My skis float down the ramp from the Heaven’s Gate lift, as Mom and I get off of the cold gray chair. Together, we glide down and make a sharp turn to the left. As I do, my eyes meet a majestic painting of scenery. Bright white snow blankets the dark evergreen trees. A bright blue sky completes the work of art. I can picture a red price tag to the side of my view. The price: priceless.

Dad taps me on the shoulder, and I know I have to continue moving. He starts to make his way up the mountain. My poles break through the surface of the tightly packed snow, as my red skis’ sharp edges dig into the side of the mountain. In this pizza position, I make my way up, too. “Crunch, crunch, crunch,” are the only sounds I hear for a few minutes. Behind me, I see Mom and my brother Brendan following Dad and me. We all know where we’re going; our favorite trail.

In February, Sugarbush, Vermont is my favorite place to ski with my family. This time of year, Sugarbush is never over-crowded. Sure, we could be sometimes packed together on the lift lines, but once we hit the top, everyone goes their separate ways. It has trails for every type of ability, beginner to expert. There is almost always snow, and if there isn’t, they’ll make it!

Now, I realize that tiny, little, delicate crystal flakes begin to fall on Lincoln Peak. I am traveling in a winter wonderland. We finally reach flat surface. Dark green trees surround us on either side. Dad slams his poles into the ground, and takes of his gloves, sticking one on each pole. He then puts his orange lensed goggles on top of his coal black helmet.

“Guys, we’re going to be going down Jester now,” he explains. “Every couple of turns, stop so we can all catch up. Brendan, how ‘bout you start in front this time,” he asks, Dad’s gaze ending on my little brother. Brendan smiles, and I know it’s because he enjoys leading the group.

I place my pole straps onto my wrists carefully, so that I don’t cause everyone else to have to wait for me. Then, I take my goggles off of my ski-resort sticker-covered helmet and put them over my eyes. My hair is in two braids, both resting peacefully on my multi-colored jacket. I wait patiently for Brendan to take off. Finally, I see a black ski jacket detailed with one neon yellow stripe beginning to descend down the mountain.

Skiing downhill at Sugarbush makes me feel free. The cool rush of wind in my face refreshes me. The falling snow challenges me to be aware of my surroundings. This is fun for me, because I enjoy challenges. Each new trail I go on is an example of this. As I peer through the blizzard, I see Brendan bombing to the left, showing no signs of slowing down. I follow, though not as fast, for the fear of being caught in a pack of older, faster skiers. All the time, “the pack” comes down the trail, making their way down with speed and skill. It isn’t fun to come in between them.

A few minutes later, I stop at the place where Brendan does. It’s one of our many regular stops. This trail is so beautiful. There is a wide curve where I’m parked, waiting for my parents. Simultaneously, Brendan and I dig our poles into the freshly powdered ground. Suddenly, I hear the familiar sounds of skis grazing down the mountain. My father’s moss green coat reaches us.

“Where’s Mom?” Brendan asks, his head swiveling around.

“She’s going to be here in a couple of minutes,” Dad replies staring at us.

His head suddenly lights up with excitement, the way it does when he has an idea. I can picture the light bulb above his head, glowing brightly. “Get together real close,” he tells us. “Just wait a minute.”

Dad then unzips one of his many pockets. The gloves come off, and his hands pull out the mystery item he had been searching for. The family camera sheds its red skin.

He then refocuses on us. I slowly begin to realize Dad wants to take a picture. I instinctively put my right hand on Brendan’s right shoulder. Brendan then puts his left arm around my body.

“On the count of three,” Dad confirms. Brendan and I nod rapidly.

“One, two, three!” my father exclaims.

Even though I have on my face mask, I put on a dazzling smile, the kind movie-stars use. Two clicks later, our photo shoot is over. The camera regains its red color, and away it goes into Dad’s jacket. Once again, I hear skis traveling down the mountain, and I watch the lavender jacket reach us. It is silent as everyone except Mom puts back on their gear. After he finishes, Brendan begins to go down the mountain first yet again. I will make sure he isn’t the first one down. I will be. I want to have my skis glide down the Heaven’s Gate ramp again and again.

