Hot Chocolate Memories

The first crush of my life was ignited by an elegant Frenchman with a glowing tan, windblown hair and a killer smile. He spoke softly in the most delicious accent I had ever heard. He was 20 and I was 11.

Tragically, we never met.

I grew up in Minnesota in a family of skiers. My father strapped skis on each of us when we turned five years old. Our mother planted us between her knees as she taught us to hold tight to the rope tow and then snowplow down the bunny hill. On the coldest days, she put our little frozen toes between her hands at the ski lodge as we cried through the thaw, and warmed our hands with cups of hot chocolate from the family thermos.

These were the days of long skis and sweeping turns. Dad would tell us to put a nickel between our knees at the top of the hill and, if it was still there at the bottom of the slope, we could keep it.

None of us had Olympic dreams, but for us the Winter Olympics were the biggest events of our young lives. It was the only time that our parents allowed us unlimited television time.

Other girls swooned over the ice skaters, with their sparkles and feathers and lace and capes. But I only had eyes for an Alpine racer named Jean-Claude Killy. My heart stopped as soon as he appeared in the starting gate, then raced beside him through every turn on the course. In 1968, Killy swept every Alpine event and stood on the Olympic podium with 3 gold medals across his chest. Oh baby.

Jean-Claude went on to other successes, and I went on to other crushes, but watching the Winter Olympics as a family, remains one of my dearest memories. There were no replays in those days, so sometimes we were allowed to get up in the middle of the night to watch our heroes compete—even on school nights!

Tonight is a school night, and although my family is scattered, I will be watching the Olympics. I’ll brew some hot chocolate, add a little schnapps, wrap myself in a quilt and pretend that I’m snuggled in with them all.

P.S. Happy Valentines Day, Jean-Claude.