Murphy’s Mountain Law
In 1978, Dad decided to take the whole family to Park City, Utah for a Christmas ski trip. So, with our new ski equipment and shiny new snow suits, the seven of us boarded the plane, excited, restless and eagerly anticipating a week of swishing through the powder of the Rocky Mountains.
The trip out west went relatively smoothly – except for the fact that I was prone to airplane sickness; Mark, was prone to falling out of seats; Jim, was prone to twitching relentlessly on the nearest sibling (especially when confined to small spaces); Mia, was prone to, shall we say, “moods”; and Chris, was prone (on this particular occasion) to bleeding profusely, having had gum surgery days prior to departure. Nevertheless, we made it through the three hour flight without my parents being politely, but sternly asked never to fly the airline again.
A family first.
After piling all the ski gear, luggage and children into the rental car, Dad pointed the large sedan toward Park City, where we would be staying at my aunt and uncle’s condominium, just a stone’s throw away from the small town’s many ski slopes. As we climbed the mountain from Salt Lake City and neared our final destination, five anxious, young passengers pressed noses against windows, expecting to see piles upon piles of that wonderful white fluff, but instead were met with noticeable patches of green and brown everywhere we passed. Hearing dispirited mumbling coming from the backseat, Dad assured us that there would be plenty of snow on the mountain and that tomorrow we would be weaving down the slopes from sun up to sun down.
We had little reason to doubt him.
By the time we unloaded everything into the condo, it was dusk and we were tired and hungry. So, off went the parents to the supermarket, leaving us on our own to determine who was going to sleep where. By the time they returned, the matter had been resolved by Jim and Mark locking themselves in one of the bedrooms (the other reserved for life-giving, bill paying parents), while Mia and I pounded on the door reeling off a series of low grade arguments and insults. All the while, Chris sat quietly on the sofa in the living room, looking miserable as she swabbed her bruised, stitched and swollen gums. Within 30 seconds of entering the scene, Mom settled the matter by "suggesting" we switch nights. Mom’s suggestion - particularly if Dad was within earshot - was never to be misconstrued with our having a choice, so Mia and I went about our business, quiet grumbling about injustices and big, fat, stupid, jerks.
Once dinner was over, with pitch black mountains and unfamiliar skies outside and three rooms and one television inside, the entire family gathered in the living room (even though Chris would have preferred we leave her sleeping quarters so she could be left alone with her oral horror) and watched one forgettable program after the next; each family member seemingly mesmerized by the lighted screen. Hardly speaking. Barely recognizing other life forms in the room. We sat this way for hours, until Dad "suggested" we call it an evening. With first night bedroom rights, Jim and Mark deliberately dawdled past Mia and I on their way to bed, still swaggering and boastful. Chris, hardly having uttered a word all day, quietly prepared the sofa and fell into it in tears. Normally, a sibling taking over a prime sleeping spot would’ve caused another argument, but having a modicum of sympathy for her aching gums, Mia and I agreed to let it go and settled ourselves on the living room floor with sofa pillows and sleeping bags.
Waking the next day, after a fitful night's sleep, I turned toward the coveted couch and groggily raised myself to where Chris was sleeping, preparing to lob an early morning insult her way.
“Mom!," I screamed instead.
Wow, could that woman move when she heard a child's distress call.
Seeing the look of absolute terror on my face, she turned to the sofa where she discovered Chris, who was now sitting up next to a blood-soaked pillow, looking rather pale.
“She’s hemorrhaging. She's hemorrhaging!” Mom screamed as she jumped up and down in place, which she had a habit of doing in emergency situations, prior to leaping into action.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Chris said delicately, as Mia warily approached her and handed her a box of tissues. “This happens at night.”
“Really,” she reiterated, as Dad came into the room, aghast by the bloody scene. “I’m fine. In fact, it feels much better today,” she said rather unconvincingly as she raised a weak smile behind trembling, chapped and blood- encrusted lips.
Dad tried to calm the horrified spectators now gathered at the side of the sofa by reminding everyone that the doctor said there would be some bleeding. The news, however, did little to quell the twisting of faces and insensitive commentary, until Mom pushed us toward the kitchen and a breakfast that would hopefully keep big mouths occupied for a while.
From where the condo lay, it was only a three minute walk to the slopes. So after breakfast, we all bundled up and headed out, skis and poles slung over shoulders great and small, as the clock-clock-clock-clock of our rigid ski boots echoed off the condominiums alongside the road at the side of the mountain. Even though the surrounding snow looked old and icy, the skies were cloudy and promising and our spirits were high - even Chris (who barely had enough blood to raise color in her cheeks) managed to perk up. She and I boarded the first ski lift together, all the while admiring the birds' eye views of our alpine surroundings, but paying little mind to the runs below our dangling skis. As we reached the top, however, I couldn't help but notice ski attendants shoveling snow onto the area where skiers slide off.
