Charlie Kissinger, guru of our local Ferguson Ridge ski area, has outdone himself this year. He and the legions of Fergi volunteers once again managed to run that ski hill so it feels like you’re playing in your own backyard with a bunch of friends over.
I knew Charlie was resourceful, but was impressed to find out that he somehow contacted my sister and convinced her to schedule our Rombach family get-together this weekend. Which is also Fergifest weekend. This man will clearly stop at nothing to keep me from entering the annual lawnchair race. Two years ago he managed to get me a teaching job out of town during Fergifest so he wouldn’t have to race me. And now this. Well played, sir.
So I’m going to miss it, but get yourself up there this Saturday, April 4, for ski golfing, downhill races, potluck goodness, the bonfire at the lodge, music, dancing . . . and that most glorious of sporting events: the racing of lawnchairs on skis. I don’t have time to train an alternate pilot for my new generation of lawnchair racer. It took me months to build up tolerance in the G-force simulator. Plus the two weeks I spent at the Bonneville Salt Flats to work out the kinks on the new rocket propulsion system for my chair.
I will admit that in the past, when I have made it to the race, there were certain difficulties that resulted in me dragging my chair to the finish long after the champion was crowned. But I have bad news for you, Kissinger, and Blane Hayes, and all the rest of you lawnchair racers that manage to win or even just finish the race … this rocket fuel of mine will keep until next year, so I’ll wish you good luck now for both 2009 and 2010.
I’ll still need my competitive spirit this weekend, as the Rombachs have extremely fierce cribbage tournaments when we convene and the loser has to cut off a finger. Well, not the whole finger, but a joint anyway. Still, it makes you want to concentrate.
I will be building sand castles on the Oregon Coast with my nephews and nieces. Kites will be flown, clams will be chowdered, shrimps cocktailed and crabs louied. I can’t wait to be there to see my mom introduce her grandchildren to the exciting world of marine creatures. When my sisters and I were youngsters on a trip to the beach, Mom pointed out bobbing heads in the water and said, “Look, kids, otters.” A crowd soon gathered along the boardwalk as we pointed out the playful critters frolicking in the surf and dozens of pictures were being taken until some guy walked by and said, “Those aren’t otters, that’s seaweed bobbing around in the water.” Sure enough. But it was playful seaweed.
The forecast is for rough weather on the coast this week, which I’m looking forward to. I used to live on a sailboat, and the anxiety of having your home on the ocean during rough conditions is not a fond memory. It’s tough to sleep with the rigging slapping the mast in howling winds while your kitchen and bookshelves are dumping themselves onto the floor each time the boat rolls. Now I dearly love watching monster swells pound a coastline as I sip coffee behind the windows of a warm beachfront diner, delighted I no longer own a boat. When the weather is nice and I’m near the ocean, however, I scan the classified ads looking to buy another boat. What I need is a timeshare arrangement with a foul weather sailor who assumes ownership as soon as the barometer drops. They can also have the boat every year during Fergifest weekend, whatever the weather is doing. Because I’ll be in my lawnchair racer, ready for the race to start.
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