Uncle Martin and Uncle Johan had tried to get me on cross-country skis. My mom had tried to get me on telemarks. “Skis are skis,” I’d told them. Here before me was an appealing alternative: downhill, uphill, on the flat—on snowshoes, you just ran or walked. With the ski poles, you could go anywhere. On a ski mountain, couldn’t you keep out of the skiers’ way? Couldn’t you go up or down the mountain, off to one side or along the edge of the ski trail?

I’d been talking nonstop to a stranger about my family’s darkest secrets, which everyone in the academy community—even the youngest, smallest member of the faculty—knew. Now I couldn’t speak. The tiny English teacher must have thought I was overcome at the prospect of reading a young man’s adventure story that was easier to read than Moby-Dick, but what knocked the wind out of me were the little man’s bear paws. I foresaw a way not to ski.

“I confess I knew you were the Brewster boy, but I didn’t know about the punctuation marks,” the snowshoer said. He added: “Growing up here, as I know you have, I’m sure you must know how people talk.” I nodded; I still couldn’t speak. The adults I’d grown up with weren’t as forthcoming. Here was an honest adult, notwithstanding a small one; I wanted him to teach me how to snowshoe and how to write, but I didn’t know what to say. When the words came, I couldn’t control what I said.

“My mother is small, like you. She’s not as small as you, and she’s very pretty, but she is rather small,” I blurted out. Consciously, I’d been thinking about his snowshoes, but what came out was all about smallness—his size, my mom’s size, their comparative smallness.

“I’ve seen your mother,” the snowshoer quickly said. “No one seems small to me, but your mom is definitely pretty—she’s very pretty. I hear she’s an outstanding skier.”

“I hate skiing,” I told him. “Every ski season, it’s what my mom does instead of being my mother. She keeps trying to teach me to ski, but I refuse to learn.”