Posted on March 29, 2017
E.M. Forster wrote those words at the end of A Room With A View, a slender tome that was turned into a wonderful 1980s period piece starring Julian Sands and Helena Bonham Carter.
Its a movie I have loved since I was about nine years old when it came out. Buttoned up Lucy visits Florence with her yet more buttoned up chaperone, Charlotte Bartlett. While in Italy, Lucy’s eyes are opened to a new world and her sort of conservative existence is broken up by encountering the independent, worldly (and hot AF) Julian Sands. Julian Sands, if you ever come up here, email me!!!! Nah, I’m kidding.
The movie shows a young woman opening herself up to new ideas and different types of people. One time I was watching Gilmore Girls, a show I generally like and Rory was showing the movie as a way to make fun of the fact that she had gone to Italy with her grandmother and her grandmother was so buttoned up and conservative. It was bunk. A Room with A View is totally not about that at all.
Anyway, I’ve seen the movie enough times not only to have it memorized but also to have retraced the steps of the entire thing on a trip to Italy a few years ago. I just had to go to the places where Lucy and George had fallen in love!!!!!
That line at the end of the movie always stuck in my mind that all the people that Lucy had met at the Pensione Bertollini were all unique in their own way. It was something I thought of in the past few days.
A few days ago marked the second anniversary of the death of Pepi Leistyna, a professor I had in UMass Boston who passed away on March 26, 2015. I think about Pepi more now than when he was alive and I talk about him a lot more. I tell all of my students about the crazy guy who wore a rope as a belt and talked incessantly about his cats. What’s even more interesting is how much I go back to the ideas that Pepi espoused and I wonder what would he have thought of the recent political turn of events in the United States.
A couple of months after Pepi passed away, I started studying for my comprehensive exam, the last exam I had to take to get my masters in applied linguistics. Everyday for three months my diligent (and hilarious) Brazilian best friend and study partner poured through our notes from our classes trying to gather and remember every single detail so we could reproduce it on the exam. I hated Pepi for making me write those 150 page papers when he was alive, but when I was studying, I knew why I had to do them. Going through every single reading clapped that information into my brain permanently. My Brazilian study partner and I passed our exam on the first try, thanks in large part to Pepi.
The next year for me was a rough one. Work became a trying experience and a place where I could see a lot of Pepi’s ideas in play. Who gets to study English in the United States? How is that divided up by class and money and not ability. The more I saw the world in Pepi’s terms, the more I knew I had to leave my job and work in a place that was more hospitable to the ideas of respect and cultural awareness he had espoused.
Recently I’ve started to think of Pepi in different terms. Whereas before I thought of how sad it was that he wasn’t around to see us graduate and go on to do great things, now I had started to appreciate the fact that he had forced me to be so critical of the world around me. I’ll never get to talk to him but he will live on in his ideas.
Maybe if they make a movie about Pepi one day (and they should) these would be some of the film stills, perhaps shown at the end of the movie:
Today I attended a hilarious round table discussion at UMass Boston entitled “Fake News, Alternative Facts and Trump Speak.” It was a talk given by Professor Charles Meyer, the first professor I ever had in my masters degree.
It was Professor Meyer’s class that I had directly after Pepi’s death had been announced and it was in his class where we all enjoyed one last hilarious Pepi story. We all went around the room and talked about our experiences with Pepi. I shared how Pepi had always said that Chuck Meyer wrote a book about the word “the” and he’d rather die than read a book about the word “the.” It was Pepi’s weird way of showing us that linguistics was pretty multifaceted and that yeah, there were corpus linguists like Professor Meyer but there were also applied linguists like Pepi who looked at language from a political standpoint.
Professor Meyer laughed at this anecdote and said “I never wrote a book about the word ‘the.'” I guess it was Pepi, still ribbing us even after he had passed away. That story always makes me laugh.
