Dear Dad

Thank you so much for those skis you gave to me before you moved to Virginia.
I set them to the side in the large shed to 'do' something with them after I got a pair of proper cross country ski boots.

Well, a few years went by and I sort of forgot all about those yellow skis. Then my interest in cross country skiing peaked again and I grabbed those skis and had new bindings put on. I'd purchased some back country skis that were shorter and wider for breaking trails.
But somehow they didn't satisfy my want for those long strides and glides.

Those Epoke 1000's did the trick.
Today I did my first long trek in years. And nothing beats a pair of good ol' fashioned Nordic skis. In fact...Vintage Skies!

Dad you would have laughed when I decided I could go down a hill and make a quick turn and go over a culvert. Um. I ended up on my ass in the snow on the other side of the culvert. The Vintage skis don't have the edges for turning like the newer ones. But I didn't mind as I was never great at that anyway and I wouldn't trade these skis in for anything.

I finally got on a good track and then those skis really performed. Long strides, long glides, lots of boot slapping lift. Just me, blue skies, puffy clouds, and the swish of skis through the bright afternoon.

I had the place to myself which allowed me to comment aloud to you how cool this was and how you would like the trail. And... how much I missed you.
Glide glide glide...slide.

All that beautiful snow and 9 miles of groomed trails.

"Dad you would like this place. We could go skiing on a full moon night like that time we went around Half Moon Lake." 

I stopped at Star Valley. My 'map my walk app' had told me I'd gone about a mile and a half.
I still had to keep track of my time. My goal was to do about 6 miles, but my legs were telling me that 4 would be good.

"Look at that Dad! Wouldn't we love to take this and break our own trail?"
That was not Dad's favorite thing to do, but I would have gone first.

"Dang it. I miss you. And I think you would absolutely love this place in the winter."

I doubled back and headed out towards the partially built dam. I know the ski trail went around it and rejoined the Old 131 Trail.

The 'tick tock' of the clock said I needed to get home and get ready for chores and make supper.
I took a side trip through the woods and then stopped in my tracks.

I simply was enjoying myself too much.

Vintage yellow skis
Memories of my father
Trails of fond places

Visiting Memory Lane

You see, I haven't changed much. I'm pretty sure that my country summers influenced my entire life.

I became one of those people who preferred the outdoors and animals to anything city related.

I can't even recall where my father took this shot. I was 4 years old and someone in our family must have gotten some ducks or geese.

I discovered farm animals.

Lost in archives are photos of me and then years later, photos of my own children feeding calves at my Uncle Fred's dairy farm. 
Going to the dairy farm and staying with the 'girl' cousins was one adventure after another.

I thought they had it the coolest. They had no indoor plumbing. They had a real honest to goodness outhouse and other small outbuildings that were a delight to play in.

[My Outhouse]

What did I have? A small house with all the nice things like plumbing, running hot water,...and a tiny yard.

I envied them, they had woods to play in, a barn to play in.
I'm sure that I didn't know what life was really like on a small dairy farm, but I was to get an inkling of that much later in life when I actually worked for a while on one.

And...they had Santa Claus visit their house on Christmas Eve. [I didn't know at the time that Uncle Fred played Santa.] I mean, as a kid I was so envious of their life.

Of course I never had to use a chamber pot or use the outhouse in the dead of winter. I never had to help with chores in any real sense. My Aunt and Uncle would allow us to be in the barn and I recalled the wonderful smells of the silage and hay. The satisfied munching of the dairy cows and the milking machines.

I learned to use a milking machine much later in life, I helped on a dairy and would get the cows in, lock them in their stanchions and get everything ready for the morning milking. I learned to wash the bulk tank and other helpful chores.
Washing teats, dipping teats, scrapping the floor and liming the floor, cleaning the barn.... I think I enjoyed that because it reminded me of being in my cousin's dairy barn.

To me, my cousins had endless fields of corn to play in and an incredible pasture and woods. 

We girls would concoct an adventure for our summer days together. We'd play 'house' or go wandering the cow pasture. We built forts one time after a huge wind/rain storm. We had a downed tree that we decided was going to be our fort. I think we spent more time scrambling and climbing it that we did building anything.

There was a place where we would hunt rocks. And always, we'd talk and chatter. 
With a little bit of imagination we could be anyone and do anything. Our days were endless.
Well it seemed that way.

Last weekend I got to go back. We drove past my Uncle and Aunt's farm to get to my youngest cousin's Sugar Bush and see her and her husband's set up.
I wanted to pull in to their driveway and walk around seeking more fond memories and see what had changed.

Instead I got a tour of the Sugar Bush.

This was another new experience for me. My country families made maple syrup and have I think for three generations. 

At the end of summer I'd go back to the city. I'd marvel at the fact that we had hot water and flush toilets. And then I'd settle in for the school year and await June.

That is when I could go back to where I was sure I belonged.
I never could convince my mom to give me to one of my Aunts.

Now that I've been back for a short weekend, I yearn to return and visit again.

When I turned the Subaru towards home I promised myself that I would return.
After all, the 4 quarts of Maple Syrup I'd purchased would be long gone before summer was over.

And I wasn't going to let years and years pass before we all saw each other again.