Innocent Heights

You ever notice how little kids can’t quite pronounce certain words? The letter R, for instance. Yeah, it didn't stand a chance. “Car” becomes “cah,” and “hair” turns into… well, “hay-woo.” And don’t even try throwing an L and an R in the same word. “Probably”? Good luck. You’ll get “pwobably” at best.

Anyway, let me tell you about this date I went on. Nice guy named Eddie. Polite, easygoing, intelligent, and—most importantly—open to trying new things. Like snow skiing. Which, in hindsight, should’ve been my first clue. But back then I thought, That’s sweet. He’s adventurous. So we make a plan.

The plan? Head up to Lake Tahoe—me, my five-year-old son Cory, and Eddie.

The plan was simple: fresh air, good company, and a chance to reintroduce Eddie to skiing. As we’re gearing up in the lodge, Eddie kept adjusting his rental boots.

"How do these feel?" I asked, helping Cory with his mini skis.

Eddie gave me a thumbs up. "Great! I've done this before. It's just like riding a bike, right?"

Oh, honey. No.

Technically, he'd skied before—maybe once or twice—but nothing that prepared him for this. Still, he was enthusiastic, which I miscalculated as potential. Turns out, enthusiasm is not the same as skill. Or balance. Or, you know, knowing when to panic and when to just freeze and hope for the best.

Cory and I took the chairlift up while Eddie attempted his first run down the bunny slope. And by run, I mean flailing descent of terror. Cory had been skiing since he was two, which meant he was basically a tiny pro. Eddie, meanwhile, looked like he was negotiating with gravity—and losing. To his credit, he looked determined.

We watched from above. Cory, snug in his ski jacket, goggles half the size of his head, squinted down like a seasoned coach sizing up a struggling rookie. He was quiet for a long moment, then suddenly gasped.

"Mom!" He leaned into my side, whispering like something was top-secret. "I can see the top of Eddie's head!" It was the first time Cory had seen Eddie from above. He was five—he didn’t usually have that angle.

I nodded, half-listening. "Uh-huh, yeah, darlin’ we can see everyone from up here."

He stared like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Then—boom. Revelation.

And—without warning—Cory cupped his gloved hands around his mouth and roared—I mean ROARED—like he was breaking news to the entire mountain:

"EDDIE! EDDIE! YOU LOST YO HAWOO!"

Eddie stopped mid-way down the slope, because that's what you do when your name is shouted across a mountain, right? Other skiers turned to look.

But Eddie—poor Eddie—he's down there doing that beginner thing where your skis are in a pizza wedge and you're barely moving. When he hears his name shouted across the mountain, he just...freezes. Like, fully stops. He froze, like his brain just blanked and forgot which way was down.

Meanwhile, his ski tips are drifting apart—slowly, like they have other plans. One pole’s jammed into the snow like he’s trying to attach himself, and the other’s just conducting itself mid-air to a completely different beat.

Then his skis split and he does this full-body wiggle to stay put. He wobbles a bit, locks his knees, and starts looking around like he’s playing a silent game of Marco Polo. Left. Right. Behind him. Everywhere but up.

Finally—FINALLY—he protects his eyes with his hand, squints up at the chairlift, and sees us. His face! I wish I had a picture. It's this perfect, innocent mix of "Oh, there they are" and "How am I doing?"

"WHAT?" Eddie yells back, utterly confused.

And the whole time, Cory's leaning so far forward on the chairlift I'm holding onto the back of his jacket. He's waving his little gloved hands in huge circles.

"UP HEEU!  EDDIE!  UP HEEU!"

"Cory, honey, Eddie's hair is fine," I managed between laughs.

"NO! HE LOST IT! WE HAVE TO HEWP HIM FIND IT!" Cory insisted, pointing frantically.

I, meanwhile, totally lost it.

Cory, still entirely serious, started gesturing for Eddie to go back up the hill. As if his hair—wherever it had gone—was waiting for him at the top.

"GO BACK!" Cory shouted, making a rewinding motion with his finger. "IT'S UP THEEU!"

I was doubled over on the chairlift, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face. Eddie, bless him, remained frozen, ski poles planted, still scanning the area because he couldn't quite hear what Cory was saying.

"IS EVERYTHING OKAY?" Eddie shouted up, now clearly concerned he was missing something important.

I couldn't recover. The chairlift ride lasted maybe five minutes, but I spent the entire time trying (and failing) to compose myself. Every time I thought I had it together, I'd look at Cory, who was still scanning the mountain like a tiny investigator, and it would start all over again.

At one point, he tugged my sleeve and said very seriously, "We should go back up, Mom. Find Eddie's hawoo." He looked down with genuine concern. "Poh Eddie."

When we finally got off the lift, Eddie was waiting for us, a bit ruffled from his adventure.

"What happened?" he asked. "Is everything okay?"

I opened my mouth but couldn't speak.

Cory stood next to Eddie, patting his leg. "You lost yo hawoo," he said, pointing sadly to the back of Eddie's head. "It's okay. Weuuu help you find it. I pwomise, Eddie.”

The rest of the trip? A blur of snow, near wipeouts, and me trying not to giggle every time I saw Eddie's very intact hair. But that moment? That glorious, chairlift-shaking, stomach-hurting moment? That one will stay with me forever.

Eddie was a wonderful guy—patient, good-humored, and incredibly sweet with Cory. He laughed about the "missing hawoo" incident for weeks afterward. Though our relationship eventually ran its course for reasons unrelated to ski slopes or hair revelations, that day remains one of my favorite memories.

The irony isn't lost on me now. Cory's 38, with a receding hairline that becomes more noticeable each year. Sometimes when we're together, I catch myself looking at the back of his crown, remembering that little boy on the chairlift, so concerned about Eddie's "lost hawoo." Once I almost mentioned it aloud and caught myself thinking, "I've said too much." I've never mentioned it to him—some observations are better kept to ourselves. But occasionally, when he runs his hand self-consciously through his thinning hair, I have to bite my lip to keep from saying, "It's okay. We'll help you find it. I pwomise."