Another season of Skatter Monkey frolics has come to a close and I must celebrate my son's leaving for college.
For the first Saturday in months, I am not rushing to the Mountain at the break of dawn, nor casting myself in exhaustion on the couch at the end of the day. With the time to choose comes sunshine and warmer weather, perfect for a leisurely walk to contemplate horizons before and behind.
Several weeks have passed between essays lately; the pattern seems to have settled in to fits and spurts, words tossed down to articulate a particular window here and there, while a skyscraper of thought and action looms without description.
A biographer fully absorbed in his subject must get overwhelmed by the tiny details that move, sway and dissuade someone towards their ultimate accomplishments. So much more so the autobiographer who has the deeper details, but the clouded vision that inevitably distorts it. For myself, the mere peon with little facts actually accomplished to invite documentation, but plenty of joy, misery and opinion to express, I dance around the details willy nilly and imagine fancifully that somewhere in this mass of words blogged (sometimes ad nauseum as a sister described it), there are little glimmers that illuminate for others a tiny window into their own tall building.
Change of season is always a time of transition. The parents of my monkeys with rolling eyes express no time to rest before soccer and baseball seasons get going and the house at the Cape needs dusting. Others I know simply carry on with their deliveries, just happy to wear shorts instead of face masks.
In Vermont, after months of holding your body tight against the cold, I like to think we have earned our spring. Taking young African refugees to play soccer indoors one winter when it was minus twenty outside, I found no words to reassure their shivering smiles that life would get better, but we certainly danced when that first ball sailed into the high corner of a full-sized net. When I lived in a climate where you had to think if we were headed towards Christmas or away, I felt no where near this kind of ebullience to unzip my jacket.
Little things.
In the light of Japanese devastation and bombs dropping on Libya, my problems seem so small indeed. Someone close has just been diagnosed with cancer and no matter how good the prognosis and fiercely determined he is to fight, my heart aches for the battle he must face. My own surgery looms and takes a toll on my optimism, but all-in-all, life is sweet. The sun is shining. Crocuses are poking out of the rubble that winter has left. The air is bright with promise. 
Japan’s disaster has re-enforced the knowledge that it could all change in an instant. The heart-wrenching images of husbands searching then grieving for their wives swept away makes one reach out and pull close those important in our lives. The heroic stories of strangers helping strangers make every down-turned eye on a morning’s walk an opportunity to say hello.
Life is also short.
Right in front of us are things we take for granted. More importantly, beside us are people who give us love and make us mad, but who are still beside us hand-in-hand. Acknowledgement and appreciation go a long, long way. In my life, there are too many to name here, but face-to-face, voice-to-voice, text-to-text, I am trying to be better about letting them know how much they mean to me and how much I care.
Sometimes love is pain. We question if we get enough back for what we give. Because life is so busy and our dreams are so strong, we can miss out. The little flower in our footpath gets crushed before we ever knew it was there.
On this sweet morning (day, evening, night), I invite us all to look around.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Spring Sprung
Monday, February 28, 2011
They Come With Instructions
One of my monkeys fell apart on the chairlift over the weekend.
Perhaps it was the challenge of taking a second run on the bigger chair, exploring new trails as a group that she had only done previously with her family. It might have been because she had had two negative experiences on a similar double chair the weekend before. Possibly, she was just plain tired already and not up for another run before lunch.
My job is to figure it out, or at the very least, to help her feel better.
Letting her cry on without trying too hard to filter or control her tears, she finally reached a place of deeper truth.
“My dad is going away,” she wept in a voice so shrill it sounded almost as a single tear dripping down a blackboard, “He has to work so hard so we aren’t poor, and the last time he went away he came back with a diamond on a necklace for me from a store named Tifferies or something.”
My first instinct was to poo-poo this fear as completely unjust compared to plights of most of the rest of us in this world, but remaining quiet and sympathetic to her pain, it was a good lesson to me that no matter the degree, fear is fear and equally terrifying to us all.
The real loss for her was time with her Daddy, at six years old inconsolable by the argument that more time will come later. At fifty-six, one has learned the preciousness of such time even more, understanding the reality and finality of death and wanting to reach out to his parent or child as well.
With this job come so many opportunities to teach more than skiing. In the lodge, of course, there are lessons of manners, sharing and cleaning up. We monitor our bodies to save an extra trip off the slopes. With helmets off and no fighting the wind, we tell stories of teachers at school and summer homes at the Cape. In Sawyer and I, they see a father and son who love each other and make work like play together (although it took them awhile to believe the relationship since he is taller than me).
On the mountainside, in addition to the emphasis on safety and skills, life is evident for them to see. Despite their insatiable need to keep moving, pushing off impatiently just as I catch up, I try to get them to stop a few times each morning to look around at the cold and peaceful vista spread out below them, to look up at the sky of brilliant blue or fast-rushing clouds of fury whipped by the winter winds. As snow falls, there is a quiet so soft, we should all pause to notice.
This weekend, there was enough snow for them to ski deeper into the woods. Rather than turn between, in and around the trees, I wanted them to focus on the empty spaces of soft white racing towards them, a shift of Escherian proportions where the openings become all and blockages disappear. The metaphor settled on them as silently as the puffs of deep powder pushed out of their tracks.
On the lift one day, one wondered what it might feel like to die, her eyes not frightened, but bright with curiosity. I told her of my friend’s grandfather, Charles Lindbergh, a great adventurer whose last words were about the awe of heading towards a new adventure, then shared my own experience of the sense of peace I felt in my fall from the scaffold, clearly figuring out I had already died before hitting the asphalt brought me rudely back to consciousness.
Mostly, I love the lessons they are teaching me. Anger at the injustice of disproportionate sharing of French fries can be dissolved in an instant with marshmallows. Tears of pain can be transformed just as quickly into laughter by a tickling poke in the ribs and a few taps on the helmet. The sky is always blue, no matter how grey, and hugs are worth far more than dollar bills, even if they do buy chocolate bars.
Although diamonds might be a girl’s best friend, nothing compares to a daddy’s love and the idea of his absence is a very scary thing indeed.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Skattered Brain
My son just left to enjoy a rare day of deep fresh powder on the slopes. He is giddy with excitement. The last time there was a day of promise like this was two years ago when we were newly back to skiing, newly into our life as a family of two, and I took him out of school to create an amazing memory for us of a father and son, life as it should be, could be.
