On the Passing of my Gloves: A Eulogy

I’ve been quite busy the past month or so, and so this post has fallen to the wayside. I think this is a task that commands my attention, so I’ve put aside some more pressing work in favor of some long over-due musing.

It was almost two months ago that I had attended the International Mountain Equipment’s annual Ice Festival in North Conway, NH. The festival lures in climbers with the promises of gear, beer, and vertically inspired fear. The climbing was great but, otherwise, the festival was kind of a bust. Jesse and my attempt to attend the “climber’s ball” was thwarted by our failure to pre-buy tickets, vendor turnout was poor, and even the beer was sorta warm. However, it got climbers out and on the ice, so that’s what really counts.

Fast forward to the end of the weekend when I am packing up and getting ready to make the drive back to Connecticut. I can sense something is missing, which is right in line with my maxim that ‘its not a matter of IF I forgot something, but rather WHAT did I forget?’. Pretty soon I realize that I am missing my favorite pair of gloves - my go-to hand coverings for just about all my favorite cold weather activities.

I can remember when I first received those gloves. It was the Christmas after graduating college.  As is my routine, I provided my parents with a very specific list of what things it was I needed, and a pair of gloves was one of them. As is her routine, my Mom bought me a different pair. I don’t recall what was so ‘wrong’ with the gloves I got…perhaps the stitching ran left to right when everyone knows a good glove’s stitching runs right to left. Or maybe, just maybe, I was being picky. Whatever the case was, I ended up not returning the gloves and adapted to what I am sure was a seemingly endless list of shortcomings.

Much to my surprise, the gloves didn’t unravel at the seams upon their first exposure to winter-sporting life or spontaneously combust on their foray into the world of my below-freezing antics. In fact, the gloves performed admirably. To be honest, I loved them. What else should I expect from Mom? Would she ever provide me with anything less?

My fondness for my gloves, however, wasn’t truly apparent to me until I stood peering into my pack and remembering that I had foolishly left them on the roof of my car the day prior. They had surely blown off, and the activity of the snow plows during the previous night would almost have certainly obscured their whereabouts. It was true that after three winters of abuse the gloves probably could have used to be replaced, but what I couldn’t replace was the memories attached to them. They had touched many summits, been there to usher Elijah around during his first ramblings into the beautiful quiet of the winter wilderness, and had touched rock, ice, and snow all over the United States. They had clung with me nervously to many a vertical face when the going had gotten tough, and had been there to clap my partners’ backs in celebration of objectives conquered.

It had become obvious that I would miss my gloves, but I was thankful for the memories and ten working fingers that they had left me with.