Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Whenever I tell someone we’re going to Colorado for Thanksgiving, it’s assumed we’re going to ski. That must be a testament to all the dollars the various resorts in the Rockies pour into advertising. There’s Vail and Aspen and Keystone; there’s Steamboat and Snowmass and Breckenridge. And there’s at least twenty other resorts that pop up on Google®.

But we go to Colorado to be with family for the holiday. It’s just as exhilarating as I imagine schussing down a mountain is.

Earl and I (and often my son Kevin) arrive a day or two before the big day and camp at my Aunt Alice and Uncle Dick’s, although this version of camping is definitely high class. We eat and drink and laugh for three or four days; in the interim, Alice and I decorate their Christmas tree, Kevin reads a book or two, and Earl claims the office to watch his talking heads. Uncle Dick wears headphones as he works on the computer and tunes out Earl’s version of entertainment.

In the writing of it, it doesn’t seem as exciting as skiing might be. But in the doing, it’s so enjoyable. When the lift ticket at the ski resort expires, I’m sure the various skiers have wonderful memories. But when it’s time to go home, so do we. That’s what Colorado is really about.