Last week reminded me of the worst days of my years as a building contractor. The bank account was negative, going deeper with charges, while several more checks were poised to clear. In desperate heart beats, I made phone calls, other calls and calls back again. Revisiting that agonizing fear to make payroll, I shuffled appointments, scrambled to meet the FedEx delivery, and raced to the bank on fumes to make the deposit by five.
Even without a frightened wife as a moral marker, I felt less a man in those awful hours than a starving animal with hunters closing in, wishing to go back in time and no where near that beckoning house of hens. No sooner, however, was that account replenished and my card worked to put gas in the tank and go home, then my heart lightened, the sun blazed into glorious colors and I rejoined the world of the thriving. My sense of self, one foot solid on the ground, was restored.
With no penny to spare, the lack, like a ball and chain, makes every step twice as hard and three times as exhausting. It costs money to have little money and the sense of abundance that New Age pundits claim is so readily available is totally elusive when you have to count so often and worry so much.
A friend said recently that money is just energy, intending to be reassuring that it flows like water inevitably and unstoppably. In that context, on that day, I had none of either and had to exert plenty to get a little in the bank.
My life, I think, has been led in the converse belief that energy can be money. The harder I work, the better I should be. When intention is pure, the heart is open, the plan is clear, all falls into line and the Universe delivers a life of abundance and satisfaction. Believing that so strongly, I have to look closely at my intentions, heart and execution in difficult times like this and recognize that something may not be lined up as purely as I would like to believe.
In the construction business, I did not end up with a plush house and fancy car while my friends and co-workers were stiffed. I did pay the mortgage, put food on the table and took my wife out occasionally for an elegant dinner while delaying checks to my subs and eventually giving said house (my share) to the IRS. The mistakes are easily identifiable that no matter how modest and loving my intentions, business was done in the wrong order and the deck of cards ultimately collapsed.
Lessons are learned and we pick ourselves up to continue on. Now I drive an old but paid-off car and humbly come home to a basement apartment. I take a friend to dinner only when I know my other bills have been paid. The chicken or the egg, I suffer a tube in my belly perhaps as pennance to my Root Chakra for all the pain I have caused my family, friends and sub-contractors.
I honor my passions of writing and music, fulfilling my heart and making a little spending dough. To earn more, I relentlessly drive the miles to sell insurance. Still I am reliant on my father for a check each month to bring all the ends together to fit the means.
Some, concerned about my welfare and wanting the best for me, wonder if the financial dependence on my father is as much a problem of enabling childlike behavior as it is helpful to keep me (and my own son) off the streets. My father himself, so frustrated and disappointed, keeps track of every penny against my eventual inheritance, worried there will be no share left for me when he is finally gone.
In actuality, the truth is not so easy to discern and I flounder in the dilemma that time is running out. I feel like there is still so much ground to cover just to catch up. Having squandered all of my resources and good-will to successfully work in construction any more and looking at more serious recovery time from my injury, without my father’s help to make a great leap of change, I would be homeless. I am so fortunate that he is there, able and willing.
At the Mountain, I see what might be a distorted but very strong representation of an enviable standard of living. Men fifteen years younger than I (mostly brokers) support wives with huge diamonds and three children. They are personable, comfortable, and quite happy with slope-side condominiums for second homes and mid-winter breaks in the Bahamas.
Every day on my insurance rounds, I see a much different reality of single parents or couples with children just getting by on a slim and tenuous wage. To their credit, many seem no less happy in spite of their struggle. Their children are as bright-eyed and eager to share as my Monkeys.
In between is most of the population working hard, making sound decisions, counting blessings, paying the mortgage on time and tending the garden once spring breaks loose. Life provides the rewards of a promotion, graduation, a grandchild, occasional adventures and exceptional celebrations along the way. Overall, every Monday is the start of another week towards retirement and happiness is found in each soccer game on a crisp Saturday morning or a movie curled up together on the couch.
I just want to belong to something as real as that, to awake in the morning grateful and proud of myself, and be able, when the powder is so unusually deep, to go with my son on that occasional adventure. Today, however, I will work.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Instructor
This week, I drove to Boston in a thick snowstorm to re-start the surgery to be scheduled for April or May. Today, I skied a few hours in bitter cold with my Skatter Monkeys and took one hard run on my own, then rested all afternoon for the drive home.
Tonight, I sit on the sofa full of vicodan, eyes blurred, back muscles aching and stomach upset, not sure I want to eat. With every movement my groin yelps, I groan, and the temperature tomorrow is not supposed to get over zero. Still, I will do it all again anyway.
Considering such pain and effort, it makes no sense to go to the Mountain every weekend. The gas, miles on the car and all the time spent are not even reimbursed, but like a certain credit card advertisement, I know the time with my son is priceless.
It starts with lights on and Ipod alarms jingling, but unlike school days, he rises quickly and soon sits in the kitchen darkness waiting for me to be ready. The fact is acknowledged that there is no talking to him in the early morning, but we can banter with the young Bosnian woman buying our cup of coffee, donuts and gas at the entrance to the highway.
Along those fifty miles of commute, we commune, watching the dawn as silently as the sun rising, the light expanding like the warmth in our heart, in awe of the beauty, sometimes sharing just a word or two to acknowledge we both really see it. Fresh snow makes it a wonderland and sparks the desire to make first tracks like a log stirred on the fire.
At the Mountain, he moves into the day at his own pace, marching up the hill ahead of his still-weak Dad laboring with huffs and puffs. I might not see him again until after a run or two, squeezing in a hot chocolate before class, or in the line-up collecting our kids.
Focused on my Skatter Monkeys, I hear his voice joking or his kids and other kids calling for his attention. He is usually more organized than I and on the lift, up and out of sight. We pass him over-head, calling down from the lift good-natured taunts to his group all in a line, or they (on the next run) to mine, scattered across the slope.
At break, his six rambunctious boys contort around my eight sweet girls, red faces exuberant with the fresh air and activity. The lodge is abuzz with energy, helmets, gloves and jackets strewn, thrown and kicked about. French fries full of ketchup smeared over the tables.
He gets help in the afternoon with his group, while my half-day go back to their parents and I wander up to a private place near the locker-room for a nap. If he is lucky, the snow and weather hold and no hot plans are developing in town, he gets a few free runs at the end of the day.
