When I first started with my current boss, 10 years ago, as we were chatting one day, I commented on a picture that hung in his office of a pretty snowscape. He told me that it was Sunday River. He asked me if I skied. I said to him, “If God had meant for me to ski, I would have been born with 10-foot-long feet.” That’s when he told me that he was an avid skier! He still kids me about that.
Having grown up with two brothers, I am sometimes grateful that we lived in Southern California where pranks like that wouldn’t end up in permanent damage.
We got a very nice Bull elk on one trip and had to be very careful to protect the meat from the dust and hang every thing so we could come back tomorrow to pack it out…Next morning trudged through Knee deep snow, slipping and sliding all the way…Hang on Elizabeth….It Happens….
I don’t know how many times I had read the essay on outhouses in Florence Ekstrand’s “Notes from a Scandinavian Kitchen,” about how her brothers told her that it was where the people who first lived on the place lived until they built the house, before I realized that one of those brothers was Uncle Ernie (my grandmother’s sister’s husband) – and he WOULD tell somebody something like that.
Growing up in New England was a little like growing up in Canada. I remember getting my first set of “real” skis, poles and boots around Michael’s age and praying for snow so I could go try them out. We didn’t ski at any fancy resort – any fair-sized steep hill would do or mountain that had snow. We didn’t have fancy snowsuits or gear. We skied in jeans or corduroys and wool sweaters.
I went to college in Vermont and according to my father, skied my way through school ( partially true ). During ski season, you rarely saw a student on campus from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. We certainly looked like ski bums on the slopes compared to the weekenders from New York City who bumbled around the resorts in their fancy fashions. Any money we had was spent on good ski boots and skis. I still remember my first pair of Head Standards.
Templo S.U.D. over 5 years ago
that could take some time
rekam Premium Member over 5 years ago
Typical older brother. Poor Elizabeth.
dwane.scoty1 over 5 years ago
A Frozen, snow-covered Lizardbreath!
Wren Fahel over 5 years ago
When I first started with my current boss, 10 years ago, as we were chatting one day, I commented on a picture that hung in his office of a pretty snowscape. He told me that it was Sunday River. He asked me if I skied. I said to him, “If God had meant for me to ski, I would have been born with 10-foot-long feet.” That’s when he told me that he was an avid skier! He still kids me about that.
coffeeturtle over 5 years ago
big brothers, bah! ☺
Jan C over 5 years ago
Having grown up with two brothers, I am sometimes grateful that we lived in Southern California where pranks like that wouldn’t end up in permanent damage.
Ginny Premium Member over 5 years ago
He is SUCH a jerk. He’s old enough to know she could get frostbite and/or be sick from standing out there without activity for a long time.
Scoutmaster77 over 5 years ago
Bad dad!
chain gang charlie over 5 years ago
We got a very nice Bull elk on one trip and had to be very careful to protect the meat from the dust and hang every thing so we could come back tomorrow to pack it out…Next morning trudged through Knee deep snow, slipping and sliding all the way…Hang on Elizabeth….It Happens….
gcarlson over 5 years ago
I don’t know how many times I had read the essay on outhouses in Florence Ekstrand’s “Notes from a Scandinavian Kitchen,” about how her brothers told her that it was where the people who first lived on the place lived until they built the house, before I realized that one of those brothers was Uncle Ernie (my grandmother’s sister’s husband) – and he WOULD tell somebody something like that.
Linguist over 5 years ago
Growing up in New England was a little like growing up in Canada. I remember getting my first set of “real” skis, poles and boots around Michael’s age and praying for snow so I could go try them out. We didn’t ski at any fancy resort – any fair-sized steep hill would do or mountain that had snow. We didn’t have fancy snowsuits or gear. We skied in jeans or corduroys and wool sweaters.
I went to college in Vermont and according to my father, skied my way through school ( partially true ). During ski season, you rarely saw a student on campus from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. We certainly looked like ski bums on the slopes compared to the weekenders from New York City who bumbled around the resorts in their fancy fashions. Any money we had was spent on good ski boots and skis. I still remember my first pair of Head Standards.