I have a theory about the importance of ending on a high note. Yesterday, the neighbor kids came over to play for a while. Eventually the dad swung by to collect his children. I commented that they all had a good time, played really well together. And then as they were sitting on the floor by the front door, getting their boots on, the kids started getting a little rowdy. “Quick!” I joked to the dad. “Get ‘em out of here before it all goes bad!”
It’s like the last snowboard run -- the one you shouldn’t take. I remember waiting for Charley at the end of a long day snowboarding many years ago. I was beat and decided to relax for the thirty five minutes or so before the next shuttle back into town, back to our hotel, but he wanted to squeeze in one last run. We had done this one particular run a few times over the course of our weekend snowboarding trip, so I knew that it should only take him five minutes to ride the lift, and then maybe fifteen minutes to get down the hill. He had plenty of time.
Twenty minutes passed. Then twenty five. I watched as the crowds started thinning at the base of the hill. Thirty minutes. I moved from my spot on the deck outside the cafeteria back down to the base of the snowy hill. At thirty five minutes our shuttle came. And left. Still no Charley. I was this close to sending out the mountain patrol to go retrieve my husband.
And then I saw a black speck off in the distance making its way slowly down the hill. I moved in to investigate, and watched as the speck came into focus. It was Charley. I was within earshot by the time he made it to the bottom, and I heard him fall, face first, into the snow. He was still lying there when I finally got close enough to tap him on the shoulder. “Charley?”
“Mmmrrrrrmph.” That is the sound of a man who should have resisted the urge to do one last snowboard run down the mountain.
I was making some pancakes this morning when I remembered the story of the last snowboard run. I flipped over the first pancake, saw that it was, as we say in our house, a little on the “Cajun” side of things. I sighed and tossed the slightly blackened pancake into the garbage disposal, and adjusted the heat on the burner. And then I remembered my friend C’s father telling me once that the first born child is a lot like the first pancake -- both are throw aways. You make all your mistakes on the first one, figure out the right temperature, and hope for the best with pancake -- and child -- number two. I know it’s true for pancakes. But I’ve still got big hopes for both number one son and number two son.
Really the only thing that connects these two separate stories is that they have to do with firsts and lasts. And the challenges associated with both. It’s the stuff in the middle that’s easiest. Or, at least, that’s my theory for now.
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