Our drive home, again, is silent with darkness falling. Often he sleeps. Soon he will be driving. I have known few other such moments of utter content, physical exhaustion totally spent and perfect satisfaction with the state of life and being than after a day of skiing.
As I struggle to come to terms with the pluses and minuses of my relationship with my own father and how it has affected my life entire, these seasons on snow feel like a gift. In consideration that he has already witnessed so much emotional fighting, financial turmoil, reckless determination and luckless health in his short life, the routine of getting to the Mountain each weekend morning for simple fun is pure bliss, going a long way to balance and heal the innocence that was lost.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Wolf Moon
On some days my frustration with work, love, music or writing creates as much blockage in my heart as the scars in my urethra. Like the tube out of my belly into a plastic bag strapped to my leg, I can usually divert the energy by focusing elsewhere, shifting my mood, returning to productivity.
Parts of three essays were begun and abandoned. Small tasks that normally revive and provide feelings of accomplishment loomed too large to undertake. Each pile on my desk was too thick with complications to sift. Exhausted without even having done much in the day, I collapsed into a struggled sleep.
Early this morning, still shrouded in darkness, I awake to scribble one word after another, like footsteps out of bed toward my door to get my life going again. Less worried about coherence than movement, I push this pen as if the ink can relieve the worry that my life is leading nowhere, overwhelmed by the flurry of others passing me by.
I would like to blame this malaise on the full moon, the wolf moon, that is apparently behind the storm clouds these last two nights. Separated from the pack, I howl with frustration and loneliness, fully cognizant of being loved and held by family and friends, but yearning to physically feel arms enfolding me in comfort.
For now, it is my path to walk alone, my own meadow to hunt and forage.
The day before, doggedly alone, I pushed mile after snowy mile through a storm towards Boston and back for a meeting with the doctor who will perform the surgery this spring that will free my body. A simple flow of pee, so taken for granted by most of us standing at the urinal, will be restored. The flow of sacred sexual vitality will be unplugged and released.
Back on the slopes with my Skatter Monkeys and able to walk a mile or more without finding exhaustion, energetic and excited most days to work and play, the reality of hospital and recuperation slammed into me in the parking lot at the entry as hard as any one of those skidding cars I had avoided on the highway. Soon I will come through those doors feeling fine and leave with numbed slow steps and a second catheter temporarily re-installed.
No matter how clear the picture, it is hard to see this as a step forward.
Since undergoing my New Warrior Training three and a half years ago, the Hero’s Journey which separated me from the comfort of my family unit (no matter how uncomfortable it was), I have been watching for the little boy within. I think the effort to play music these days is finding the voice and honoring that spirit, being playful and harmonic in the way that childhood—no matter the age—reminds us.
When I was that little boy, even as he pushed so hard and expected me to carry such heavy loads, my father drew many portraits of us on dreadful Sunday afternoons for whoever of us was picked to pose. Some of those I have framed and sitting out on the bookcase I built to display the few things I had remaining and brought with me to my cave.
Rummaging past last night, I bumped the case and one crashed to the floor, splintering glass like the broken mirror in my breakaway song. I have set it now more safely on the wall, framed in the broken glass, accompanied by the gift of strength from the one who teaches me now about both unconditional and daily love.
In the face of the boy is the concentration and wonder I know so well. Deep in contemplation, he witnesses, observes, tries to make sense of it all before him. The mystery of life is just there, bewildering, but he is calm, full of inner strength and unbeknownst to others (except maybe his mother) joy to be expressed in music and words.
I know too well the sad story of this boy and how he tried to leap into life so confident and eager, embracing a wife and children before taking many steps of his own. Raised to accept challenge and responsibility, to lead boldly where others might hesitate, his heart fully exposed and strong enough, he always pushed forward where prudence might have better cautioned restraint and patience.
Today, I hold that little boy who howled so loudly in the night, enfold my own arms gently and lovingly around him. Slowly, even as snowflakes settle downwards in the gray dark dawn, the light returns and he is comforted. The glass can be replaced, the heart remains intact.
It is time for me to go to work.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Dark and the Light
Fear is such a daunting opponent, always an opportunity, but usually daunting and often immobilizing.
We are having our first snowfall of the season at long last, so many Vermonters exulting on Facebook. Two months ago, my son and I anticipated this with an enthusiastic glee I had not known since I was his age. Committed to another winter of ski instructing the Skatter Monkeys, we eagerly watched the leaves turn to fall.
My own fall, however, has changed all that and I lie on the couch this morning livid with fear and frustration, worried that age has caught up with me and will soon blur my vision further and turn my hair to grey. For weeks now, I wonder daily if my lure to lay low in my quiet apartment is truly fatigue and a healthy path of healing or the onset of depression and a serious nail on the coffin, the stress of a long life of troubles over-taking me as quickly as age.
In preparation for the winter of skiing, I was scheduled to make a run to the Mountain this morning for a meeting and required paperwork. Previously, the hour drive each way in snow—considering myself a seasoned Vermonter—would not have been a bother in the slightest, no reason to cancel. Today, however, I fret with concerns that let the deadline for departure pass. My body, I rationalize, would be uncomfortable with the extra time of driving cautiously, and if I skidded off the road, I would be helpless to get myself out.
Normally, such concerns would be easily assuaged by the enthusiasm to accomplish the deed. Rarely one to resist on account of caution, this unfamiliar territory confuses my sense of immortal purpose. From the view of my couch, for the first time in my life, those flakes outside look threatening instead of inviting me to leap and dance over them with boards attached to my feet and sticks in my hand, a concept now so alien compared to my safe, warm, grounded place at home.
Likewise, even making it to the Mountain, the thought of actually attempting an easy run on an easy slope still shudders my core even though last year I was bouncing through moguls on the steepest pitches. Corralling my little Monkeys around hot chocolate, bathroom runs, and trying to get the right gloves, scarves, helmets and goggles on the matching five year old body is an even more intimidating and exhausting image.
Yesterday I walked a mile in my own shoes along a path beside the Lake and today my injury is sensitively inflamed. The doctor says I can ski even with these tubes still in me; mental health yearns to try, but the body resists, not with a decisive jolt of agony, but a subtle flush of discomfort that keeps me off balance.
