My dad and I have had this conversation several times, and it pretty much always goes the same way. 

Me:  “Uncle Zack taught me to ski.”

Dad:  “That’s incredulous (or whichever over the top, barely applicable word he favors at the moment)! I taught you how to ski!”

While it’s true that some overly serious guy with a shitty job (read: ski instructor at Camelback in the Poconos) spent a few hours desperately trying to hold my 6-year-old self’s attention in order to show me how to click into my bindings, but my uncle taught me how to ski.  Or rather, my uncle taught me how to point my skis downhill and how to stop.  Words fail in attempting to describe the transition from: “It’s cold, my feet hurt, and I’m tired of falling down” to, “I wonder how fast I can go on these things”.  However, Richard Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra rings in my ears and I see the “Star-Child returns to Earth” scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey play in my head when I think on it.  Anyone who hung in there long enough knows what I’m talking about.

Pop didn’t teach me how to physically ski, but he sure gave me the chance to fall in love with it.  Sure, there were family ski “vacations” and a few school trips (more about who got a handjob on the bus ride, and less about the actual skiing. Sorry, mom.), but it was all about dad and me.

Growing up, my pop worked a lot of nights as a salesman; he worked a lot period—and thank god he did, because my annual stints in rehab have been quite expensive. But, he always made time for us to do cool stuff.  The coolest of said stuff was undoubtedly skipping out of work early every now and again so that he and I could go night skiing (skating?) at Blue Mountain, PA. We’d pile into his truck, hit I-476, listen to tunes, and talk Philadelphia sports (Deeeeep fly ballllll Mickkkkeeey Morandiniiii).  In no time we’d be bombing flattish, yet treacherously icy, groomers like only real east coast OGs can.  The mountain was always nearly empty—I don’t remember ever waiting in lift lines at night, but I do remember the lift towers blasting Nirvana’s “Lithium” and the Spin Doctors’ “Two Princes”. By now, I was rocking a backwards Columbia baseball hat instead of a beanie thanks to Mr. Dexter Rutecki from a certain film, and skiing in jeans more often than not.  My dad bought me a pair of purple 157cm Atomics with neon orange graphics that I’d lock up with my very own Ski-Tote.  Basically, I was the truth in the booth, son. We’d head back to the truck around 9ish, and hit the same convenience store every time (Slim Jim and/or Andy Capp Hot Fries and a YooHoo. Booyah!) before heading home. On the way back I’d brag to my dad about how I didn’t fall even once, though I usually had, and I’d close my eyes and rest my head against the cold window.  I replayed my best runs over and over again in my head as my legs felt like they were still skiing. I’d fall asleep before we hit Philly.

A lot has changed since those early days of paralleling, unnecessarily abrupt hockey stops, and twisters, but much more has stayed the same—namely that when I’m skiing I want for nothing, and I love my dad.

 I’ll see you guys next week.

Me, learning to ski. Too melodramatic?