Datebook: Monday, February 5th ~ 2007

To prove what a small world this is, my son just returned from a weekend of, well, I’m not sure of the proper title, but it was “rocks that are now covered in ice” climbing. And he did this in Lake Placid.

The funny thing is that the people in the “climbing party” that he went with were surprised to hear that people went to Lake Placid in the summer.

“What do you do there in the summer?” they asked, making it sound like we had to take the only week not blacked out from our frequent flyer miles.

“There is an ice-skating competition”. When I said this it seemed to bounce around a bit in a vacuum like so many things we say or repeat that have such dire consequences if we ever considered them, like “Until Death Do Us Part” or “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

“Really!” They say. “All the way up there.”

I merely nod.

I could point out that it makes as much sense, or perhaps more sense, to ice skate as to climb up sheets of ice, but I don’t, since most of the party has an ice ax hooked to their belt.

“Well,” they offer, “I guess it is cheaper for you to then, when it is off-season.”

Off-season?

I smile benevolently. “Actually, I believe the summer is the ‘peak’ season.”

They all turn to stare at me and there is the sound of flannel and North Face gear chafing against the grain.

They smile back. Malevolently,

“Winter sports are the prime and peak business.”

For a moment, I hear that weird noise that always comes in those old Clint Eastwood westerns (Not that I watch them or anything), when Clint steps onto the street with his forty inch gun.

This could turn into an age-old battle.

Dogs versus Cats.

Protestants versus Roman Catholics.

Coke versus Pepsi

Crest versus Colgate

Paul versus Ringo….you get the picture.

“Well,” I say, “Ice skating is a winter sport. But, you can also do it in the summer.” I raise an eyebrow at their booted legs. “It’s versatile.”

“Mom”, my son takes me aside. “You are acting like an alpha dog. Other people are allowed to go to Lake Placid for other things.”

“I didn’t start it,” I snort. “They’re all, “ice climbing” is a winter sport in the PEAK of the year and …”

“Mom, let it go.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I just hate it when people get all uppity for no reason. It’s not like it’s a real sport, I mean, it’s not in the Olympics or anything. What would it be, “Ice covered rock climbing”, or “Rock, that has been covered with ice climbing, or ice that has dripped on rocks…”

“Mom.”

“Plus, how hard is that? They punch a little hole in the ice and push in metal spikes and people are holding them the whole time with a rope. Peak sport—they can’t even imagine doing something on ice on a tiny little piece of metal!”

“Mom!”

“They don’t have an ice-rock climbing arena. Did you point that out?

“It didn’t come up until just now.” He looks at me for a moment. “I think I saw a poster of the ice-dance competition in the window of the book store.”

The world settles back on a horizontal axis.

“Gosh, I’d better call for reservations before they get over-booked.”

He shakes his head before going back to say good-bye to his climbing buddies and I worry he might have an inner-ear infection from the cold.

What else could it be?

Mombo