Blue Jeans and Cotton Tees

I went cross country skiing today.

Yes, me, the one always picked last in PE.  I went cross country skiing, by choice.

My Scandinavian husband has been skiing since he could walk.  As a boy scout in Nevada he would ski with his troop into the mountains, camp over night or several days and ski back out.

My very first Christmas at his parent’s home he took me out and taught me the basics while he family watched from the windows of the house.

I married him anyway.

Then the babies came, and we lived in the city. Winter sports consisted of  spending 20 minutes dressing the little ones in snowsuits and mittens then pulling them around in a sled for 5 before someone had to go potty or got snow in their mitten.

After our move to the country, my husband pulled out the skis again. He could now strap them on at the back porch and ski for miles.

He found beginner skis for the children and started teaching them the basics. Pretty soon the entire family was out on skis, and it was time for me to join them.

After a few false starts, I soon got a feel for it and found myself enjoying the rhythm of the sport.

I will never be as proficient as my husband who can do the most amazing turns and even stays upright going down hills. But I can almost keep up with the young ‘uns and as long as I avoid the hills I can stay on my feet.

Now I can enjoy the calm beauty of a winter day while I glide over the crisp white snow. The cold air bites my cheeks as my normally uncoordinated body finds the rhythm and movement of the cross country skis.

I should have known. I thought I was prepared. But I had no idea when we moved here nine years ago how frustrating life could be living with five children in a drafty old farm house in the coldest months on the year.

Thermal socks and heavy hooded sweatshirts have been the normal attire for sometime now. (Actually I only see the boys heads on Sunday morning when they take their stocking caps off for church!)

The wood stove is like another child, always needing to be fed and changed. The need for wood is a never ending job with all the cutting, hauling, and splitting.

Yet, after nine years, despite the frustrations, I have learned to love and anticipate winter days here on the farm. It’s comforting to have the snow falling outside and know that you are all safe and warm inside. There’s a sort of rhythm and peacefulness about our days with very few interruptions.

Winter is when we get many books read, games played and we always have a 1000 piece jig saw puzzle set out to be put together.

On sunny days, we can strap on the cross county skis, walk out the back door and start to ski. The kids have hills all over for sledding and snowboarding.

I guess winter in the country can be summed up in one word, time. We have time to be together and do the things that are important. We have time to think, to grow, to explore, to experiment, to play.

Since time is a such a valuable commodity, I guess winter in an old farm house makes us rich indeed!