join us. There’s nothing more exciting than watching a 16-year-old sprint the 5K as fast as I can run a mile.
If We Run Anyway
I use the term run lightly. It’s more like “getting double-lapped” running.
If I convince my friend to join the 5K experience, we’d get fresh air, strong lungs, muscular legs.
When you think of the sounds of Christmas, you may think of the gentle guitar tones of “Silent Night” or the wistful notes of “Silver Bells.”
I have young kids rushing through my house regularly so I get to hear other sounds. Like Big Mouth Billy Bass, for example.
I had hoped yet again this Christmas to find out how rich Christmas could be without this rubber fish flopping on a wooden plaque while emitting holiday songs.
It was not meant to be.
The Ghost of Christmas Gifts Past
A seven-year-old boy uncovered Big Mouth Billy Bass in a box of hidden Christmas ornaments. You haven’t lived ’til you have seen a fake fish sing “Jingle Bells” with his tail flipping in time. Punctuated by “YeeHaw.” I blame my sister for Billy being in my garage.
The seven-year-old wanted to know how Billy worked and why I didn’t have this fish mounted front and center already.
The Fatal Mistake
One of my character flaws is not being able to think of a misdirection quickly enough.
I told him Billy was a nuisance. That didn’t deter him. I said it was goofy. He didn’t care. So I added, “It doesn’t work because it needs batteries.”
I know, I know. That was not a smart answer. But this thing was so old that I assumed I didn’t have the right batteries in the house.
The Encore
I was wrong. He found four fresh C batteries in the back of the junk drawer.
Billy Bass rejoined the world of the living.
When it comes to Christmas animals, one time is never enough. Kids push the red button so Billy sings over and over and over until the adults smash the gadget to smithereens. Theoretically.
Christmas is always a memorable time of the year. Especially with children around.
I’ve flown three times in the last year, which included my adventure with TSA and the protein powder. You can read that story here.
When I learned that there was a TSA app that might give me the inside info for my next flight, I was all over that. Maybe I could avoid getting patted down again.
And down the rabbit hole I went, opening the list of what I can bring. I was thinking twenty to thirty items on their list.
Oh, foolish me. There are almost two hundred. I think. I didn’t count.
Did you know you can take artificial skeleton bones in your carry-on bag and your checked bag?
Love the Lanes?
No bowling balls or bowling pins in your carry-on bag. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody try to bring on a bowling ball or bowling pins. Maybe I need to fly more.
Speaking of common sense (or Captain Obvious), dynamite is out both for your carry-on and your checked bags. Same for fireworks.
And don’t let your kids bring a foam toy sword in their carry-on bag. Do they hope that cuts down on sibling skirmishes?
Waiting On Burgers
No hoverboards. Hummus is OK, but ice picks are not. No word on cheeseburgers.
You can’t take a kirpan in your carry-on bag even though it’s considered an instrument of mercy, grace, empathy, and goodwill. It still looks like a sharp dagger.
No realistic replicas of explosives in your carry-on or your checked bags. Rocks are OK.
You can carry on your vacuum robot, but don’t even think about bringing the airbag out of your vehicle.
Inviting Rosie
I did notice there was no comment about protein powder. I’m flying in a few months, but I’m considering skipping the protein powder and bringing along Rosie the robot vacuum instead.
TSA says she’s safer than I am with a scoop of whey.
Even before the blue cloud surrounded the house, I was very sorry I had knocked on the door.
My sister, Ann, and I used to manage several rental houses for landlords. One day, we had to deliver a notice to a late-paying tenant to either pay up or move out.
These have to be hand-delivered to the unit, and we thought that meant knocking on the door and handing the form to the tenant.
What innocents we were.
By then, the air was turning blue. The only clean words were, “Hey, get back here, Foofie.”
I knocked, intending to hand over the form. When the tenant didn’t respond immediately, I started taping the paperwork to the front door.
Then the door flew open. The tenant stormed out, grabbed the paper, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it on the ground. “I don’t accept notices on my door.”
She said a lot more, but I filtered out the swear words.
Then she bolted into the street, chasing a little dog that scooted past our ankles. A dog she wasn’t supposed to have.
I stood at the front door, coughing from the blue air, and watching the tenant darting around the street like a defensive back trying to tackle a quick-footed running back. Foofie kept skittering just out of reach.
I enjoyed the entertaining romp for a moment, but then I remembered my vulnerable position on the front step. I smoothed out the page, taped it to the door, and sprinted to the car. I was ready for a fast getaway, but Ann said, “I’m not moving until that dog is gone. Just what we need is to run over the dog, too.”
We finally escaped through the blue cloud. After that, we flipped a coin to see who went to the door. No knocking. We did a tape-and-run.
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