I used to like to snow ski. It was always a good time. Now I am torn. The mind is willing but the body is not. I learned to ski while I was in high school in upstate NY. When I went to college in Connecticut, my roommate and I and a few other friends would take trips north, either to Mt. Tom in Springfield MA or Killington in southern Vermont. Mt. Tom was much closer and had night skiing from 11 PM until 4 AM. Staying warm on the slopes at night was a challenge. I couldn’t afford a fancy ski jacket and pants, but a friend gave me a parachute jump suit which, supplemented with a flask of blackberry brandy kept me warm outside and in. The blackberry brandy also lessened the pain when I fell and slid half way down the mountain in this very slippery one piece parachute jump suit, only being stopped (forcefully) by the upright stanchion that supported the chair lift. It hurt, but nothing was broken. It could have been worse. I could have slid all the way down to the bottom of the mountain where a small lake supplied the water for making snow. Whenever we rode the chair back up the mountain, we would drink from our flasks. One of my friends was in the chair immediately ahead of us. He had crossed his skis and turned back toward us as we carried on a conversation. As we neared the top, he continued talking, not paying attention when it was time to unload. Consequently, as he reached the top, his skis caught under the chair, he was pulled under it and it hit him in the back of the head, knocking him out. Now that was a good time! 11/19
