Another story from my memoir in progress of my youth. This is from 1962 when I was ten.

EXPECTATIONS DASHED

With great anticipation . . . the highlight (or lowlight) of our winter of 1963 . . . was a quick family trip we made from the San Francisco Bay Area to frozen Lake Tahoe.

What was envisioned as a spectacular entrance into a whole new world . . . instead became a humbling dose of reality . . . altering lifestyles forever. . . .

On our drive up the mountain, the first sighting of snowfall came at us sideways, peppering the windshield with loud splats.

As this was our first visit to the snow, we were excited to see the roadside drifts forming a tunnel six to eight feet high.

During a pitstop, we exploded out of the car and into our first taste of real winter . . . and our impression was not stellar.

This initial foray left us shivering and soaked from the mushy snow, and with teeth chattering, we quickly retreated into the comfort of the back end of our Chevy Station Wagon for the final leg up the hill.

Upon arrival, all four families explored our ski chalet and found a huge loft for us kids to roll out our sleeping bags.
With nine kids, from seven to fourteen, the loft was crowded, noisy, and . . . decidedly smelly.

We arrived in the dark, and soon after settling in, all were content and happy in front of a roaring fire. We were served unlimited hot chocolate, a dessert treat, and funny stories.

Then came the announcement. The septic tank was overflowing . . . and you couldn't flush a toilet without disastrous results!

Immediately, the parents decided that going number one inside was an option for the females, but the guys should use the tree . . . closest to the front porch . . . at least while it was dark.

Thinking ahead, I wondered . . . what 10-year-old boy wants to leave his warm sleeping bag in the middle of the night, trek downstairs, and out into the freezing weather . . . to take a leak!

But it forced you to make a decision.

Do you go outside in just your pajamas, taking the risk of having something freeze off?

Or, do you put on six layers of snow gear to keep warm, knowing it will take you 30 minutes to complete the process? Neither was very appealing, especially since you'd have to do it more than once!

Damn hot chocolate!

Number two was a different story. For that, you had to enlist the aid of a parent, who would have to drive you down to the gas station on the corner.

You know the one, the impossibly grimy one of your nightmares!

Predictably, disaster struck for me in the form of the worst scenario possible . . . diarrhea!

Now, not only do I have the runs, but I have to announce the need to go number two to virtually everyone in attendance, including the little, blond-haired cutie I’d just met.

By the end of the next morning, not only was I exhausted from the illness, but also from straining not to let go with a runny torrent before I reached the point I could assume the squat!

Needless to say, going to the snow did not yet impress me!

Nevertheless, I recovered quickly, gaining a slight smile of amusement from the little blonde, which sent my heart racing.

By the afternoon, I was feeling well enough to venture outside. Gingerly stepping onto the front porch, my snow boots crunched in the snow as I inhaled the scent of the damp pine boughs.

Winter sports, here I come . . . was dancing in my head, when I spotted an icicle dangling from the low roof. An ideal time for the newest Olympic event . . . “Icicle Vaulting!”

So, I leaned back, hurtled forward, snapped that ice spear free and stuck the landing in the soft snow, throwing my hands in the air in triumph!

The celebration was short-lived as my villainous, almost 13-year-old brother, Roger, plastered the side of my face with a giant snowball . . . sending me sprawling into the fragrant . . . yellow slush . . . at the base of the tree nearest the porch.

The slush oozed down my neck, under my layers of clothes, and into my boots . . . instantly chilling me to the bone.

Frantically mounting a counterattack, a misstep sucked off one of my boots and the wailing could be heard at the Lake.

Frustration boiling over I retreated inside for a bath, changed into dry clothes, and settled by the fire for the rest of the day.

One consolation was this sterling banter with my budding romantic partner.

“Hi, are you feeling better today?” Blondie asked with a sweet smile.

“Yeah,” I answered in a small, quavering voice.

That was it . . . the end of the conversation. But I knew immediately that she would be . . . my future bride!

How could she not be dazzled by that snappy repartee?

The next day was our last in the snow . . . thank goodness . . . and we were heading to the ski slopes. No worries that I had never been skiing before, because I knew that with my athletic ability, I was destined to become a champion skier.

Forced to begin on the Bunny Slope, we hurried to the tow rope for a ride to the top. The first time I tried, I made it two feet before I was thrown unceremoniously on my tush. I popped up and tried again . . . another two feet.

In my despair, I heard a beacon of hope and my heart soared.

“Come on, try again, you can do it,” Blondie encouraged softly.

Buoyed by her concern, I was determined that nothing would stop me. I rose, grabbed the rope, and prayed.

Same result. Except this time, some kid plowed into me from behind, sending me face down into the snow.

By the time I got up, I was soaked from head to toe, and miserable.

In that moment, I knew I was not going to master skiing, which prompted my classic response of, "It doesn't matter . . . it's not a REAL sport."

That was my go-to when I couldn't master a skill. It pertained to things like gymnastics, soccer, or rope climbing . . . really anything . . . that wasn't baseball, football, or basketball.

What made it worse was that as I pulled off my skis for the last time, I saw Blondie at the top of the hill chatting with Roger. He spotted me, smirked, and then they triumphantly schussed down the Bunny Slope together.

My future bride . . . forsaking me in my time of need . . . for Roger!!

I glumly convinced one of the parents to walk me back to the chalet.

My Mom, watching my approach, was there to comfort me.

After another hot bath and once more in dry clothes, the aroma of chocolate, vanilla, and sugar wafted from the kitchen.

Minutes later, we were snuggled together on the couch, sharing a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a brimming mug of hot chocolate.

As we sat, I thought about Roger, knowing someday we would be equals . . . just not today.

I thought about Blondie, knowing I was too young to be worried about her, and realizing, I still had my best girl . . . right beside me.

After a while, Mom got busy, and I daydreamed of getting out of that hell-hole and back to the boring weather of the good old Central Coast!

My dreams of a ski career were dashed, but it led me to less embarrassing alternatives . . . that were much better suited to my skill set.

I've rarely seen snow since . . . and the thought of vacationing in it has never crossed my mind.

The reason . . . it's not a REAL vacation!