Last week, two of my daughters and their families headed for the slopes. One made it as far as Vail, Colorado, and the other went only as far as Vermont. Another daughter and son-in-law, who have children in schools with different vacation times, limited their fun to day trips. I remained home and, as I do every January, secretly wondered why anyone schleps to Colorado when skiing is available so much closer to home. My common sense tells me that the skiing is much better in Colorado, but that’s just an assumption since I know nothing about the sport. I’ve never skied in my life and something tells me that at my age, and in my less-than-stellar condition, this isn’t the time to begin. Just the sight of someone skiing down a mountain makes me shiver in fear. The term that best describes me is coward.
My son, who lives in Israel, didn’t hit the slopes last week. He’s doing that this week, in Italy. I’m the sole holdout in the family. I didn’t ski last week and I won’t be doing it next week. My idea of a ski vacation would be to sit in a comfy lodge and drink warm liquids. And it doesn’t pay to fly to Vail to do that—or even to sit in a car for five hours to do it in Vermont. So I said goodbye to all those that left me, hunkered down, and drank my coffee at home. I missed my family, but, as always, I had more than enough to keep me busy; loneliness wasn’t a problem. But, on the third afternoon, I got a call from my daughter and learned that, while loneliness wasn’t an issue for me, it was a problem for her. What ensued was a one-way conversation.
“Mom, you know I didn’t want to go to Vermont, but twice in the past I stayed home and let the rest of them go and I couldn’t do that again. It isn’t fair of me to agree to family vacations only when they involve warm climates. So I put aside the fact that I hate the cold and that, even at home, I sleep with three blankets and ski socks from October through May. I also made a conscientious effort to ignore the fact that I can’t even take a shower unless there’s a heater in the bathroom. I just had to come here because, if I’d declined to join them in Vermont for the third year in a row, my guilt would have overwhelmed me.
“Well guess what—my guilt is gone! I must have been out of my mind to come here. Mom, you could do me a big favor right now if you’d record what I’m saying. That way, you can play it back to me in case I ever tell you I’m doing this again. Come to think of it, maybe I should put it all down on paper, something like a manifesto, so I can take it out and read it if I start to weaken next winter and agree to this again.
“The weather isn’t just cold; it’s also wet and clammy. Honestly, it’s unbearable. The carpeting in the lodge is smelly because it’s always damp. That’s thanks to people trekking in all day with snow-covered boots. I could probably make penicillin from the mold that must be growing underneath the carpet.
“Every morning, I prepare lunch for the gang and send them on their way. They get tuna salad on bagels, Marshmallow Fluff and peanut butter on white bread, and a large bag of nacho chips; not exactly a dietitian’s delight, but my family is overjoyed with my culinary choices. And every day, in the late afternoon, they come back laughing happily and joking about their ‘helmet hair’ and then enjoy telling me about their trails and their trials. I love listening to them, but as time has passed it has become increasingly less fun for me to sit in a gloomy lodge for so many hours each day. So yesterday, after my gang left for the slopes, I decided to head out to see the neighborhood sights. Unfortunately, this being ski country in Vermont, each sight is miles from the next. And the only ‘sights’ are mountains which I can see by staying right where I am. Up here, the word neighbor refers to someone who is at best two hours away! I won’t be driving around these parts again.
“Today, I worked up some enthusiasm and headed for the lodge lounge with my computer and a few magazines. I was determined to make the best of the situation, the situation being that I’m getting shell-shocked from the loud booms of skiers walking through the building in their ski boots. Those things are fine when someone is wearing them out in the snow, but when they land on carpet it sounds like the Jolly Green Giant clomping through a vegetable patch before picking up a can of peas!
“My headache—that would be the one that I got on my first day here—grew worse by the minute. But I refused to give in to it. I stood up and looked around to see if there was someone I could talk to. Unfortunately, the only other soul in the place was a woman who didn’t understand a word of my greeting. She spoke no English so I tried Hebrew, since that’s the only other language I know. But she gave me the same blank stare and still gave no response. So I smiled and retreated to the section where I had been sitting, like a plant, for the past few days. It took me some time to locate the right outlets for my computer and another to charge my cell phone, but eventually I got everything set up.
“Half an hour later, I heard a buzzing sound. At first I panicked, thinking my computer was on the fritz. But it turned out to be a fly that resembled a kamikaze pilot as he kept bumping into the windowpane. The fly was huge, but his size didn’t help him. Either the cold had gotten to him, or maybe he’d flown into the glass one time too many, but he wasn’t doing well, and the next time I looked up he was lying belly up on the windowsill and there was minimal movement. I wasn’t sure if I felt worse for him or for myself. I debated whether I should put him out of his misery or let him stick around to keep me company. But, in the end, there was no decision to make, because he stopped moving entirely. He was gone and, once again, I was alone, still chilled, still nauseated by the smell of dampness, and still waiting for this ‘vacation’ to end.
“Mom, I can’t wait to see you and I can’t wait until we leave here tomorrow. The next time I mention the words family vacation, please point me in the direction of Arizona or Florida.”
That was my first opportunity to speak, and I assured her that I would.
“Okay, enough about me; now what about you? How is your week going, Mom?”
I was just getting ready to tell her, but before I got a chance I heard some background noise and she informed me that her family had returned. They were finished skiing for the day and she had to hang up.

Hannah Berman lives in Woodmere and is a licensed real-estate broker associated with Marjorie Hausman Realty. She can be reached at Savtahannah@aol.com or 516-902-3733.