Mother Nature seems to have forgotten we’re close to the middle of June. It is 57˚. My house is cold enough that I’m wearing socks and a sweatshirt. The sky is gray and the wind is blowing. It poured rain all night into this morning. Sun is predicted tomorrow so I’ll just have to be patient with today.

I’m late as I met friends for breakfast. We get together once a month. All of us worked at the high school together and we all retired with a few years of each other. This morning there were 11 of us.

When I was growing up, nobody I knew skied or golfed. Those were sports for people with money. Miniature golf was the closest we ever got. I did go to the private golf course in my town but only in winter with my sled or my toboggan. I never even learned to water ski despite living by the ocean. My father only had a row-boat.

Only once did I ever go snow skiing. It was in Colorado when I was visiting my sister and brother-in-law. I got off the lift easily without falling, but as I went down the hill, I started speeding so fast and out of control I got afraid and threw myself to the ground just before I ended up in the trees. It took forever for me to get up and get the skis back on my feet. One or the other ski would slide down the hill by itself. A passing skier would be kind enough to retrieve them for me. One was a little kid about nine. My descent after that was tentative at best, and I still nearly ended up in the parking lot. I had trouble stopping. My brother-in-law, a skier, asked my sister and me if we minded him skiing a bit. Nope. We loved sitting in the lodge and having hot drinks. That is still my favorite part of skiing.