Regularly, I relive that blind rush of noise that changed my life as the ladder slipped out underneath me last October. I hear the sharp crash of hitting the pavement ten feet below. I can feel the slow-motion confusion as my senses re-oriented to people standing over me, concerned, but completely unsure of how to help. Then too, my fear is fueled by that moment of collision three weeks earlier in a soccer game that resulted in my first stitches in 20 years.
Having been so adventurous and physically capable throughout my life and so rarely injured to any extent, fear now wraps around my desire, choking off the will to move forward. The “what-ifs” are closer to “what could be” and risk outplays results: I remain at home idle and wondering.
Last night I awoke in emotional discomfort and witnessed fear descend like a vulture and envelope me in the darkness, preventing my return to sleep. Unable to work, I would be homeless without my father’s help. Concerned that his help over so many years has played a part in my lack of financial success, still reliant, I fear I will never stand on my own. This injury to the very symbol of manhood seems a cruel representation of the truth about my life. I think I should just get off my butt and find a job, as my father admonishes, "...any job."
Looking for the brighter side, I muse, turning over and trying to breathe out the fast-pulsing fear, given the opportunity to break forever from construction and pursue creativity, I stay awake in the fearful dark, counting words and worrying I have not written enough, hardly taken advantage of this time now afforded. With this chance, I should be scribbling every hour. Not doing so, I fear, invites worse calamities to befall my sorry soul.
In the grey light of dawn, the snow falls like a comforting blanket. I know it is unwise to push too hard like I may have done before. Though I may feel like conquering the world in this moment, I must respect that this trauma was severe and it will still be a week before we have evidence of how much has healed and the first tube might be pulled out (oh, joy!!!). The doctor’s permission cannot overcome the reality that after a mile, my own body is weary and uncomfortable.
Fear exerts its pressure, but the day and the night, the dark and the light must be negotiated step by patient step, always returning to balance.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Out of the Ravine
It is no exaggeration that people are regularly killed at Tuckerman’s Ravine on the east side of Mount Washington. A friend of mine once witnessed someone plummet inescapably downward. Two, in fact, died this year in the very gully we eventually skied today, yet thousands come and go each spring without harm. 
pwards as high as you dare to go. 
few other skiers on this quiet weekday, making their one run down. 
to rest. 
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A Tablet of Marble
The word “crisis” may be a bit of a misnomer as I look back on several years of transitions in my Mid (hopefully) Life, each chapter being critical to the next. This change to a new life has been a long, slow process, racing along day to day at breakneck speed, but taking years to fully mature.
The contradictions are evident when I pause to read pages of entries in my black composition journals. I can ponder the immensity of differences a year has developed in so many ways: from location to occupation to spare timed activities. The scribbles are fraught with angst, paranoia and self-doubt as much as ebullience, braggadocio and lofty predictions (just multiply the substance of this blog by a thousand to get an idea).
For a few days now, my mind has been focused on measurements, calculations and emotional assessments. Using the change of season here and there as metaphor has not satisfied the process, leaving me floating s
omewhere in transition.Curiously last night, a pile of boxes still stacked in the corner seemed suddenly conquerable and I could finally attack and sort them, clearing out the imposing disorder to improve my bedroom’s Fung Shui. “Poems” from my childhood, song scraps, and sweet cards from my own children could be scanned and re-stored; other mementos I could ceremoniously toss to the dumpster with only parting regret. Only after the purge, talking to a friend, did I recognize that this week marks exactly a year that I have been living here.
personals, emptying out and giving over the unique family home to a new family was traumatic. The dinning room table, a huge slab of marble as much a symbol of a Camelot as any could be, was cut into five pieces, but mine as a coffee table in my own home holds nowhere near the power of anchoring my soul to place.Once adrift, at long last, it had become time to grow up and take charge of my life.
My business had to be ended. No matter how well-intended and hard I focused on details, personal distraction and vanishing dollars made for chaotic sites and disastrous results. Although the finished product always looked impressive, not enough clients were fully satisfied and way too many subs and vendors were not getting paid. I could not continue to hurt all those who depended upon me.
My son regularly complains good-naturedly about shifting belongings from house to house every weekend, acknowledging the clear impact my decisions have had on his life. If I apologize, he quickly reminds me he no longer lives behind a closed door, shutting out the angry fights, and can sleep at night, no longer afraid and bewildered that parents who loved each other at times could hurt each other so horribly as well.
As much as I loved writing and music, in comparison to my family, while the focus of raising and supporting them was so intense, I easily and cheerfully abandoned the creativity, hardly even noticing the loss. There was so much gain that culminated in our beautiful little house on Hayward Street, the hard work to support it seemed just the natural price to pay. That the stress was crushing me and actually shredding the very fabric I loved so much seemed just the product of my own faulty frailties which could be easily adjusted and surmounted…if I just worked a little harder.
Once I realized how thick was the brick wall and impenetrable by the same choices and efforts, no matter how determined, when my energy was finally exhausted and none of the usual resources could be rallied, as I finally and fearfully understood in my soul what it means to “let go, let God”, the resistance evaporated. The wall has crumbled of its own accord.
In my I group last night, the question was posed: “if you did not have to work for a living, how would you spend your time?”. Instantly, I could answer “write, play music, ski and play soccer.” And I
am doing all of that with my son close beside me.Monday, March 30, 2009
Skatter Monkies United!
By twice, I skied more this winter than in the last twenty years combined. Not since a winter in Stowe after college, have my eyes leapt so quickly to the window each morning to see if new snow had fallen overnight; nor has my mind had so many wandering thoughts during the day about conditions up on the Mountain. 
After so much time, my body has reabsorbed the breath of a “ski bum”, walking through life, but living to slide, as comfortable in heavy boots and awkward sticks as a ballerina in slippers.
In four short months, I have made more friendships than days skied. Such a wonderful energy lingers around a ski resort. More than just a healthy physical activity, there is a lifestyle embraced, a common passion shared that unites everyone in smiles. No bad moods cloud the sky. No one is a stranger here. It is expected that we will entrust our little skiers to get on the chairlift with whoever happens to be next in line.
many details about each other, our banter in the locker room is a treasure of contentment and comraderie.When informed in late November of being assigned a group of four year old “never evers” to teach all winter, I seriously noted my sunken heart and (so focused on learning to trust my intuition) considered going another year without skiing more. Hourly over the next four weekends, as my son and I skied backwards coaxing one or the other tearful, terrified child towards hot chocolate, my patience and sanity were sorely tested.