Apparently a little groggy from blood loss, Chris decided to ready herself as we approached the point of disembarkation by putting her hand firmly on my left leg, completely thwarting my ability to move off the chair with the swiftness vital to successful chairlift dismounts. As the end of the ride neared, Chris pushed off my thigh and shakily slid forward at the designated mark, leaving me planted in the seat and quickly heading toward the 180 degree turn that would take me back down the mountain. With lightning reaction, one of the ski attendants yanked my arm and whisked me off the chair and onto the ramp they had been repacking with snow.
"Scraaaaaaaaaap-p-pe," went my brand-new skis over the exposed gravel and down I went - face first - into a pile of ice hard snow.
After being lifted from the ground by the fellow who launched me there, humiliated and bruised, I grimaced and sidestepped over to Chris, who smiled weakly, revealing her black and blue gums and blood-stained teeth, “Sorry, Anne.” I wanted to kill her, but her oral surgeon seemed to be doing the job for me, albeit very… very slowly.
It didn't take long for the entire family to concede that the ski runs left a great deal to be desired as each chairlift led us to snow-barren run after run, all of which required a level of athleticism foreign to the vast majority of us. On this particular day, those skills included the ability to strap on a pair of very long, very narrow waxed planks and to hurl oneself at high speed down a 45 degree angle, littered with rocky patches and large, icy moguls. Mia, Mark, Mom and I had barely mastered the snowplow. We were the first to surrender. We felt Chris's bloody breath on the back of our necks. Dad and Jim were close behind. We traded the slopes for an afternoon of lunch and looking at holiday window displays and returned to the condo early that evening with a Christmas tree and rekindled holiday spirits, until Dad and Jim's unsuccessful attempts to cut a level tree bottom without the aid of a saw, and to stand a 10 ft. pine without the aid of a stand.
Not finding a single store open where we might have gotten the proper tree-standing gizmo, Dad and Jim were determined to find something, somewhere in the condo which would make a sturdy substitute. But after trying bowls and buckets, waste baskets and garbage bins to no avail, tempers were fraying and good tidings were being crushed. As Dad and Jim tried to steady the tree in various, ill-sized buckets, Mark (bored with the whole ugly scene) went over and turned on the television.
“Click - "OUR PRICES ARE INSANE!!" - Click - "Oh John!", "Oh, Ka-" - Click - "Coke adds life to all the thin-" - click-click-click- "-and the lord said unto Mos-"
"DAMN IT! Just leave it there!”, Dad roared at the lowest branch of his family tree.
Had there been any snow on the mountain that night, we would likely have been buried beneath it. Jim was so startled, he let go of the Christmas tree which came crashing to the ground just inches from Dad. I never saw eyes twitch like that before. He was so agitated that rather than unceremoniously tossing a towering Scotch Pine over a second floor balcony (which each of us felt sure was coming next), he excused himself and took a long walk in the cool, dark night. While he calmed his nerves, our attentions turned to the television, which was rerunning Charlton Heston in "The Ten Commandments”. Even though we’d all seen it a dozen times before, doing anything else would have taken far more effort than any of us were willing to outlay. So, we sat... and we watched... thoroughly unimpressed by Moses's parting of the Red Sea for the umpteenth time. Just as Charlton Heston was about to lead his people to freedom – "Zzzzzzzzzt, pop, zap!" went the TV and the screen went black. All jaws in the room dropped. Mia, Mark and I stared wildly at the dormant machine, while Jim and Dad (who had just returned from his cool down, only to find another reason to get heated up) fiddled futilely with its wires. All attempts at resuscitation were soon abandoned.
Mom tried to lighten the mood by turning on the radio, with the hopes of finding Christmas carols to put everyone back into the holiday frame of mind. Ten minutes later, the only thing she could tune into was static. No snow. No tree. No television. Not even a Christmas ditty. No reason to go on, really. Utterly disenchanted, the family quietly dispersed to different corners of the condo.
"Eeeek!!," came a scream from the downstairs bathroom a few minutes later.
Everyone ran to the scene as Mia opened the door, wrapped in a towel and dripping with soap.
“Who's using the hot water?” she cried out as shampoo stung her eyes, but all who could be blamed stood before her. “Mom, are you running the dishwasher?"
"I would be IF it was working," Mom snapped, finally showing signs of strain.
