FUN AND GAMES

I’m A Canadian In Recovery — From Snow Sports

Chills, thrills, spills, and hospital bills

Photo by Avel Chuklanov on Unsplash

Hey, I’m Canadian, eh? Like every other Canuck, I was born in a snow bunny suit with ice skates on my feet and mittens on my hands.

Sorry. I wasn’t. I was born in the Great White North, but my immigrant parents never caught the snow sport bug, so they didn’t pass it down to me. Still, I was born there, so I must love snow sports, eh? God knows, my home and native land tried its best to make a believer out of me.

The Neighborhood Yeti

At age four, when I wanted to go outside to play after a snowstorm, my mother bundled me up. By the time she tied the finishing touch, a hat with flaps, under my chin, I was as wide as I was tall. Immobilized by all the layers and my tiny T-Rex arms, I could only watch as my dad and brother built, not a benign Frosty-clone, but a monster. Dad marched to the tune of his own drum, so no snowman of his would ever be the usual three snowballs, a carrot nose, and twigs for arms. No, Dad’s attempt at realism resulted in a passable yeti with fully formed arms and legs, realistic enough to send anyone screaming. With that, I, tiny accessory to the creation of the neighborhood nightmare, began a fraught childhood relationship with winter…