Yet hugs, true heartfelt, warm snuggles, a little head fitting perfectly under my arm, always saved the moment. These little souls who could burst instantly from howls to laughter charmed the frustration right out of me. Their delight and wonder so profound, their pain, frustration and tiredness so close to the surface, their fear and happiness so physically palpable; their gifts were rich.
In the meantime, I leave my little Skatter Monkies with this song from their very grateful Skatter Brain.
Skatter Monkies, Skatter Monkies: skiing down the hills
Skatter Monkies, Skatter
Monkies, they give us all such a thrill Mia Pink with brownie crumbs all over her face, never wants to stop, skis like she is in a race;
Bradley leans forward his hands point the way, smile so big and bright it warms the coldest day.
Mia Blue, I’m telling you, knows just where she wants to go, she’ll ski down any trail no matter what the snow;
Smiley Riley seems petrified with tears, ‘til you get up close beside and hear her singing loud and clear.
Good Golly Miss Molly so helpful and kind, at the back of the pack making sure no one’s left behind;
Brook never asks for help, always goes on her own, throws herself down mountains and never breaks a bone
Sabrina serafina as pretty as can be, refused to go up the lift, but really learned to ski;
Owen kept on goin’, never showed his fear, now he’s off to San Diego, we’ll miss him lots next year;
Early one December morn these kids came to me
So wrapped in goggles & helmets, it’s a wonder they could see
They all looked the same to me, I didn’t know their names
I didn’t speak their language, and couldn’t play their games
But they taught me how to laugh again
And see the clear blue sky
To find the good in everyone
And always question why
Thursday, February 26, 2009
A Turn Taken
It feels strange this morning to not be in ski gear headed to the mountain. Yesterday, a second sunny day after five had snowed five feet of luscious powder, conditions were glorious and today will likely be almost as good.
Every turn was silent with a puff of spray, a whoosh of delight and wonder that anything could feel so sweet. My pole jabbing in to help me come round continually sank up to the handle. Falls began in slow motion and melted into laughter, lying half-buried and in no hurry to begin the arduous task of digging back out to get upright.
Chairlift conversations were simple acknowledgments that rarely are days this fine, then wander into blissful silences, absorbing the sunshine and staring uphill in contemplation of the past or future turns. Passing one of my new instructor friends, there could simply be a nod, an “Unh-hunh, this is what we’re here for!” kind of grin.
In the middle of one of the toughest trails, near the end of the day, I paused, surrounded higher and lower by no one but the soft moguls who had also become my friends. My eyes rising to the forest stark green and silent, higher to the mountain peak frozen in thick white, higher still to the brilliant blue so deep and rich beyond belief, I pondered the wealth I have received this winter.
At an age when many groan, wince and complain, when parts fail and can be replaced, and hearts give out completely or cancer invades insidiously, my own body has rediscovered a rhthym it had known thirty years ago, refining it into a more graceful dance. Instead of limiting myself by thinking the sport is too expensive, I found a way to earn my pass to feed my passion, opening the door to a season of adventure.
What began as a tribulation, almost a sentence, rolling my eyes back with wonder that I as a rookie could be stuck with the youngest, weepiest, frightened and obstinate four year olds has turned into a blessing, a bond I cherish. These Skatter Monkies (as we call ourselves) are as tough, resilient and determined as they are playful and adorable. Their hugs and smiles are such sweet reward for this Skatter Brain (as they 
call me—more aptly than they could ever know!).
As so many already have the fortune to know and the wisdom to appreciate, by far the greatest thrill has been to witness the growth of my son. Just last year, he stood lower than my shoulder, contemplating his first field of moguls of any size, and now I follow his trail, face splattered by his powder, struggling to keep up. We teach together, equals in charge of our little monkies.
His constant commentaries and banter breaks out my laughter. Simple statements sometimes silence me by the power of their profound perspective. His heart open, his joy apparent, he flies past me on his way to better turns than
I will ever know, our poles clicking together in the skiers’ toast.
For a long moment, I stood on that mogul yesterday, in the middle of that trail, countless more bumps to handle lying below me. In life, my trail is not so clearly laid out. No matter how much I love this skiing, it is not paying many bills. Health problems, tuition and braces payments loom largely. I have to recognize that my retirement plan will hopefully allow me to ski, not the other way around, and no matter how awesome the conditions, I will have to come in for a landing and find more stable employment.
I looked down the chairlift line and suddenly recognized that instead of counting how many people might take notice (I admit it), I actually was looking for a string of empty chairs to witness my next burst. With one more glance upwards at that brilliant blue against the alpine glow of the dawning sunset, in perfect peace and unspoken clarity of purpose, I finally pushed off.
Not for my skatter Monkies or other friends on the mountain, or strangers on the chair, not for my best buddy laid up in the hospital with a broken knee getting replaced, not for my son who opted out this day in exhaustion after so many great days, not for some future lover, or even for my mother who can no longer remember 
how she loved to watch me ski, these turns were purely for myself alone.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Skitopia
Just reaching the second half of the winter and I already have skied more this year than in all of the last twenty years combined. Today was the ninth in a row with a few more still to go.
Easily, I could be described as a delusional aging man in desperate search of some piece of youth, a lifeline of comfort against thoughts of impending seniority. Bones too brittle to safely slide down mountains, still I bounce through bumps as if my body could outlast time.
I have my redster, a car better suited to high school practices. My fingers caress guitars and voice fills the night as if I had no child to get to classes in the morning. In the spring, I will kick a soccer ball in serious play with buddies. Throwing caution a pittance of attention, I behave as if nothing maters but the truth of my convictions, and precious time is both infinite and running out.
I begin to write as if my life depends on it.
In the best of circumstances, we find the perfect balance between our passions and the ability to support ourselves, bettering the world (we hope) one breath at a time. Doing what we love provides the income we need and attracts the love that nourishes our relationships.
As we all know too well, this perfect combination of career and marriage does not always happen, and we fall into compromises. As cheerfully as we can, we make adjustments sometimes tiny, sometimes radical to find the balance that allows us to thrive.
The wonderful thing about a ski town is the boundless excitement everyone holds in common, particularly evident when fresh snow is as plentiful as we have this week. No matter race, politics, economics, or the force of one’s belief in a higher power, we are gathered here to enjoy the white stuff, fresh air, and the aches our bodies suffer to be able to make fresh turns.
