-By Orv Alveshere-
QUARTER MILE OVER SNOWBANKS; WE’RE OVER THE HILL
Behind the barn rising high above, was a 60-foot hill;
Estimated to be thirty-five degrees, it gave beginners a thrill.
The neighbors came for a competition on a sunny day
Over the hill to the highest hill we trudged. We heard him say;
“It’s so sunny and mild, who can ski downhill the farthest distance?”
In that rustic setting, we were taking turns at his insistence.
It was such a bright picturesque, snow-laden day for sightseeing.
Two brothers and neighbor kids walked until we could go skiing.
WHO COOKED OUR PRIMITIVE SKIS?
We leaned forward and crouched, but there was some ‘buck-brush’ that kept us looking.
Faster than we could run, at downhill speeds we thought we were ‘cooking’!
Speaking of cooking, that’s how primitive hand-me-down skis were made;
He cooked pine boards, with two simple leather straps appliquéd.
Not the ‘village blacksmith,’ an inventive carpenter by trade.
Straps kept our boots in place. Cooked and bent buoyant skis were ‘tailor-made’.
The countryside glistened. The air was fresh for a human being.
Whizzing down a quarter-mile hill, some country lads were skiing.
SKIING TRIP GOES DOWNHILL
Danger lurked on each run. We crashed with this ever-present danger;
With head in snow banks & 2 skis pointing skyward, looked stranger.
Downside follows downslides, as the youthful skiers were upended;
Lungs full of snowflakes, although not intended, nor recommended!
Skimming down that slope, meanwhile crossing that unstable ‘buck-brush’ patch;
Falling ungracefully into nature’s deceptive booby-hatch.
Cold, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, knowing there was no guaranteeing;
With face-full of snow, but did not inhale, while downhill skiing.
TO SKI, OR NOT TO SKI, THAT IS THE CONTEST QUESTION
“I will top that,”” he bragged, “My next downhill run will be one-fourth mile!”
“It’s a piece of cake,” exuberantly showing a snowy smile.
“A contest of hills and wills, “To ski, or not to ski?” Quoting McBeth;
I stopped him. “Not so,” I said, “It’s my turn now, O ‘buck-brush’– breath.”
With need for speed I zipped down that long hill with wind in my face;
Gliding lightly with my distance and greater speed, setting the pace.
Who could say I’d won that contest, as no one was refereeing.
The climb with exertion came next, on iffy-crusted snow, while skiing.
NON-HUMAN EXERTION SOLUTION
BOB-SLED RUNNERS = OXYMORON
Laboriously, we would trudge uphill over high banks of snow;
We floundered, falling into armpit-deep snow banks. It was buck-brush slow.
What’s that? A lean & fast Pinto team appeared in our horse stall.
A light bob-sled with straw bale seats, swift horses at our beck & call.
Staccato hoof-beats and jingling bells on our mid-cent’ry ski lift supreme;
Our efforts spared, horse powered o’er glistening snow by a tobiano team.
Many happy returns, skiers pulled by long ropes, we’re reparteeing.
Skis parked, eight strong hooves in cadence, we’re bob-sledding instead of skiing.
© Copyright 2008, Orv Alveshere
(One of the skiers lacking horse sense)