Monday, February 23, 2015

The Mysterious Ski Weekend

My brother, in his lifty days.
He can be judgy.
“Hey, jeans-skier! You back there in the Wranglers ... up to the front of the line, hustle up,” ordered my brother. Often. He was a lifty on Mount Hood and he had a thing for anybody skiing in jeans. I wouldn’t exactly call it admiration. 

Today’s ski lodges are hotbeds of mystery even more tantalizing than the bold nature of jeans skiers. We just returned from a ski weekend, and I have compiled three unsolved capers:

1) How has wood completely bewitched the owners of ski lodges and/or log houses on or about snow covered trails? 
These good folks have been spellbound into believing a cluster of wooden trappings will transmogrify any hot mess into a decorating scheme. For example, take an oak desk, pine paneling, plywood shelves, a wood-look veneer ceiling fan, cherry shelves and a few twigs stuck in a jar. Add a painting of some trees framed in wood and get some curtains in a brown color reminiscent of wood. Waala. The establishment is decorated and the proprietors can go about their business feeling dewy and thrilled.

2) Why do we always sit next to an expert skier at breakfast? 
When I say “sit next to” I mean “sit close enough to overhear a conversation ten feet away." Experts always seem to have booming voices when they talk about how expert they are. On Sunday, we sat next to an Expert explaining to his dining friend that he’d once met a Man who told him that you were an Expert if you didn’t ever hesitate, no matter what. 

The Breakfast Expert said that he never hesitated and thusly proclaimed himself an Expert.

Someone else at the table asked the Expert if he hesitated to go off the trail and through the trees. The Expert said he never did that because he heard what happened to Sonny Bono. Aha. He was caught hesitating! I assumed at this point the Expert would remove his Expert crown.
My pop, leading me astray

Except he didn’t. He simply continued to enjoy using the words “Me" and "Expert” in the same sentence. When one embodies the heart and soul of Expert, one is not beholden to criteria. 

It’s a lie though. You don’t have to be an Expert to fling yourself off the trail into the trees. Case in point: my father.

No one, anywhere on Earth except maybe in a hot desert climate, would classify the old man as an Expert Skier. And yet, while skiing with my dad, I have fallen into a river, slid on my ass down two flights of unexpected stairs and gotten kicked out of a winter carnival when we accidentally snowplowed right through the middle of the ice sculpture competition. If you’re gonna bail, bail early. This applies to relationships, college classes, and skiing with my pop.

3) Why does Tom always make little movies when we go to upstate New York? 

Post a Comment