RetiRing AddRess: tiffAny RogeRs 36 Believe <strong>Proceedings</strong> <strong>2011</strong>
Etiring AddrEss: tiffAny rogErs “sIgn Here” I have a confession...my name is Tiffany Rogers and I am uncoordinated. It’s sad but true. I consider my lack of coordination to be an art form. After all, it takes talent to spill your beverage at 3 out of every 5 meals and it explains why revolving doors are one of my biggest fears. It’s a condition I’ve suffered from my entire life, I’m learning to cope with it, but this uncoordination business put me to the test this past winter. My friends, Jeff, Kyle, Kelli, and I were headed up north and I was about to go skiing for the first time in my life. I know what you’re thinking, “Uncoordinated person…first time skiing…sounds like a ridiculous mess just waiting to happen.” We get to the resort and meet up with Amanda, Ashley, and their dad, Larry who came to give us ski lessons. Lesson number one: Never let your skis cross. Lesson number two: Pizza vs. French fries. Pizza-ing is when you hold your feet like this…looks like a piece of pizza, makes you go slower. French fry-ing is like this… looks like two French fries, makes you go faster. We’re at the top of the hill and I realize this is going to be cake sauce, I mean there’s three-year-olds taking on this hill like a champ. I push off and that’s where it all goes down hill… literally. I go about three feet and then my skis start to go in opposite directions. I can hear Larry yelling “Pizza! Pizza!” But my skis have a mind of their own. After five more trips down the bunny hill the score was skis = 5. Tiffany = – 17. My finer moments included falling and leaving a train of ski equipment behind me as I went and taking out an innocent family of four. It got to the point where my friends decided to score my falls like Olympic judges. “And the judge’s scores are in 7! 7.5! 4.5! Ooooo…that was a tough break on that last score. Maybe she’ll redeem herself on the next fall.” Seeing that I’m clearly struggling Larry gets this brilliant idea. “I don’t mean to be too forward, but what if you wrapped your arms around my waist. I mean, just so you can make it down the hill.” So we take off. It was going pretty decent except for the level of awkwardness going on. I’m suffering from an internal struggle - trying to hang on so I don’t die but at the same time keeping as much room as possible. I mean I specialize in awkward but doing it by clinging to the waist of my friend’s dad is not my favorite way to do it. I’m a little too preoccupied with my internal struggle and forget to pay attention to my skis…first they cross, then they get caught in Larry’s skis. Pause. On our trip up the ski lift not even five minutes before, Larry had just told me it had been about seven years since he’d fallen while skiing. So it was only natural for me to ruin a seven year record in all of seven seconds. Okla. play. My skis cross with Larry’s and it’s bad news. Here he is trying to help me and all I can manage to do for a thank you is practically drag him down the hill with me. I was eventually able to make it down the hill in one piece. With each fall and each bruise, someone was always there with me to laugh it off and ask me if I was ready to go again. Without the support of my friends and the help of Larry that day I would have given up. Their patience and encouragement made all the difference. If it wasn’t for them, I would still be on that mountain. I needed them. Just as we have needed others, there are people who need us. Making a difference. It sounds great in theory. But when it comes to down to it, it can 37 Believe <strong>Proceedings</strong> <strong>2011</strong> be easier said than done. It requires us to look past ourselves, to see the needs of others and then be willing to make a difference that only we can make. And if you could make a difference, why wouldn’t you? It’s simple, because someone gets in the way…ourselves. Growing up I saw my Grandpa Art just a few times a year: Christmas, fair week and maybe for birthdays. He lived three hours away and as he got older and his health worsened we saw him even less. I was eleven when Grandpa Art passed. We drove all the way to we all have the ability to leave our mark and one that is unique to each and every one of us, a lot like our signature. Muskegon for the funeral. It was so uncomfortable. Everyone was sad, I knew maybe a whole five people besides my family, the seats were painfully hard and the church was freezing. Why did I have to be here? I mean he was my grandpa, but I barely knew him. Everyone around me was upset and I thought that I should be too but I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know what it meant for my grandpa to be gone. I decided that my presence was pointless. I started to look around for something to do. Looking out the stained glass windows, playing with the Kleenex box in our row of seats… then I noticed my dad. He’d been different ever since we had gotten the call telling us that Grandpa Art had passed away. He didn’t laugh or smile as much and he was quieter than usual…but today was