Fat Tuesday

I walk up the wooden stairs, taking in the familiar site. The thick white snow blankets the cold hard ground. A long line curves out from the “Super Bravo” lift. Various people in multi-colored jackets wait patiently, turning to chat with their neighbors. Skiers bomb down the mountain with such speed and accuracy. For a moment, I’m stunned. Sugarbush, I’m home!

We stop by the ski racks, Brendan, Mom, Dad, and me. I slam down my green skis. Dad opens his mouth while handing Mom her light blue skis. “I’m going to go get the tickets,” he says, pointing at the ticket lodge. The lodge has a grey, curved roof. It is almost always crowded in the morning with people getting their tickets. The ski school always meets there, so there is a crowd of parents taking pictures and making sure their child gets checked in. I glance towards the mountain once more, and I am once again amazed. I watch Dad strut towards the building. I sway from side to side, trying to get the time to pass quickly so that we can begin skiing. Hurry up, Dad. I want to get going. The mountain is calling me!
***

Soon, Dad returns to us, lift tickets in hand. “These are good for the four days we are here,” Dad mentions while walking towards me. He then takes one of the two youth tickets, one of the four red plastic tags, and attaches the two pieces to a zipper on my checkered jacket.

“Thanks Dad!” I say enthusiastically. When my father finishes with me, he begins to attach Brendan’s ticket to his jacket.
“Ey,” I hear a voice rumble behind me. Only one person in the whole world has that voice, the deep one that sounds like a pirate yelling in a thunderstorm. I turn to face a tall man behind me.
“Uncle Tom!” I shriek, my arms surrounding my uncle. For some reason, his jacket feels soft, not like the waterproof ones skiers normally wear.

“Oh my god,” Dad chuckles behind me, going in for a hug with his younger brother. I take a step back and peer up. I gasp. My hand flies to my mouth as I gape at Uncle Tom, or as we call him: Tom-Tom-the-Atom-Bomb. He is wearing the costume from the party on New Year’s Eve. We called him “The Jester”.

Uncle Tom is “The Jester” today. He is in a one piece green, yellow, and purple checkered suit. He wears a hat that droops, one side yellow, one side green. To complete his look, he has a sequined purple, green, and yellow mask with black feathers jutting out of the top. When I ask why he is dressed like this, he says it’s for Fat Tuesday. That explains the feathers.

Molly Mae peeks out from behind my uncle, a smile on her face. She is the size of a 3 foot fairy. Molly is decked out in her favorite color from head to toe. I can see her springy blondish hair coming out of her hot pink helmet. I slide over and scoop her up for a hug. She giggles with gusto.

“Hi Miss Mae!” I whisper in her ear.

“Hi Kristen!” she replies, screaming in my face. My ears throb.

“Molly?” I ask, feigning surprise. “Are you skiing?”
She nods back enthusiastically. “Yeah!”
“Amazing!” I reply. I put my little cousin down and grab my poles. Molly races over to my Aunt Maureen, who helps my cousin get on her pink skis. I ask Aunt Maureen where my other cousin Liam is, and she says he’s training.
Uncle Tom steps back, getting everyone's attention. His mask is glittering in the sunlight. “Let’s hit the slopes!” he yells, motioning towards the mountain.
“Yeah!” I yell, pointing my pole into the air. I see snow for miles around. Exactly what I was thinking, Uncle Tom. Exactly what I was thinking.




