The next morning I took my 6 year old, Zach, to the slopes for a follow-up to his first ski lesson. My youngest was in a ski-rental line with Achille and Zoe (our guitar player and his daughter). It was Saturday afternoon as snowboarders and skiers streaked across the mountain side in various states of controlled chaos. Z was doing quite well so I told him to stay on the beginners' hill while I retrieved my own skis and his brother. 15 minutes later I returned and found a lone orange glove sticking out of the snow like a five-fingered dahlia. Zach was no where in site.

The big dog in me howled like a St. Bernard "ZAAAACH". I trudged the hillside back and forth looking for the one-gloved boy lost in the snow. With each loop of the resort my panic became a palpable force as my imaginations' worst fears played like a 24-hour horror film festival. One frantic hour later I ran into Achille who calmly suggested I check the lost and found. Duhhhh, why hadn't I thought of that?

"Excuse me, is this the lost and found," I tried to hide the panic in my voice. "My son is lost on the beginners' slope."

"Come around the desk please." said the gracious attendant. When I opend the door Zach was watching Animal Planet, his face painted with chocolate ice cream, a half-eaten burrito in one hand a Sprite in the other, and on his lap a bowl of hard candy. He had gotten cold when he lost his glove and wandered towards the lodge crying. A ski instructor spotted the child and brought him inside for a little R&R.

I stayed cool. I didn't fall to my knees and blubber. I didn't wring his burrito chomping neck. I calmly told him, "OK, Zach, let's go, your new parents are expecting you home for dinner."

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