It is the first winter in thirty eight years that I am not up to my eyeballs in tax returns.  Yes, retirement is good.  So what is a guy to do with this new found freedom?  Go to the mountains of course.  The thought of being able to ski after so many seasons on the sidelines was too much to resist.  And so we were off, my wife Deb, my daughter Kathryn and her boyfriend Eli.  For Eli there was the added excitement of skiing moutain terrain for the very first time.  Considering Midwest skiing happens on hills not mountains and the serious elevation might be a whopping 600 feet of vertical drop, this was going to be mind boggling.  And Eli was ready as were all of us.

We chose Winter Park for mutiple reasons.  First and foremost, was a very fee reduced week at a condo provided by a former client and family friend.  Second was the mantra I had heard.  “You go to Aspen for the views, Vail to be viewed and you go to Winter Park to ski.”  This was exactly what we were looking for and we found it.

We arrived on the Sunday afternoon of my birthday.  Did I mention that this was also my birthday gift to myself.  Having flown into Denver, we hopped a shuttle for the ride up to Winter Park, crossing Berthoud Pass at 11,306 feet of elevation.  From there it was back into the Frasier Canyon area and into the village where we arrived at our condo.  I owe it to my benefactor to sing the praises of her condo.  Situated on the banks of the Frasier River and conveniently located in the center of town, we could want for nothing more.  We can both see and hear the river rippling below our balcony and looking east we can see the front slopes of Winter Park Ski Area, beckoning us up.  All around us the Rockies rise majestically to the deep blue Colorado skies.  The condo is functional, comfortable and cozy all rolled into one.  After a satisfying dinner at the quirky Henando’s Pizzeria and Pub, we are ready to plan our early morning rendevous with the ski hill.

Monday morning dawns clear and crisp.  10 degrees to start our day but promises of middle to upper twenties by midday.  Absolutely perfect skiing conditions.  The snow is fast and the air warm enough to ski in relatively light gear and the vistas, thanks to crystal clear skies….out of this world.  From the top, we can see all of the Frasier Valley unfold below while the boundaries of the valley are encircled with 13,000 foot snocapped peaks.  Thirteeners as the locals refer to them.  We will start skiing at 9000 feet and reach 12,060 feet at the summit of Panorama Cirque.  We refer to runs by the only measurement that makes relative sense to us, “that one was a three Cascade”  This is a reference to the local ski hill back home and the only meaningful way we can compare the vertical drop.

The views are spectacular and the range of change from bottom to top can best be described by not only the elevation but the change in temparature.  Shortly before noon we start our ride to the summit.  At base the temperature is a balmy 29 degrees but by the time we approach the summit it has fallen to 2 degrees with a negative 10 degree wind chill.  Of course we had cimbed 3000 feet to get there.  Standing on the summit, we make the decision to take combinations of runs that will allow us to ski a continuous line top to bottom.  Twenty minutes later we reach our lowest access point still a full “Cascade” above the resort base.  We are winded and tired but smiling ear to ear.  We skied non-stop for hours, each run evaluated for its nuances and our favorite features of the run.  Closing time comes too soon but we feel we have skied hard and gotten everything we could out of our time on the mountain.

And this was day one.  Tomorrow and for the next three days we will continue to soak in the mountains, the vistas and the skiing.  Am I happily retired, at this point I can think of no better reward for a life long career of hard work than to be here in the Rockies on top of my world.

It is the end of the first week of December and I am where I have been on this date for the last ten years, Mississippi.  This the week I present seminars at sites across this southern state.  We started this year in Hattiesburg, home of Southern Mississippi State and we are finishing the tour in Oxford Mississippi, home of Ole Miss.  In past years we included Starkville Mississippi, home of Mississippi State.  It has been enjoyable being able to view all of these universities while also getting to experience the culture in so many different parts of this state.

     

Last night, knowing I had today free from my teaching schedule, I and my wife decided to indulge in some adult beverages and local cuisine at a nearby establishment.  The bar was pretty much empty save for two locals, the bartender owner and our waitress.  Called out immediately as foreigners, apparently by the insufficient number of extra vowels we put in our words, we confessed to being Damn Yankees.  We were then educated on the fact that we were just Yankees as Damn Yankee is a term reserved for those northerners who come down and then never leave.  I had been schooled.  The conversation turned to what we intended to do with our day off and we were then given a lengthy itinerary of sites in Oxford no visitor should miss.  I will note here that the citizens of the Great State of Mississippi are among the most gracious I have dealt with.  I never tire of the “thank you ma’am” and “yes sir” and definitely not the “can I get you anything else honey”.  That last one never grows old with me.  Included in their list of must sees was a surprise, at least to me.  Unbeknownst to me was the fact that Oxford Mississippi was the birthplace of William Faulkner and that his home is still here and maintained for the tourists.  If you are shaking your head wondering how a wanna be writer would not know this, I write but I don’t always read, at least not good William’s obituary.

This morning we trekked on downtown and after some well received directions, made our way through the old neighborhood and found the house.  Built in 1848 and occupied by Faulkner from 1930 until his death in 1962, it was a little rough around the edges but sat on a stately manor covered with magnolia trees.  Under one particular grove of magnolias lay the still visible outline of a two hundred year old labyrinth.  The effect of all of this was to have a sense of actually being back there.  As we toured the house, I was peering out the rear window of one of the bedrooms when I spotted a gentleman walking the back grounds.  For a brief moment, in the tree filtered light, I was sure I was seeing Faulkner himself.  Arriving downstairs, I bumped into the gentleman who admitted dressing the part for his tour, hoping to regenerate the spirit of Faulkner who would then assist him in his writing endeavor.

When I had heard of the opportunity to view Faulkner’s home I had been unsure of why I felt compelled to actually follow through on the trek.  Now, walking through the labyrinth and the magnificent magnolia groves, approaching the house as Faulkner would have and then encountering the spirited writer, I felt something stir.  Once back inside the house, I began to read the various information attached to the museum displays.  One in particular resonated with me.  Faulkner had been commenting on the act of writing.  I will paraphrase here since they don’t allow pictures and they definitely frown on taking the museum pieces with you.  Faulkner basically said that writing a book was his fate, doom in that once you write you have to keep writing.  Eventually you can be writing just to write another book.  He described writing a piece only to read and reread and then to replace the words and then read and adjust again.  And when it was finally done, to wait on the story before letting someone read it for their opinion.

I know this feeling and at times it is what creates writer’s block.  I know I need to write something that is rattling around in my head even when I just don’t feel ready to write it.  Once I write it, I agonize over whether it is good enough.  The problem, it never is, and you simply hope that you can get it right the next time.  It was redeeming and at the same time inspiring for me to read of Faulkner, a Pulitzer Prize winner, agonizing over his work and wondering if he had gotten it right.  Worrying that it could have been better.

I too will agonize over this piece.  Did I manage to tie the story line together?  Will I have made my point?  Will it even be worth your reading?  All I know is that somewhere in that walk through his house, Faulkner nudged me to write.  And in his way he gave me confidence to keep writing.

I think I need to thank two random Mississippians who gave me the time and invited me to take a memorable walk with Mr Faulkner.