Becoming Nine
May 2017
Last weekend, my grandson, Malcolm, turned nine. I’m still trying to figure out how he went from diapers to Dungeons & Dragons in what seemed like nine months instead of nine years.
At dinner Monday night, he was explaining to me the physiological differences between seals and sea lions – facts from a book-writing project he is working on in third grade.
After finishing our Japanese dinner of mostly sushi (the birthdays boy’s choice) we went home for a festive lemon cake topped with a number “9”. And all my memories of an earlier “nine” story came flooding back – the reason that being nine is part of our family’s folklore.
It takes me back 33 years this past winter. Tom and I worked at our business in Corry two Friday nights a month which left us with a child care challenge. Alix, at twelve, was old enough to begin babysitting for some neighbors but we thought maybe not for her little brother, Bart, who was turning nine.
Tom thought that the children would enjoy skiing at Peak and Peak, the small ski resort about 15 minutes from work, rather than staying at home with a sitter. We would have an early supper together and he would run them over to The Peak, leaving them with two things – strict instructions to stay together, and money enough for two evening lift tickets and hot chocolate. I can hear him now saying to Alix as he handed her the money, “Be ready by the parking lot at 9:15 – no later, and no excuses.”
This little scene had played out successfully a few times. They didn’t seem to fight too much and a good time was had by all.
We seldom worked on a Saturday, but that year we had to work the second weekend in January which was a few days after Bart’s birthday … his ninth. We figured if the skiing plan worked so well for Friday nights, wouldn’t a whole Saturday be even better? The kids were excited at the prospect as they packed up their equipment, even talking about what they’d have for lunch to go with their usual hot chocolate. Somehow that conversation didn’t register with their Dad.
Tom, ever a creature of habit, dropped them off as usual at the same spot, with the same admonition about behaving and staying together – and the exact same amount of money he left with them Friday evenings. It was 9:00 AM. Alix didn’t look at the money until she got to the lift ticket window. Uh-oh.
She read the price list for all-day passes and realized that not only did she not have enough for two all-day lift tickets, there wasn’t enough for lunch or even a snack. The ticket lady spotted her dilemma and tried to help.
“What’s the problem, honey,” she said.
“Well, my Dad dropped us off and he gave me the same amount of money he always does for night lift tickets and I don’t have anywhere near enough for us to ski.” She managed not to cry, not knowing what they’d do. She could picture them skiing one at a time, but they weren’t allowed to split up. If they just stayed and watched they could eat lunch, but seven hours is a long time to watch others ski.
“How old are you, honey,” the lady asked.
“I’m twelve.”
“And him?” she asked, nodding toward Bart.
Remembering his Wednesday birthday, Alix blurted out that he had just turned nine, the magic number. An eight-year-old is ticketed as a child, but nine becomes an adult on the ski slopes. Alix realized at that moment that if Bart was still eight. they could both ski and still have some kind of lunch. It might not be cheeseburgers with fries, but they wouldn’t starve before Dad picked them up.
The nice lady looked at the price chart again, looked back at both kids, and made a decision. “Why don’t we just pretend that he’s still eight,” she said quietly, nodding at Bart.
Hearing this, the birthday celebrant piped up, “I’m not eight, I’m nine,”
“I know honey, but I’m trying to help you out,” she whispered. The line was building behind them. “If we pretend you’re still eight, just for today, you can both have lift tickets with a little money left over for lunch. Okay?” she said brightly.
Upset at being eclipsed out of his newly-earned year, he spoke up a little louder to make her understand, “I am not eight anymore – I AM NINE.”
Trying to ignore him, the lady leaned toward Alix, saying in a hushed voice, “I’m giving you one adult ticket and one child tick … “
Bart heard this and loudly wailed, “BUT I’M NOT EIGHT, I’M NI-I-I-I-I-NE.”
She clenched her jaw, leaned forward and growled, “Shut up kid – you’re eight – and you better get outta here before I change my mind.” She shoved the tickets at Alix and yelled, “Next?”
Tom didn’t hear the end of that one for a long time. Since then, the age has always been celebrated with, “But I’m Ni-i-i-i-i-ine.” The endearing, long-winded ski story follows, the same way we explained this to Malcolm last weekend.
Malcolm also skis with his sister, but I have it on good authority that Dad is usually on the slopes nearby so the hot chocolate breaks are well assured.
Plus, there’s this new-fangled gadget called a cell phone that is reputed to prevent miscommunication among families. I often wish we’d had one during those years, but then again, our family would be missing one of its stories.