Professor Meyer’s talk was pretty much like fertilizer for any kind of linguistically geared mind. He had found a linguistic corpora of Trump’s previous speeches and Twitter transmissions and had done frequency searches on Trump’s childish nicknames for Marco Rubio and Jeb Bush. He looked at Trump from a purely linguistic point of view, veering slyly into political commentary. At one point he goes “I was going to show YouTube clips of Trump, but I choose sound files so we don’t have to look at him.” Here are some photos I snapped with my crappy phone camera:
The talk had a work sheet and featured the slide with the alien endorsing Clinton for president. The whole thing was so much fun and so engaging.
I thought the whole time about the quote from E.M. Forster, about how all of those people in the Pensione Bertollini had been unique in their own way and in equal measure, the people I met at UMass Boston in the Applied Linguistics program were also unique in their own ways. In their own special ways. One man who talks about cats, who lies about another man writing a book about the word “the.” Another person using classical linguistic analysis methods to dissect the language of what is surely a mad man.
Not bad for a place I choose to go to because it was near work and cheap. That’s another lesson. High expectations are meant to be dashed but having no expectations mean that they cannot be dashed.
Posted on March 21, 2017
As uttered by the incomparable Bertram Cooper, played by the equally incomparable Robert Morse on Mad Men. Occasionally when I need a little mental reset, I re-watch the entire Mad Men series. I always liked the Bert Cooper character. He was a good counter-balance to Roger Sterling and the other rogues on the show.
Let’s consider though the quote from the beginning for a second. A man is whatever room he is right now. What does it mean? Do we assume that the person is who he claims he is when he walks into a room? Are we to forget the person’s past transgressions? He is whatever room he is in? So we are to assume who he say he is is actually who he is.
Don Draper is a broken narcissist played by the real Dick Whitman, who sought to run away from his sad life. What does drive people to seek a new identity? Is it sadness, pain or something else?
Come out, come out wherever you are.
Well with the photos for this one, we’re going with some dark ones I took during the last snow storm. Mistaken identity is kind of dark, as are the photos:
Posted on March 13, 2017
When I tell people I go skiing, I get a variety of reactions. Some people tell me that they took a ski lesson and on the first day, they skied down the black diamond. This used to annoy me endlessly because I had gone skiing about 15 times before I even attempted one and I still remember it. I was at Stratton Mountain and I could feel the steepness of that trail in every movement I took on that trail. I was in disbelief when I got off of it that I had gotten to the bottom. I alerted the world about it immediately when I was done. Of course I’ve skied multiple blacks and double blacks since then but I would have never gone out into the world and claimed that I did that right after I had learned to ski.
A guy I knew once made this claim that he had gone on black on his first day of skiing and I immediately told him his claim was laughable. First, you get short loaner skis on your first day which do not go that fast. The key on blacks is making quick turns which you can’t make on short loaner skis. Those skis aren’t even meant to be used on such terrain and using them on blacks is stupid and careless. Those skis aren’t regularly waxed or sharpened so its actually dangerous to ski such steep terrain on such skis. This puts you at risk for a broken leg or something worse. So even if you did do this, it was sorta stupid anyway and nothing to show off about to people who actually ski.
Another time I was struck by people grandstanding about skiing and abilities in general was when I was watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Now of all the Housewives shows, the New Jersey gals are (I’m sorry) my least favorite. My favorite group in the franchise is Beverly Hills because of their fabulous homes and attitudes. Erika Girardi/Erika Jayne — I may be two people but I’m not two faced!!!!! Extraordinary. Erika, if you ever come east, please drop me a line so I can find out how to do my makeup as fabulously as you. Well anyway, the Jersey ones aren’t my favorite because of the continual fighting and the fact that they remind me of the people I knew in New York.
Well anyway, one day I read in some TV guide that an episode of that show was to take place in Stowe, Vermont. Stowe is a place I know very well and have spent a lot of time in and thoroughly enjoy. I wanted to see what they were going to do up there and where they were going to go. There was the continuation of fighting and oh yeah, some skiing.