We are one, united in common purpose. Rarely are we witness to impatience, selfishness, or greed. Sharing is abundant, politeness is bountiful, and companionship amongst strangers evident and heartfelt.
Given the uncertainty of my finances, the precariousness of family health, the frustration of a failed marriage, it is no wonder that this lifestyle might be so well embraced. What fool would not seek the open arms of such friendship?
The statistics by which we commonly measure ourselves can sometimes be askew from the balance in our hearts, just as much as the activities in a single week (or in this case: 11 days) may not always reflect accurately who we are in our lifetime.
There are those who visit the mountain for a vacation from their regular lives and there are some whose love of sliding on snow is strong enough to hold them here every day with varying degrees of economic success and compromise. Still others find the balance to be here every weekend as part-time employee, volunteer, or guest to pay their way onto the snow and down the slopes of joyful play between weeks of life as it is more regularly defined.
Immersed so deeply during this holiday period, it has been easy to lose myself into the lifestyle entirely. The long commute requires maintenance, more resumes should be submitted, friends lie in the hospital, pets need to be fed, but the weary ache of satisfied ecstasy at the end of the day overpowers other needs. Written words remain muddled in my mind, the guitars lie unplayed in their cases, fingers too tired. I eat what is handy and wear clothes from the dwindling pile of clean.
Bills go unpaid, their urgency muffled by the bliss, nearly buried under the ever deepening soft snow. I know there is little practicality to the dollars earned comparative to the time spent on the mountain, but the benefits of instructing make it not expensive either.
So I live this week reveling in the pleasure, cherishing time with my son, rationing my energy to be strong enough for the next day. The demands of life all too loudly knock to be long ignored. The compromises will have to be made. In this year of transition, my hope is that I have massaged my heart and exercised all muscles to make them more in tune with my authentic self.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s 18 inches of new snow overnight and I’ve got tracks to make.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Mountain Music
I was going to work. He was going to school. We really were!
Plentiful snow had fallen around Burlington, but I awoke with the best of intentions to continue on my weary search for work. When the report from the Mountain came in at 21”, my son did not have to twist my arm very hard to convince me. I mustered a lecture about the impropriety of regularly playing hookie, then allowed that this could be a special day.
I still remember the wonder turned to thrill the morning my Mom announced she was taking me and a few friends skiing instead of to school. Such a surprise, it was one of the best feelings of a holiday ever.
My son has been working hard at school and successfully raised his grades. He has adapted stoically to a life in two homes. He works to cheer his mother and entertain his Dad. Life has been hard and will get tougher again soon enough. He has missed all the snowy days so far. He deserved to enjoy this one.
Whoops and hollers cascaded like yodels all over the Mountain as skiers raced to find their favorite patches of untracked fluff. Smiles were broad and vast. Hearts soared. A bond connected all on the slopes and in the woods, sharing the exhilaration and glory of deep snow.
By the time we stopped for breath, the snow was sliced and settled, but still soft powder that whispered and sprayed with each turn. We floated down the trails like a lazy day in summer. We stopped long enough to capture some of the sweetness on a little camera. At home, my son spliced the clips together and added raucous music to commemorate the day, too much memory, I guess to be supported here, so just a couple of clips will have to do.
On the chairlift rides we alternately were giddy with satisfaction or deep as the snow. At one point, he exclaimed that skiing was IT for him, the ultimate moment. It was completely his own, this time that was all for himself, his place of pure passion where problems disappeared and assignments did not exist. He could just ski.
On a different ride, he confided that maintaining the balance between separated parents is a burdensome task. No matter how we decide between ourselves, he still works hard to ensure equal time with each, quality and quantity. I assured him I am not counting, and I know he is. He divides his attention day to day, night to night, dinner after dinner.
Grown up so fast, I was glad to help him get his day of snow.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Time, Patience & Trust
Just as I began to scan newspapers and websites, learning $2,000 would get me adequate but well-used transportation with 200,000 miles under its wheels, a surprise message offered me a car with almost half the miles for half the price.
It seems a recent graduate moving to Chicago needed quick cash for a deposit on his apartment more than he needed a car, so he was willing to pass it on for half its value. Originally his uncle’s, he received it during his high school years. He added a racing stripe, mag wheels, a thumping stereo (it’s all about the tunes!) and it got him through college. With a mechanic in common between us to recommend it, I paid cash at first sight without even a test drive.
Certainly not my style of vehicle, but between insurance and payments, it knocks $500 off my monthly budget and ignites the eyes of my son to imagine it might be his in a year once my life is more stable. Although the kid alluded to the peculiar noise it roared at a certain RPM, I was mortified to actually hear it as I drove away, considering myself once again duped into a foolish decision by my desperate circumstances.
On the slopes yesterday, our group of eight was rambunctious and needy. Sub-zero wind chill gave a good reason for tears that froze on their faces. An exploration of a new trail terrified a few into regressions of snow-plow wedges between our legs. In the lodge after hot chocolate, sorting through the pile of clothing to reunite each with their proper helmet, goggles, scarves, jackets and mittens, I really questioned plaintively (under my facemask) why I ever wanted this job.
My son has become a master of the teaching clown, leading the pack or picking up the stragglers, entertaining them with a game of “I spy” at trailside, or wiping faces after hot chocolate. The kids each want to ride up with him just as much as they beg to go with me, and wonder how he can actually be my son when he is 3 inches taller. At one point, as they all raced to the bottom, he flew past, smacking my glove in exhilaration, shouting with glee as loud as theirs, “Best day EVER! I get paid to ski backwards!”
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Peace that Passath
In the predawn darkness this morning, I awoke fearful that my creativity and drive depend on stress. The high level of uncertainty and crisis that has pervaded most of my adult life may actually be necessary to motivate me forward: the suffering artiste.
Long recognizing that my struggle with money is at the core of my existence, a reason, perhaps The Reason, to be here, it is frightening to imagine I continually create problems to maintain a stimulating edge. Trouble possibly provides the pressure to really cook.
A week of relative calm coincides with no blog entry nor other session of writing words on a pad or in my journal. As if a comfortable routine breeds stagnation, I rise up in a sweat of horror to think I might need to be so out of balance in order to walk a productive line.
No doubt, my heart beats faster in crisis, my mind leaps forward with creative solutions to ugly problems, bending rules or persevering against all odds. Adrenalin can certainly be addicting.