As it turned out, no one was using the hot water, nor would anyone for the next few days. The hot water heater had broken and not a soul would be available until after Christmas. At this news, the family let out a collective sigh – as if the condo had sprung a leak. Which, at this point, seemed entirely possible.
"Enough," Mom said with steely determination. "We are not going to let this get us down."
And she meant it. Using rope she found in the kitchen cabinet, she convinced Jim and Dad they could stand the tree upright by tying it to the condo's rafters and beams, which they did. She also mustered the injured and the enlisted, to make decorations out of stringed popcorn and paper ornaments. And even though we were still outwardly miserable (taking it out on each other at every inopportune moment), the activity kept us occupied for the remainder of the evening. And in the end, the tree looked lovely, if not a little lopsided. Even though Mom seemed once again unaffected by... well, by it ALL and Dad was making himself scarce, as usual, we kids believed the only thing to save this debilitated vacation was snow. All those Sundays in church and catechism class surely had to carry some weight. "Please God," each of us prayed that night, "just a few inches of snow is all we ask for."
The following morning, one by one, before saying anything to anyone (even though each silent face spoke volumes), each of us looked out the window. Not a single, stinkin' snowflake had fallen. After an unusually quiet breakfast, Dad decided we would all take a drive to see what condition other neighboring ski resorts were in.
Why didn’t he just call, one might as? Because Dad discovered the phone, like the weather, the hot water heater, the TV, and the dishwasher, was completely kaput. Really, I’m not making any of this up. With no great surprises, our journey to nearby resorts proved unsuccessful and after three hours in the car, the mood had dipped so low it felt as if the car's undercarriage was scraping along the highway. Just as we were pulling up to the condo, the rental car begin to sputter and choke and then... it died. Those in the backseat sat very silent, exchanging frightened side glances, waiting to hear the explosion. Dad and Mom sat staring through the frosty front windshield - not moving, not speaking - for what seemed like an eternity. Then, as if a tropical breeze blew in through the now dormant air vents, Mom and Dad turned to one another and started to laugh, causing a chain reaction throughout the stalled sedan. This highly unexpected reaction from our quick tempered, Italian father would help set the tone for the rest of the trip.
The next day, Christmas Day, we busied ourselves opening the small gifts we bought or made for each other and spent the remainder of the holiday doing what we've always done best, cooking and feasting. That evening, as the sun went down and the creatures in the condo became restless, pacing about, looking forlornly at the TV, wondering what to do next, I suggested charades. Jim began frantically fiddling with the television. Chris grabbed her book and began reading the same page she hadn't been able to get past since boarding the plane. Mark and Mia decided it was as good a time as any to jump on the twin beds upstairs. Mom, however, thought it was a good idea and "suggested" everyone at least give it a try. Though total indifference sat itself down for the game that night, it wasn’t long before everyone - including Dad (who rarely participated in family game nights) - was wise-cracking and taking their turn. Teammates were syncing like well-oiled, mind-reading machines. Pantomimes were performed with dexterity and artistry. Guesses were made with certainty.
I was up. My clue: "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." I begin by acting out the hand cranked film camera.
"Movie!", Mia, my charades' partner called out. One finger tip briefly touched my nose, then was met by three others and two thumbs.
"Five words!" she fired in succession.I tapped my nose and squealed delightedly. Mentally grabbing hold of the clue's first word, while catching a glimpse of Dad out of the corner of my eye, my brain reeled. Dad's infamous intolerance and abhorrence for the family cats flashed through my mind. I met Mia's eyes, drop kicked an invisible object, and pointed to Dad.
"Cat on a Hot Tin Roof!" she screamed as she leapt from her seat and joined me in a victory jig around the living room. The family was stunned by our hair-trigger victory. Dad looked confused. Everyone was laughing. I can’t recall a more memorable time when we were together. United by circumstances. Banded by bad luck. Adaptive and, for the most part, amenable. For the remainder of the snowless, television-less, hot waterless, auto-less, dishwasher-less, music-less, communication-less vacation we had in the mountains that Christmas, we spent it together in this strange world where entertainment was ours, alone, to create. After a while, no one seemed anxious for change. Except, of course, Chris, whose bleeding had become so profuse that finding a doctor became imperative. A few stitches later, the hemorrhaging was reduced to just below offensive.
Two days before we left, it finally snowed and we were back out on the slopes... until Mom fell and ended up with seven stitches above her right eye. The vision of seeing her look up at me as the chairlift (I was reluctantly trapped on) floated directly over her bleeding head, was one which, thirty- six years later, still comes clear to my mind.
It certainly a lot bloodier of a vacation any of us had imagined. Yet it has always been a favorite to recall for rotten luck’s ability to create harmony and very happy memories.
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