hey there, you little American- shovel that manure

Another perk of living overseas was the field trips. Besides having to take the bomb guy with us, they were legendary. While my kids go to skatetown, I went to The Prado. Mine go on overnight trips to Dallas, I went on week long trips to the Pyrenees. For roughly $100 we spent a week in the Pyrenees mountains learning to ski. That was room, board, transportation, lessons, equipment- everything. All without parents. I was in the 6th grade.

Two things stand out in my head:

A. I did not shower for the entire week. I was never much of a shower-er anyway. I would go into my bathroom at home, run the bath, sit for about 20 minutes, sprinkle the towel with water so it would seem like a had dried off with it, and then I dressed .

B. I got drug up the mountain face first by a ski lift.

These were no ordinary ski lifts my friend. And I, no ordinary skier. And it goes a little something like this..........................

The Lodge was as the top of the ski slopes. You would ski down and have to take the lifts back up. The lifts were the type pictured:

The lift took you through a 90 degree angle up the hill that was insanely difficult to manuver. From time to time the passenger would fall off. This is a hazard that rarely happens on the traditional chair lift. The passenger rarely has to worry about falling off.

I, as one might imagine was not good at this contraption. Some kids were able to just grab the lift at any point on the hill, as opposed to going to the bottom and riding it up. So, as it was from time to time a fellow skier would fall off at the critical 90 degree turn but would be able to just grab the next passing disk on a pole and up they would go.

My story actually begins at the end of a long hard day of skiing the bunny slope. I was sunburned, windburned, and and many other types of burned....The big "fear" the adults put into us was to be sure and get to the top before the lifts stopped running for the day. 'Twas that time of day that the 90 degree decided to take its toll on me. SO, off I fell. I had 2 options and they were as follows:

A. Ski down to the bottom and risk catching the lifts closed, in which case I was to end up like one of those kids who has to sleep in her own urine to keep warn through the night or eat her own arm off, or

B. try to catch a disk on a pole in mid-stride and ride my way to freedom.

Not being much of a survivalist I chose the latter. So here I go.........

I watch a few glide past, I see one that looks like it may need a friend, like maybe it will take pity on me and be my savior.

I approach gingerly and when I grab, my ski pole wraps around it, the strap around my arm, I loose my balance and down I go....but the strap is still wrapped around it and so I am being drug, by one arm, face down up the hill.

I manage to wiggle my wrist loose from the strap and eventually drop like a case of everlasting gobstoppers, to the ground.

I gather my senses along with my things and decide that I shall walk sideways the entire way up the rest of the hill. Passers by would hold out there ski pole for me to grab and be pulled up......

but I had tried shortcuts and decided, I would take the long way home.

If we were send on the ski trip to broaden our horizons and teach up a new skill, then we were sent on the farm trip to teach us that we should thank our lucky stars each and every night that we are not farmers and that we call home, a country with child labor laws.

Here's how I imagine the conversation in the little Spanish farm house went (please read in some sort of accent, if not Spanish then at least Mexican)

Senior: Oh, my dear wife, times are so hard......how will we make enough money to buy the wine and olive oil for next month?

Senorita: I do not know, dear husband......Me amiga tells a story about a man who lives in the south, the Americans pay him money to allow their el ninos y la ninas to work on his farm. I told my dear la amiga she must be loco in la cabesa and have it backwards. Surely he pays el ninos. She says NO! The Americans pay the man money. The children come and do all of the work on the farm, the man only has to feed them.

Senior: It truly does sound as if this senior es loco, however I shall look into it..........

And so our parents paid this man and women actual money and we set off for a week to a Nazi work camp, or the preeteen version anyway.

We slept in bunk beds that were 3 beds high, we woke up at the crack of dawn to a loud speaker playing "Man Eater" by Hall and Oats, and we worked all day. We milked cows, gathered eggs, layed hay down in the muddy pens, and we shoveled manure, lots of shoveling manure.

At lunch time we stood at a window and received our chocolate spread on a piece of white bread and an apple. I don't remember dinner, I don't remember the bathrooms, I don't remember anyone who went with me. I remember the manure.

My mom says that when she picked me up I looked like I had been at war. She says she has never seen me look so tired, and dirty and just all around beat. She says I ate tones of chicken noodle soup and literally slept for two days.

The lessons learned are priceless. Its funny to me that I don't remember any laughing, I dont remember flirting with any boys, I don't remember posing for pictures. Somehow though, that doesn't take away from the feeling of pride I feel when I journey back to those memories. I got dragged up in hill in the snow and I was taught humility and that when one thing doesn't work, not matter how ridiculous, walk up the hill...........and I shoveled manure for a week and I learned that Americans parents are masochists.