Monday, February 4, 2013

Sensory Language



Swift skiers and stylish snowboarders rode the soaring ski lift up the majestic mountain, eager to speed down the mountain’s shining snow. Cheers occasionally rose up from those already breezing down the slopes, their skis and snowboards scraping over the snowpack both close to and far from the ski lifts and their clunking cycles of noise. Constant chatter arose from the friends and strangers on the lifts in anticipation of their next run down the mountain, and the few birds in the sky made their presence known with infrequent cawing.
                At the bottom of the slopes, the sweet scent of sizzling burgers and the odor of bodies sweating under the many layers of clothing used to keep warm cut through the cold, fresh mountain air, already polluted by the overly strong perfume some overly-large lady was wearing. The sharp smell of burning rubber wafted over from the parking lot, where the idiot driving too fast had slammed on his brakes to avoid colliding with the fool not paying attention to where he was going.
                The guests savored the smooth flavor of their chosen sodas, the Swiss cheese on the perfectly grilled burgers, and the rich, meaty hotdogs coated in their favorite toppings while their children’s mouths watered in anticipation of the chocolaty soft serve ice cream promised to them.
                Looking out over this I longed for the summer days, just as busy but far warmer, when I worked on one of those lifts, putting sleds and guests, bikes and Digglers on to the chairs and giving the necessary instructions for maximum safety and enjoyment. I longed for the feel of the wind in my hair, my woven hat around the control lever in my hands, my jacket flapping in the wind, and the rough surface of the alpine slide when I climbed out at the bottom. I even longed for the weight of the sleds I constantly lifted onto and off of the lift.

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