I was curious to see if they would actually do any skiing in Stowe. If you went to Stowe and didn’t ski, that would be like going to Paris and not seeing the Eiffel tower. I’m watching the show and Joe Gorga goes “I’m really good at skiing. I could have gone to the Olympics.” Funny in the ten or so other times I had watched the show before he had never mentioned how he was this extraordinary skier. So they finally cut to the scene where they all ski. I knew the area exactly where they were skiing. There’s Joe ON CROSS COUNTRY SKIS. They all were. Stowe has some fine cross country trails but let’s be real here. When you say skiing, you mean downhill, alpine, not cross country. Oh and Joe Gorga trips and falls and gets caught up in some trees when he’s skiing. Sorry Joe, but not exactly Olympic material.
My entire life I’ve always heard other people saying things about how they never struggled with anything. Its all easy for them. Yeah, black diamond on their first day. But after I started going skiing and doing it a lot, I realized that those people are just all talk. Those aren’t the people who go skiing all the time. The people who ski all the time never say things like that. I had a snowboarder tell me once that he had broken 58 bones in the time since he’d started snowboarding. Now that’s a real snowboarder.
Lucky for me, I’ve never broken anything but I have had plenty of struggles while skiing. I’ve skied over to things that were way too difficult for me to ski on with the ability I had at the time. I’ve been waist deep in powder with my skis off, trying to get out of the situation. If you haven’t been in that situation, then you’ve never really gone skiing. Don’t go around making stupid claims about what you did if you never struggled.
Nobody does anything in life without struggling. Telling people you got straight A’s and high scores with no effort is fine but it rubs most people the wrong way. Showing that you struggled, admitting that you struggled is human. We all struggle. Going around and acting like you always got straight A’s and got high scores on everything means you never did anything. That you are in all likelihood a liar and a fraud. Real people struggle with things and have problems. Only fakes pretend like it all came easily to them and they did no work.
Hows about my latest ski trips? Oh man Sunday River last weekend, like butter. Best runs ever!!!!! The snow was sparkly and wonderful. On one run, called the Right Stuff on Barker Mountain, as I went down a gust of wind mixed with snow blew on me and I thought “this isn’t good” but down I went on the trail, half iced over. By the bottom, I was flying and super happy.
Yesterday I went to Stowe, which was in the midst of a crazy storm. When we got to the mountain, I couldn’t even see it. It was covered in snow that kept coming down. Oh and the cold. Yeah, it was a two face mask kind of a day. The conditions on the mountain were pretty good but the wind and the cold? Well, put it this way. I was at the top of the mountain when a gust of wind nearly knocked me down and when the wind blew, it felt like needles in my eyes. It was kinda awful. OK really awful. I got frostbite too again in my face and fingers. A guy from ski patrol actually stopped me and told me I had frostbite and to go in and get warm. I was a little disoriented and a little lightheaded. Sometimes the elements beat you, but any day when you get to ski, is a good day. A few photos from recent ski adventures:
Posted on February 10, 2017
A few years ago, I was teaching a writing class when the students had to use the news in their writing assignments. There was always something going on so I was never short of material.
One day I saw a news story that I knew the students would have a great time with. Apparently I had long been misinformed about the fact that there are actually two ground hogs that predict the weather. I always thought there was just the famous Punxsutawney Phil but there is another weather predicting rodent named Staten Island Chuck. They make their weather predictions on the same day every year and frequently disagree with each other.
Well the story of Charles G. Hogg doesn’t end there. Mr. Hogg had a very contentious relationship with former New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who he bit in 2009. In 2013, his daughter Charlotte wriggled out of the grip of Mayor Bill de Blasio and hit the ground. Unfortunately, the critter ultimately died of her injuries. My students had to write about the perished ground hog. One of my students wrote a piece from the point of Charles G. Hogg that was inspired and one of the best pieces of writing I’ve ever seen from a student.
