Purgatory Lodge

I’m sitting in a ski lodge in New Hampshire, stabs of sciatic pain shanking down my left leg, tormenting all my attempts to work on the laptop. Today there’ll be no skiing for me, because yesterday, I committed the eight deadly sin of being fifty plus and stooping to pick up a bundle of firewood.
That’s me done for three or four weeks of anything but grimacing when I sit, groaning when I stand, and weeping when I get out of bed after six hours of barely-sleep.
The kids are up on the mountain: The skiing is good today, three inches of powdery snow fell overnight: They’ll have fun and burn off some adolescent energy.
As I had never deliberately driven a few hours from Boston to sit in a ski lodge, my conceptions of this quasi-public space were, until today, limited. Of course over the years, I had noticed a fair share of lodge-moms: Thirty-something, anxious-faced women, in over-sized, thick knit-sweaters, LL Bean waffle-soled boots, pushing used-to-be-trendy glasses up their noses, knitting (does the world need more over-sized sweaters?), reading, or struggling with the, you-get-what-you-pay-for, free WiFi, as they sat, self-social-distancing themselves (how prescient!), at tables around the lodge, sighing often, awaiting the safe return of their snow-suited brood from the slopes. So, existing in a ski lodge, for one day anyway, did seem like a creditable option.
But mostly ski lodges lived in my mind as the place where you had the ski-booting fight: It’s practically a rite of passage in New England. Sneakers, gloves, jackets all tossed, with hot frustration, across the ski lodge floor, to get trampled by other families distracted with their ski-booting fight, as your seven year old attempts, to the point of tears, to insert their warm, little foot into a hard plastic boot, that looks like it could have been a torture accessory back in the Spanish Inquisition. After a few minutes of your child’s tearful struggling, you suddenly turn Inquisitor and jam the foot into the boot: Then, you become the focus of all the frustration and tears.
Finally booted, wiped-away-children’s-tears on the back of your hand, you tentatively approach the window to buy lift tickets. The sales windows are inevitably at exactly the wrong height – there must be a class taught in architecture schools; The Design of Aesthetically Pleasing, But Entirely Unserviceable Service Windows – and have a small, four inch, circular louver through which no human voice can pass. Music, the sound of dot matrix printers, the strumming of fingers – those sounds all pass easily, but nary a human word. Inside the window, a ruddy, Live-Free-Or-Die, fourteen year-old girl sits perkily on a stool, ready to make you, the paying customer, feel entirely an accessory to the ski experience.
Even when you’ve prepared well – refinanced the house; sold a few family heirlooms – it’s an anxiety provoking situation, as the ruddy teenage swipes your card so many times, you fear you may have just purchased a failing ski resort in Cow Hampshire – on credit!
But, it gets worse, as it dawns on you, that to eat today, you’re going to have to steal lunch from the ski lodge cafeteria: A felony offense, as burgers, fries and water for three people costs in excess of $250!
Today, with support from the worst intentions of my sciatic nerve, I’m getting the full Monty on ski lodge culture. The interior décor is chic backwoods-man: Faux tree bark wall-paneling, wood floors, long farmhouse tables, lined with wood benches, a roaring fire in the middle of the room, the fieldstone fireplace open on all four sides. It’s coming up to lunch time, and the tables are dotted with the lodge-moms, reading hardbacked books, index-finger-stabbing their phone screens, looking up and sighing loudly.
At the table next to me, sits a couple in matching, black sweatsuits. He’s lounging against the table, playing on his phone to the chirping of some game; a light, goofy smile on his face as he thumbs away. She’s straight backed; arms folded tight; resting-bitch-face; her head turning like a chicken watching the farmyard cat, as she scans the lodge, then flicks back with a scowl at her husband.
I look back to my laptop, and pray to the WiFi gods for just a few bytes of sustenance, enough for the email, I just clicked Send on, to depart the ski lodge – even if I can’t!
There’s a tromping of ski boots, and when I look up a group of four kids are trudging wearily toward the couple, their youthful cheeks already reddening in the heat of the lodge.
“Well, look who’s here?” the mother unclasps her arms, a wave of relief washing resting-bitch off her face.
“We got lost in the woods,” one of the girls says, tears tugging at the edge of her voice.
She’s probably ten-ish, purple and pink snowsuit, fluorescent pink helmet, and a face, that’s a mini-me of her mother’s.
“What!” the mother snaps, the relief draining from her face, and replaced instantly by fear-anger.
“Drew made us go into the woods, and we got lost,” the girl says, her mini-me face contorting into the same fear-anger visage.
She rushes forward and leans into her mother’s open arms.
“I didn’t make them go in!” Drew’s chin juts out, his eyes glaring at his sister. “They were being too rough with each other, so I said, let’s go in he… .”