Still in the dark, my son and I loaded the car for a day of work on the Mountain, and the CD ignited with the new song, reminding me that perhaps the phrases wrapped in melody counted for creativity enough to satisfy my internal demand. Lack of a blog entry beyond that could possibly be forgiven.
We are, typically, our own worst critics, passing negative judgments where others might bestow accolades. In all my years as a contractor, constantly entering strange homes to consider a job, no matter the condition, rarely has the owner not apologized for the mess. For every achievement we attain, we see three ways we could have (should have) done it better.
But as we rolled down the road, the mellow tune embracing my ear with pride and satisfaction, we enjoyed a dim to bright sunrise over purple snow-covered mountains. Cold mist hovered over the frozen rivers. Frost clung to trees. Smoke curled from chimneys cozy with warmth, and the world seemed right.
My group at ski school has settled into eight four year olds just learning to turn and very distractable, contrary and lively. They all want to hold my hand, and they are equally in love with my son who does a wonderful job as teacher and entertainer.
Such a treat it is to work side by side! I can focus on the one who in this 15 minutes has reverted to helplessness, counting on him to herd the others up and down, or to the potty, in all good humor and patience.
Afterwards, we rode to the top of the mountain, bitter wind blowing and ice on the trail, but enough snow to make the bumps very skiable. Three runs we took on one of the toughest diamonds. In one fell swoop, my son really mastered the steep and treacherous, skiing the slope aggressively and confidently, making his father so proud.
Side by side or one after the other, I had no worry for his safety, but just thrilled to the turns or laughed heartily when one of us plunged and fell. My own legs recaptured the flow and twist, the airborne dance of so long ago now refined by my instructor’s style. A sweet hour we skied as if there were none before or after this, just happy to be alive as the mountain tops were lit in golden sunset.
On the way home, a magnificent moon, full, huge, bright, and orange, rose over those same purple mountains still covered with snow. All was right with our world, father and son united and bonded, all problems shrouded by the peace of heavenly satisfaction, a moment so clean, clear and undramatic, but so perfectly wonderous to write about.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
How Kipper Gets His Turns Back
Eighteen inches of snow have fallen on Burlington this weekend, twice that at Sugarbush. I was there for first run Saturday morning, taking three down double diamond Stein’s Run before I went to work with my four year olds.
More runs in the afternoon and more on Sunday begins to show me that perhaps something special is happening here afterall. I purposefully took the runs by myself, consciously looking for the smooth line that could bring me down the mountain.
For weeks, now, I have been describing the struggle to learn a new style, writing that the change from exuberant dance and battle through moguls to a smooth instructor's turn, although uncomfortable and alien, serves as a good metaphor for the changes needed in my life in general. So weary of the tumult and scarcity, the strained and screaming muscles forcing their way, I have vowed to hold the concepts of prosperity and abundance close to me as I point my skis downhill and push off.
In similar periods of distress (and, lo, there have been too many!), I have taken deposits for the next construction job and applied them to bills from the last, straining to keep from crashing face first into another bump. Begging and pleading with creditors for just a little more time, breathing room has always been just out of reach.
When the truck broke down last week, I was clearly out of options and, without any internal discussion, I knew to the center of my soul, I had to react a different way, make that new style of turn.
Two days earlier, I had met with someone about a book-keeping job for a bio-energy consulting firm. Although the product was unknown to me and the money by the hour was far less than could be made as a carpenter, it was not frought with risk and challenge, but consistently earned hour by hour.
Having crossed that line to embrace the concept that less money with more reliability gains so much more peace of mind, I studied my expenses in the last months of this new life and saw how this, combined with some other incomes, could work. Developing a plan, organizing a budget, cleaning house settles the anxiety of the unknown into manageable bites to swallow.
Although few are hiring, I dropped off applications and resumes at numerous larger construction companies, stressing that I wanted office work, no nail belt in sight. One smaller company, very similar to mine at its best, needs a part-time office manager. Against fierce competition, I emphasize my unique qualifications of expertise in the business and contentment to just count numbers 20-30 hours a week, and they seem to agree. I pray that our needs align, for it seems the perfect balance of solutions to me.
It all began with a determination to write in a journal, no matter the prying eyes that might judge me unfairly. When I started this blog, it felt like a diseased patient, diagnosed as terminal, moving from bed to sofa, wrapped in a comforting blanket, turning eyes from internal struggle outwards to view the rest of the world, and making a choice to live.
The move to my space at Riverside I made to hear my own voice, long contaminated by the clatter and clamor of demands and duties, no longer clear, but strained and ineffectual. In moments of stillness, music arose to celebrate steps small and large. My fingers itching were able to stretch and caress, my voice returned, strengthening old phrases with new timber and pitch, and finding new songs.
So, alone on that trail in the soft quiet of the raging storm, warm and clear-sighted, I pushed off and soared through a field of moguls, skis carving turns as pretty as an instructor and dancing out and into the air with punctuations of personality completely my own. My heart sings with fresh life, so much glistening powder untracked and seductive spread out before me.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Slopeside 101
A fresh start Sunday morning, with the blessing of a car loaned to me, I drove carefully to the mountain, petrified and paranoid that I would do something to harm myself or my friend’s car.
But I was there and ready with plenty of time at the ski school meeting place. It felt like a long wait, then suddenly I was surrounded by knee-high little ones and their parents introducing themselves, filling me in on their child’s habits and needs.
Four teenage helpers also appeared in our crowd. Everyone was bundled tight and hidden by goggles and scarves. I desperately tried to associate names with helmets and skis. A bitter wind and blinding snow gusts stole our voices.
Within minutes, my entourage was on the Magic Carpet, literally a very slow conveyor belt running 100 yards up a very mild slope. Immediately at the top, I could see we had five year olds who could turn easily and did not want to stop, and two kids who could not move at all.
Admittedly at a loss how to balance the diversity, I assigned pairs to the helpers and let them go ahead, while I tried to unfreeze little Max from his petrified grip on my leg. Unable to stand on his own, much less slide, we proceeded to shuffle sideways across the slope, one long, slow turn after another.
The rest of my kids and helpers were up and down, sliding by like so many leaves on a bubbly stream. By the time we finally made bottom, one experienced helper reported graduating the most advanced to other classes and her charges were ready for a bit more of a challenge. A voice from training cautioned me that protocol required we stay together, but I thought the next lift was just a little bigger and gave them permission to go.