Ever since then, I’ve laughed at the fact that a ground hog has a name like that. Charles G. Hogg — does that not sound like the name of a nefarious British aristocrat? Does this animal sat by a roaring fire with a glass of some fine port with a copy of Burke’s Peerage open, plotting marriages, intrigues or something perhaps more nefarious??? Of course Charles G. Hogg has engraved stationery that says “From the Desk of Charles G. Hogg” that he sends out his various notes and nonsuch on. He would deign to send such a thing as an email!!!!!
Recently I was watching the Daily Show and Trevor Noah laughed at people in the United States pulling an animal out of the ground to ask it to predict the weather. He pointed out (rightfully) that we would be very judgmental if we knew that his fellow Africans were doing the same thing!!!! It was quite humorous. Trevor, not only do we pull a rodent from the ground to ask it about the weather, but we also give those rodents first, middle initials and last names.
Well anyway today we had our first real winter storm in Boston since 2015. Snow day, the mayor and the governor on the TV warning everyone to stay home, the works. Its not really winter without one of these. For me it was a chance to sleep in, read a bit, clean up my place and of course take photos.
From the desk of Charles G. Hogg, winter 2017:
Posted on January 31, 2017
I guess I could quit while I’m ahead with the political posts, but whatev. I mean a maniacal orange crayon has been president now for 10 days and has already set our democracy back approximately 200 years.
I wrote about in the previous post about my experiences as a teenager growing up in the New York suburbs so its all out on the table now. Here I’m going to get a bit more philosophical but I promise it will tie back to the photos eventually.
During this entire crazy uproar over the Muslim ban, everyone, including me has been sharing plenty of things on Facebook about immigrants of every shape and size. I feel this particularly because I am an immigrant myself.
One clip in particular though crystalizes very well exactly how I feel. Its a little clip of former New York governor Mario Cuomo describing his mother, Immacolata Giordano Cuomo, arriving through Ellis Island. She came from Tremonti in the south of Italy to New Jersey to join her husband who digs il fosso, trenches, ditches. The one thing Mrs. Cuomo wanted was to see one of her sons sworn in as governor of New York. The clip is part of a Ken Burns documentary on the meaning of freedom and its relation to the Statue of Liberty. The clip shows so well not just an immigrants story but the love of a son to a mother.
I don’t have an Ellis Island story but I am struck a lot of the time about how forces in our control and out of our control land us in different places. I was born in Poland, came to Chicago with my parents as a very young age, moved to New York and then about a million other places and landed in Boston seven years ago. Boston for all intents and purposes is my home now, but I go to Vermont of course during ski season.
Somehow every time I go to Vermont, it crosses my mind exactly how did I get there and moreover, how lucky I am to actually get to go there, how privileged I am. Sure I forget this when the alarm goes off at 3:45am to let me know that it is a ski day, but I do ponder on those mountains how lucky I am to get to go there. Its too bad my beloved grandmothers never got to see how beautiful Vermont is in the winter.
This past weekend I was in Stowe, which for natural beauty is unbeatable. I was on Spruce Peak late in the day when there was a snow storm. The snow was beating down and it struck the white that was already on the ground. With the light, there it just sparkled. It was breathtaking.
Some pictures from the day:
Posted on January 30, 2017
The blog is turning ten this year. Yeah, the teen years are upon us!!!!! While I’ve had the blog, I’ve stayed away from making political statements up here. Politics and political discussion is fraught with controversy and never really leads anywhere good so I just kind of stayed away from it. Anyway we had for eight years a wonderful, classy man as president who I supported and voted for twice. I am in real life a political person but up here I choose to stay away from it.
Well that’s recently changed since a maniacal orange crayon was elected president. I didn’t say we elected him and I don’t want to even call him our president. He isn’t. First people said he wouldn’t get elected. Then people said give him a chance.