“Be quiet,” the father wades in, sitting upright now, but looking confused, his phone still chirping in his hand.
“We’re weren’t being rough, you’re allowed to be rough, it’s the Adventure Park.”
“Only when there’s an adult with you.”
“Quiet, I said.”
Lodge-moms’ heads rise from knitting needles, books, phones; shoulders locked-and-loaded for an indignant-at-the-disturbance sigh.
“Well, you were in charge and you’re … .”
“Twelve!” the father says too loud – triggering a wave of pent-up sighs. “He’s twelve years old and he can’t go skiing by himself, and have some girls along. Not without this kinda sh… .”
“Drew Senior!” the mother snaps. “Do not … use language like that, their cousins are here.”
She holds out her arms to the two smaller girls; cookie-cutter versions of one another, probably seven and eight years-old. They’re in matching purple-pink outfits; goggles still over their faces.
The older of the two rushes forward to her aunt; the child’s nose and mouth creasing, as she starts to cry.
“Take them … ski glasses off,” the father’s head bobbles, his eyes darting around the lodge. “She’ll ruin the inside of them with her tears.”
“You are in…cred…ible!” the mother loud whispers. “Sidney’s having a moment, and you’re worried about an accessory.”
“Just saying,” he turns away sheepishly. “They’ll freeze up when she’s skiing, and she won’t be able to see. Maybe she’ll crash and break a le… .”
He stops in the face of the withering look from his wife.
“We were like miles into the woods,” Drew’s sister says, working her shoulders in closer to her mother, trying to displace her cousin. “I thought we’d never see you again!”
“Why didn’t you call us?” Drew Senior throws up his hands. “Actually, we was sitting here waiting for a call.”
“I tried,” his daughter’s voice starts to melt into tears. “But my fingers were too … cold.”
The tears flow, the little girl’s shoulders and helmet rocking.
“It’s ok honey, don’t cry,” the mother flicks her eyes angrily at the father, and then to the top of her daughter’s helmet. “We don’t have any service here anyway. We’re in the boonies, remember.”
“I have service,” Drew says, his mouth hanging slightly open, chin jutting out, as he looks from one parent to the other. “I been SnapChatting on the lift with Ethan and Kyle, they’re here somewhe … .”
“You’re fucken kiddin’ me!” Drew Senior’s shoulders push back, as he lurches up from his seat.
Lodge-moms’ heads rise, glare; their shoulders re-tightening.
“You let your iPhone 11 Pro Max fall off that lift, and you’re paying for the replacement. It can come outta your grandparents’ college savings for all I care. I aint paying for it.”
“Senior, you need to chill the ____ out!” the mother, slow mouths the great unutterable.
The fourth kid, the youngest girl, starts to sway a little, her arms dangling; the speckled, pink ski poles, still hanging from her wrists, scrape along the wood floor.
“Oh Lola, come here,” the mother gushes, exaggeratedly pursing her lips. “Your cousins are being mean. Are you ok?”
The little girl shakes head, takes a half step backwards.
“When will my parents be here?” Sidney asks from her aunt’s bosom.
“Well Brad and Lauren said they’d be back for lunch, and …,” the mother elaborately takes out her phone; stares at it; looks up. “And it’s lunchtime now, I don’t where they could possibly be.”
Sidney issues a loud, teary groan; her shoulders and helmet rocking again.
“It’s ok, it’s ok, they’ll be here soon,” the mother waves her arm at the youngest girl. “Lola, come sit down.”
Lola just perceptibly shakes her head.
“Hey Lola,” Drew Senior says. “You gotta lose them sticks, you’re gonna poke someone’s eye out.”
“Shut up dad, Lola’s ok,” Drew juts his chin out at his father. “She never bothers me.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Drew Senior flashes him a confused-angry look.
“Look,” the mother tries to shift in her seat, but the weight of the two girls stalls her. “Why don’t I get lunch, and listen girls, … and Drew. When their parents come, let’s not mention this getting lost in the woods thing. Ok? It’ll only upset them.”
“No, no mommy, don’t go,” her daughter resists. “Stop her Sidney, pin her down.”
“Oh stop kids,” the mother fake-laughs, but gives them both a wide-armed hug.
“Senior, you go, get three chicken nuggets and fries, and waters, no soda. Brad hates to see them drinking soda.”
“What about me?” Drew turns to his mother, arms held out, palms flat. “Don’t I get nuthin?”
“You go with your father,” she waves her hand at the bulging cash registers. “Senior aint gonna be able to carry all that without dropping something, and you pick out what you want.”
“And what about me?” Drew senior mimics his son – arms out, palms flat.
“Why don’t you grow the ____ up!”
The lodge-moms release a collective titter.