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It was just like the beginning of that book. You know. The best of times, the worst of times. Only you weren’t in London or Paris. You were in the good ol’ U S of A. The Granite State of New Hampshire.
In the distance you notice the giant pines lining the mountains of Pinkham Notch. You’re at the base of Mt Cranmore’s venerable Poma lift. You watch the girl in front of you grab the approaching pole and swing one ski-burdened leg over the round seat. You are so enthralled by the way her tight pants reveal the dynamics of her rear end meeting the disk and how she snuggles the pole that you miss the next pole coming ‘round.
The waiting crowd moans. You feign an equipment problem.
You focus on the next pole and mount it like Hopalong Cassidy jumping on Trigger, or Topper whatever was his horse’s name. Chasing bank robbers or ski lifts, there’s not a moment to lose. Leg up, over, you’re on.
You’ll continue your heroic journey, ride to the top like a mountain Juggernaut, and ski down like an Olympic Jean Claude. The girls will gather ‘round at the base lodge over hot toddies. Après ski. It is the best of times.
As you rise up the mountain look-Ma-no-hands, you loop one ski pole onto each wrist and spread your arms. You’d look like Leonardo DiCaprio at the helm of the Titanic, except it’s 1962. He probably hasn’t been born yet. You take a moment to smell the roses. It appears all the roses are dead under the snow.
You can’t help but notice the cold steel of the Poma lift rubbing against bare skin inside your thighs. Your ski pants have ripped open. The way the wind is blowing through there, the rip must be the size of Pinkham Notch. There’s no way down the mountain without risking severe embarrassment, never mind uncommon frostbite. The best of times has plummeted into the worst of times.
How did you fall so far while trying to rise so high? It was your family’s fault. Good people. Proud people. Poor people. No money for skiing. Maybe a quarter for Ski Ball, and another for a Coke Après Ski Ball. You borrowed the skis from a friend and stuffed his too-big boots with the evening news. If someone looked carefully, they’d realize you had two different ski poles. But it is the ski pants that did you in.
In those days, people were not liberated enough to ski in jeans. Spandex wasn't yet mainstream—Gay Rights hadn’t been asserted. If The Old Man in the Mountain caught a glimpse of a man in spandex, his rock face would fall off.
Your mother had the solution. Your uncle Piero’s Schmatta shop. It was really nothing more than a rag shop, a collection center for people’s discarded clothes. Uncle Piero is Italian, but he has to speak Yiddish to survive in the Jewish jungle of Chelsea’s rag district. What? You thought the Society of St Vincent De Paul gave all those donated clothes to the poor. No way José. They sold them to the Schmatta’s. Many years ago the Christians and the Jews made an unholy alliance. “You give us money and we’ll give you our rags.” The Christians used the money to feed the poor and fuel the giant engine of Christian charity. The Jews sorted the rags into silk, cotton and wool, and shipped them to Italy, where they were made into designer clothes to be sold back to the rich, beginning the whole virtuous cycle over again. Virgin wool had nothing to do with sheep morality.
Pickin’s were good at Uncle Piero’s. You got your dark ski pants, as well as a nice white jacket to wear to the following month’s prom. The pants were a little tight and a little threadbare, but you fixed that, you smart operator. No underwear gave you breathing room and nothing but darkness behind the worn threads. Now your flesh is frozen to the Poma lift pipe like cotton candy to a pompadour. An image flashes before your eyes. It’s of you being dragged down the mountain with your legs, or worse, bonded to the Poma lift. Your head’s a plowshare. You’ll be written up in the Journal of Medicine, Emergency Room Annals. Or maybe Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Now you’re a hundred feet from the summit. No one is here to help you. The ski patrol only rescues broken bones. Your best friend isn’t around. You have his skis. Your Christian God is tending the poor. The Jews are already at the lodge having hot toddies with your women. You’re alone on the top of a frozen mountain, your essentials at risk, hands and feet attached to quartering boards. The village throng is gathered to bear witness.
In everyone’s life, there comes a moment of truth. Yours is now ten feet away.
You are the first of your clan to attempt such a feat, skiing with the rich. You see yourself as an adventurer, willing to face any hardship for the good of loved ones who may follow. You picture your future spouse holding your child. Maybe it will have to be adopted. No matter. You are here now. Twenty years hence, your offspring will walk proud in the land of winter leisure and Dad’s sacrifice. You strike a blow for the St Vincent de Paul hordes, for Jewish immigrants stuck in the ghetto of their labors. Throw in the Italian designers, and Uncle Piero who will surely award you carte blanche to future rag treasures, when he stops laughing.
You’ve come to the end of the Poma lift. Time seems to accelerate. It’s as if you’re on an amusement park ride, about to be whipped around a corner. Live free or die. Your suffering your own, your sacrifice the strength of your character. You take a deep breath of frigid air, close your eyes and lift your right leg high. It is a far, far better thing you do than you have ever done before.