Then he decided to ban the entry of people from Iran, Iraq, Syria, Sudan, Libya, Yemen and Somalia for 90 days. He also put restrictions on green card holders from those countries. This happened on a Friday. Two days later, massive protests took place at airports, in big cities. Marty Walsh, Boston’s mayor and a stand up fellow pledged to use City Hall itself to shelter people from this disgusting order on the part of the president.
Even before the ban went into place, it struck me that the election of that man smacked of a certain kind of racism taking over in the United States that I experienced on my own skin as a kid. I’m going to share that experience and bring it back around to what I’ve seen developing recently. Since the blog is turning ten this year, I thought it was time to share a lot more about the person who actually writes this thing.
In 1989, I moved with my parents to a place called North White Plains. Before that we lived in Manhattan for seven years. Before that, I’d been born in Poland. The years living in Manhattan were some of the happiest years of my life. Manhattan in the 1980s was an incredibly wild place to live. It was the birth of hip hop culture, drugs, AIDS. Everything that it was in the movies was how it was in real life. I was just a kid but the adults I saw in the city were the adults I wanted to be.
Being a kid in Manhattan too meant that I was in a community with people from a lot of different places in the world. It was normal in the school to have a classmate arrive not speaking one word of English and by the end of the year, be able to speak English. I had classmates from every religion and every country. Nobody could make fun of anybody for being an outsider because we all were.
In 1989, my dad changed his job and we moved to North White Plains. I’ve referred to the place I went to junior high and high school in as the heart of darkness, a total and utter shit hole and a lot of other things that I can’t even put on this blog because my parents read it and they’d get angry at me.
Why do I refer to it that way? Imagine you are a kid who has happily gone to school for seven years and then you get plopped down, completely by accident in a place you hate? Why do you hate this place? Well, as soon as you arrive, your classmates start picking on you for being a foreigner. That’s what happened to me. Despite the fact that we’d lived in the United States for eight years by the time I went Valhalla High School in Valhalla, New York (I’m naming names here) I was suddenly a foreigner. To say that the bottom fell out for me at that point was an understatement.
I’d go to school everyday and get harassed by my classmates. I’d get an answer wrong and people would yell out “Dumb Polack” at the top of their lungs. One classmate named Justin Bergin used to call me “whore bitch commie slut” everyday. Another classmate named Mark Elmore stole my seat in a computer class and asked me “who won the war?” What war are you referring to Mark? World War II, where the United States and Russia fought on the same side and Poland was occupied by the Germans?
I asked another classmate named Chris Wynne one day why I got picked on so much and he goes “you looked like other Polish people we had seen before,” as if this was a good reason to pick on a 12 year old kid. Another person, whose name I can’t even recall came up to me and said that I shouldn’t even be allowed to play on the sports teams in the school because I wasn’t American.
Somehow, some twenty-five years after this all happened, so much of it sticks in my mind. Another classmate named Paris Von Thomas would walk up to me everyday and call me a Bolshevik. This is so goddamn funny with the passage of time. Basically the girl was calling me a member of the majority faction of the Russian Social Democratic Party, which was renamed the Communist Party after the 1917 October Revolution. How I could in 1989 at the age of 12 have been a Bolshevik defies all imagination? Was I hiding a time machine? Did she know about a previous life of mine? I mean the comedic possibilities are endless. I guess she was calling me a communist. After she’d said this to me for about the 100th time, I told her that my father and my uncle had been part of the anti-communist movement in Poland. Still Paris would not be placated!!! She simply replied “you’re still a Bolshevik.” Paris Von Thomas, if you ever google yourself and end up on this blog, I hope that in the last thirty years you have cracked open a book or an internet portal of some kind and educated yourself on world history. And if you haven’t, read what I previously wrote. Oh and obviously enjoy the photos and no, I won’t be taking your name off of this blog. As long as this is still the United States, we have freedom of speech.
