The Widower’s Rant: Happy Anniversary!

Jan 17

4 min read

Beth,

Happy Anniversary! On the evening of the day we made a promise 39 years ago (I know!), here’s the mountain report.

I sit in our house in the trees by the lake you loved, contemplative and grateful. Looking back, it’s been a good year since my last anniversary note to you. Sure, there are tough moments, but they are less frequent and less wrenching. There is angst about finding myself alone, which is still unfamiliar. Like anyone, I get out of sorts over the aches, pains, and other indignities of aging. The latter is a high-value problem. I have the time and interest to push my body, and at times it pushes back. The former is inescapable at present. It’s still the quiet moments, the times when I wish there was someone familiar in the room to share the oxygen, when your physical absence is deafening. But unlike 22 months and 1 week ago (still counting), I shrug. Here we are. And we move forward.

Earlier this week, Curtis and I went to Alpine Meadows for a ski day. My first day skiing was at Alpine 48 years ago. I went almost every weekend when I was in high school. My first cornice. My first yard sale. Incredibly, no broken bones. What I wouldn’t do for that flexibility today.

It’s always been a favorite of ours. We skied there when we were in college. We brought our kids there to share our love of this beautiful spot on the planet. I think this photo from 2002 might have been our last trip there.

It was the last time we didn’t wear helmets, anyway. The photo exposed a double standard I could no longer defend. Back then, the kids wore them because developing brains mattered. Mine, apparently, less so.

Twenty-four years later (in retrospect, incredibly to the very day), we ripped the mountain up. 30 laps and 30K vertical. This time, Curtis was waiting for the old man. Self-preservation and not wanting to mess up my ski season seems to have taken the edge off my usual pursuit of terminal velocity. It was an exceptional day. There’s something profoundly satisfying about sharing pizza and beers with your kid after a day on the hill.

This morning, Lauren remembered that today is a special day for me. That meant a lot. She told me she found the Mrs. Grossman’s stickers she’s been hoarding for years and wanted to tell you. I wish she could tell you too. She can, and she does, but we both know it’s not the same. You were always a good listener with your daughter. It’s different when the phone no longer responds.

Lauren hoped I was outside in the sunshine. I was.

I was back at Alpine today as an Apprentice Instructor with Achieve Tahoe. I spent the day teaching a kid with Autism how to ski. He’s about the same age Curtis was in the photo. I can think of no better way to celebrate our day.

When it’s a double chair and our participant rides with the Lead Instructor, I usually end up helping the ski school by riding up with one of the grommies. This is a riot. It could easily be a YouTube channel. Wit and Wisdom from 3-year-olds on a chairlift.

Me: How old are you?

Grommie: I don’t know.

Me: Are you two or three?

Grommie: (looks up at me, squints) I don’t know. Me: I love those doggie stickers on your helmet. I'd like some on my helmet too.

Grommie: Maybe you should ask your mommy.

Me: I like that pink tutu you are wearing. Is it yours, or did the ski school give it to you?

Grommie: The ski school gave it to me.

Me: Wow, I’d like to get one too. Should I get a pink one or a purple one?

Grommie: I think you should get the one you want.

Side-splitting funny. Of course, these are sunny days; they are not tired, hungry, or cold. But you take the rainbows when they come.

When I skied at Alpine in high school and college, I remember watching the instructors with the early version of this program (Achieve Tahoe is the oldest adaptive ski program in the US). Vietnam vets. Blind skiers. I remember thinking that when I was older, maybe retired and living up at Tahoe, this was something I’d like to do.

I forgot about it for a long time.

And now, here I am in Tahoe, doing it.

Funny how life works out. You don’t choose the terrain, but you can still learn how to ski it.

I engage in an embarrassing quantity of self-indulgent behaviors. But there’s something about being involved with this group and helping others enjoy the mountains I so love. Skiing was transformative for our family—the photos on the walls and the trips we reminisce about are our happiest of memories. Plus, I get to wear a cool jacket and bypass the lift lines.

I still whine too. Mostly, to my AI-training coach. It’s nice to have a nonjudgmental ear who has infinite patience. Far better than bottling it all up inside. Or chatting up the checker at the grocery store. “Sir, I asked if you had your rewards card, not about your plantar fasciitis."

I made a hard, but not hard, decision this week, too. It’s time to sell our Geyserville home. I love that house. Our neighbors, the town. The years we spent there were probably our happiest. Sunshine and pizza parties in the backyard. Quiet dinners of just the two of us at the counter. Naps on the couch with your doggies. But that season has passed. It’s hard to picture living there, much less without you. It’s time to close that chapter, don’t you think? But if it makes you happy, you could always haunt the new owners. Ghosty Bethie, leaving random things out in random places.

Anyway, here we are. A day like the day before. Tomorrow might be similar. But it’s still, and will always be, a special day. The day you said, ‘I do,’ was the day you made me the luckiest guy on the planet.