At potty-break time, I sent my remaining helper and three youngest inside for hot chocolate and went to find the others. At the base of the lift, my supervisor asked politely for status, but got quickly stern hearing that helpers were up the mountain alone with kids. I raced up and down, but could not find them.
In the lodge, I realized all names were forgotten or confused, and I had no clue what anyone looked like out of goggles and jackets.
I was fired for sure!
The staff wants no reports of missing children over the radios, so the code phrase is “foraging bears”. Running circles from lift to lodge to lift, my panic broke out in a furious sweat as I reported my losses. They remained amazingly calm when asking how many.
“All of them!” I shrugged plaintively, “And my helpers too.”
I truly felt incompetent and completely disgraced, but as sure as snow comes each winter, they made it to the bottom, and we all circled round a table for hot chocolate and stories. As if no tension had choked me mute moments before, I asked about their kindergartens and teachers’ names, making better plans in my head for next week’s class.
I barely got to ski with most of these kids, for little Max needed my entire focus for our last run again. They all skied in line down between us and waved from the Magic Carpet on their ways back up. Pulling him to his feet every three feet, I counted the dollars, subtracted the gas, and wondered how I could possibly muster the energy to return.
At last, I was able to get Max to only hold one finger and make turns around (and over) my skis. When he saw his dad beckoning near the bottom, he let go and made three entire turns completely on his own.
As their parents blessed me for my patience and cleverness (having no idea that I had lost their children), three of the little ones gave me big hugs, and one a high five, counting on returning next week to ski with me again, winning me over with sweet satisfaction and distraction from all my troubles at home.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Embracing the Authentic
Bleak news around the global economy, an empty bank account, and weeks of working in cold, cold weather takes its toll on my creativity.
Day after weary day, I have been outside and on the move. On the roof in Northfield, or on the slopes at Sugarbush, my body works so hard against the winter bone-chilling air, heavy eyelids and huge yawns in the evening make it hard to do anything else, much less compose an essay. Once invigorating, the long days outside are now exhausting. Where I usually roam the computer until after midnight, in these last weeks, I have been snoring by 10.
The tension between writing and carpentry is a surface more slippery and fatiguing than the ice formed in the bitter temperatures. At least, the 20 years of creative silence and buzz of skilsaws and cell phone offered a respite from the dilemma. This year of transition, however, makes it apparent—especially with the example of a few friends and neighbors--that no matter the uncertainty of a career as a freelance writer and musician, in actuality, it can be no worse than this I have made for myself as a carpenter.
It is impossible not to pay attention to the struggle I feel every dawn pushing myself to load the truck and head for another long day of hard physical work. Many times I could justify the effort in sight of a happy client, or dropping a big check in the bank, but once again, clients are fearful and reluctant to appreciate the value gained parting with their hard-earned money. For me, their checks usually just cover ones I have already written, or at least promised—gone again in a flash.
Construction is a noble avocation, putting a roof over someone’s head a clear contribution to society. My spirit, however, has always resonated to a different beat. All these years, I have largely viewed my work as what has been necessary to get bills paid, while my true interest has been yearning to articulate rather than construct.
Saturday morning before last, I set old skis on the mountain, determined to prove yet again I could rip through moguls explosively, one of the best on the slopes, bouncing one to the next in dramatic flair of skis tossed to one side and jammed back into line. I quickly discovered I had joined a club who expected and appreciated a different, more classical, style. The next two weekends, I received intensive coaching, gently turning me into a smooth skier, conforming the wild energy into pretty turns.
Living this last year in my cave, I have had plenty of time to study my determination to twist the world to my own shape, conquering projects, clients, employees and deficits like so many moguls, bumps in the way of a pretty line. Forcing my way over and around each challenge, absorbing shocks in the knees transferred to my chest, and pounding turns out of nearly disastrous falls, I have forced my way through the construction business, trying to turn out dollars from sheer will to work hard and do a good job, all the while with my eye less on the trenches and more in the misty clouds above.
Yesterday, I learned turns are easier with shaped skis and the willingness to listen to others before leaping.
No longer does it make sense, in my life, to bundle up and slog with hammer to the task. Better to cut my expenses, hunker down, shape some part-time work that suits me, and focus on the creative work that makes it easier to awake each morning with my heart singing.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
On Top of the Mountain
On top of Lincoln peak late Saturday afternoon, the magnificent clear, cold light turning the snow covered peaks radiantly amber could never have been captured with a camera. Nor could the hue of the grins of father and son, satisfied with their commitment to be instructors consummated, be described as they stood together at the end of the day, looking back up the mountain to discover Venus and Jupiter in perfect alignment over the long, bu
mpy trail they had just skied.
And it was only the end of the first day of a long season to come.
Accustomed to being acknowledged as accomplished, it was a humbling experience to spend so much time this weekend with people whose job it is to inspire the turn of perfection in each of us. Guilty of flaunting my old equipment and out-of-date clothing, diving down headwalls with no warm-up after years of sporadic days on snow, I could relish the ease with which I could cut through moguls.
But over this weekend of training a rank amateur to a professional instructor status, I was challenged to throw off the bravado and work hard to make pretty turns. So used to offering tips to any friend, family, or struggling stranger in my path, as the rookie this weekend, I was constantly the receiver of pointers, an ankle thrust here and a hip rotation there. Countless times, people politely s
uggested I might do better with a pair of shaped skis from this generation.
Being one whose style has turned heads and collected whoops from the chairlift in the spray of his turns, this could have been a horrifying experience. Given all the humble pie devoured in these last years over home, business and marriage, I could have argued back bitterly. It could have been so easy to cry over the next dish of not being good enough.
Instead, the enthusiasm that all my new friends had for this winter sport at this World Class resort that tries harder (where else do they hand out hot cider to departing guests?), the professional commitment they show to spread the skills with love was inspirational. Quickly, I caught the sense of pride and responsibility to provide an exhilarating experience for young guests. In charge of the same group of kids all winter long, I can only hope they might one day talk to their children in the kind of glowing terms I talk about my skiing adventur
es and the mentor I had at their age.
A transformation occurred when I put on the instructor’s jacket and cruised the slopes with my compatriots. As good a skier as I have been over the years, especially in the early ones, the instructor’s jacket signified an elite, privileged few who skied the mountain and got paid for it.