Thanksgiving at Tia Mayra’s

Our car pulls up to a large house with a huge glass window panel down the middle. Two Mercedes, one white and one black, are parked in the driveway. Dozens of cars are parked in the section where we are now. The engine stops rumbling, and sounds of seatbelts unbuckling fill my ears. I smooth out my dark purple dress in the backseat. My purple nail polished hand reaches for the handle of the car door. I can’t wait to see Tia Mayra!!! I step out of Abuelo’s old car and am greeted by the gentle breeze. It rustles through the tall palm trees like old friends greeting as if they haven’t seen each other in ages. I look both ways so that I don’t get run over. I skip towards the big front door that towers over me. The door is open, so I walk through.
As soon as my nose is past the doorway, so many scents attack me. I can already tell everything is going to taste amazing. This is definitely going to be the best Thanksgiving. I walk past the couches in the foyer. I know exactly where I’m going. A picture pops in my head from when the family gathered in the patio of Tia Mayra’s old house years ago for a dinner together. Seeing her is a real treat, so I always make sure that I enjoy every minute.
“Tia Mayra?” I ask the gigantic house, hoping my aunt was in one of the various rooms.
“Kristen!” my aunt shrieks from the kitchen. I run into the next room and see Tia Mayra working over the stove. She leaves her work area to engulf me in a hug. Her bedazzled collar glitters from the natural light coming in through the big windows. Tia Mayra’s hair is a short bob like always, which looks nice on her.
“I’m so glad you are here!” she tells me after I’m released from the hug. I can tell by her smile that she’s definitely excited. All of the white pearly teeth in her mouth are showing.
“Me too,” I reply, looking around the room. Various pots and pans are on the stove simmering and sizzling. One after the other, appetizers are lined up on the island counter. Is there an end? I spot the large refrigerator that blends in with the cabinetry. I can imagine that when Tia Maruchy comes, that fridge will be partly open from being overstuffed with delicious food.
Brendan finds his way to the couch where he sits down, completely fascinated by the football game on the big screen tv. Rick appears from outside grinning from ear to ear. I look out to see what he was working on. The ice cooler is set up on the patio. Dad gives him a high five, and Mom kisses him on the cheek.
“Tia Mayra,” I holler over the noise of the big game, “I’m starting to collect recipes now!”
“That’s great Kristen!” she replies, offering Mom and Dad a drink. Then, I hear footsteps coming from the foyer. I dash to that location to see Laura and Clay walking in with aluminum trays filled with food. Heavy food, judging by their faces. Clay’s arms surround the large trays, his face in a grimace. Laura is carrying so many trays, I can’t see her face.
“Laura!” I cheer, enjoying the fact that everyone is finally starting to pile in. My cousin places the shiny trays on the granite floor, and gives me a hug.

“How’s school?” she asks. We are walking side-by-side back to the kitchen. The house will remember my footsteps by the end of the night.

“Good,” I respond. “How’s your first graders?” Laura is a teacher, so we always talk about school related things, from projects to testing, to even my locker organization!

“Great!” she replies. When we reach the kitchen, I spot my other cousins Robby and Vanessa chatting, Robby with Brendan, and Vanessa with my mom. Once I am spotted, I’m engulfed in more hugs and receive more kisses.

***
I plop down into my chair, and watch the rest of my family respond in the same fashion. The many bowls and plates filled to the the top with food are strategically placed, one of each food at both ends of the table. Creamed corn, sweet and mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, and of course the turkey are all here.

Tia Mayra and Rick sit at the head of the adult end of the table. The adults take the seats nearest to the hosts, leaving the rest available to the younger generation. I am seated next to Vanessa and Amanda. Brendan sits across from me, Clay to his left and Robby to his right. Once again, Robby and Clay will be amazed by how Brendan eats. Jessica sits next to her boyfriend, Bill.

Before everyone grabs their dinner, I hear the clinking of a glass. My head turns in the direction of the adult section. Rick stands, holding his glass. “ Let’s say grace,” he speaks, silencing the table. Murmurs of words of thanks are being said all around.

I look around the table and smile. The family members that live in Florida are all here: Tia Mayra and Rick and Tia Maruchy and Tio Urbano. Laura and Clay and Robby and Vanessa. Amanda and Jessica and Tia Pastora and Tia Mirta. Family that lives in New Jersey are here, too. Dad and Mom and Brendan. Uncle Louie and Aunt Melody. Ti Tia and Tio Luis and Abuelo and Abuela. Of course, I’m here too. Everyone I love is here... together.


My Family
Family is the most important thing in my life. My family is with me during the good, the great, the funny, and the loving times. Seeing my uncle dressed up while skiing, or sitting at a table with the relatives I rarely see is what family is about. It’s about cherishing the moments I have with them. They are with me through the thick and thin, always. My family is the super glue holding my life together. The bond that will never break.