love and skiing
I've only gone skiing about a half-dozen times in my life. My toupéed brother-in-law would take me back when I was twelve...back when Happy Days was a racy new TV show that mentioned hickeys, back when Aerosmith's "Dream On" and Tom T. Hall's "I Love" were jukebox songs at the rinky-dink suburban Philly ski-resort restaurant where I sat munching a hamburger, nursing my wounds, and staring at the snowy hills with awed contempt.
I love
coffee in a cup
little fuzzy pups,
old TV shows
and snow
And I love you, too.
Small-time ski lodge—just a small hill and a big hill—little one about a hundred feet high, big 'un about five hundred—and a creaky old ski lift servicing both hills. I loved smashing down the hills at top speed, icy wind shaving my face, riding a pure thrill. I'd wipe out on the hard snow about half the time. By the end of each day, all cut and bruised, I'd swear to never go skiing again. It was exhilarating, but too painful.
And the next chance I got, I'd be smashing down the hill again. And wiping out again.