There wasn’t even any point in fighting back against all of this ignorance, kind of like the atmosphere in America is now except I was dealing with a pack of middle schoolers. One day when the tormenting had really gotten to me, I yelled something back at one of the kids that I immediately regretted. This got around the old Valhalla High School rather quickly and in a moment that I will never forget, I walked into the seventh grade wing of Valhalla High School to kids lined up on either side of the hallway, waiting for me. It was a scene directly out of the movies, where one of the characters in the movie is about to have pig’s blood thrown on her or something. One of the junior plastics, I mean sub-popular kids, a girl by the name of Stephanie Rinaldo says to me “did you call so and so [this particularly nasty name]. Obviously I had done it. I was guilty. I wasn’t going to deny it so I said I had. I added “you guys call me names all the time” and at that moment, Stephanie Rinaldo uttered words that stuck in my head for the next twenty-five years. She said “you do not matter.” Thanks Stephanie Rinaldo for that trip to the therapist. Put your address in the comments. I’ll send you my therapist’s bill.
On my end, I didn’t really behave very well either and in hindsight, my behavior probably fueled the other kids behavior towards me. We’d have “spirit week” in the school when we were supposed to show school spirit and I’d show up wearing all black. I tried to start a club for those whose views on our school matched mine with a completely unprintable name. The only other person I got to join was another friend whose face had swollen up as a result of medication she was taking. She was sick, the victim of something out of her control and of course the kids picked on her. We were in the same boat. For what its worth, we’re still friends now.
One day in a tenth grade English literature class, the teacher asked us if we’d ever sell our soul to the devil. My hand shot right up and I said I would totally sell my soul to the devil if it meant I didn’t have to live in North White Plains anymore and I didn’t have to go to Valhalla anymore. I’ll never forget the look of shock on the faces of my classmates. It was a teenager thing to do, claim that you’d sell your soul to Satan but it was also an example of how I never stopped letting them all know how much I hated that town and that school.
The treatment extended to the faculty in the school. The school principal, a man by the name of Frank Ehrhardt stood by while the kids in the school hurled insult after insult at me until I just started screaming all kinds of obscenities at them and then took action to get me into trouble. It was fine to have the kids calling me all kinds of things, but once I fought back, well then the principal sprung into action. That same man would mispronounce my name at every school assembly. Every year the school would give out an award for being on the honor roll and every year that man would either mispronounce my name or just laugh at the hilarity of having to give a certificate to someone who obviously did not belong there. Foreigner.
For my part, I wanted to wash off that foreignness from myself. When people asked me where I was from, I just said Manhattan. It seemed crazy to me that I was being punished for being from another country and for a decision I had no part in. My parents never asked me if I wanted to move to the United States. We had to leave Poland. The country was falling apart and here I was ten years later being blamed for that.
That experience haunted me for years afterward. Every time something good happened to me, all of those memories came rushing back to me. I spoke to different people about it. The least understanding said “ah, kids will be kids” but other people understood why that happened. Time did heal the wounds of that whole thing but it didn’t really go away until another important chapter started in my life.
In 2010, I started working in an English as a Second Language school and in 2011, we started getting a lot of students from Saudi Arabia. A lot. Like half of our school was made up of Saudis. As soon as I met them I felt an immediate connection to them. I knew that they were going to be discriminated against just based on where they were from, as I had been. Further, they had been sent here as the result of political movements way beyond their control that they had no part in at all. It all sounded really familiar to me, mirroring what I had gone through in high school. Being racist towards Eastern Europeans isn’t cool anymore in the United States. I meet people all the time that tell me they had a grandparent or somebody in their family that was Polish, Russian or Czech. Poland is in the EU and NATO so they aren’t so unknown “other” anymore. The racism had moved off of us onto other people. Now the racism had turned towards the Arabs and I thought it was my job to show them that they would be supported here in the United States. It was my job to show them that I knew what it was like to be punished for who you were and for actions that were beyond your control.
The time with the Saudis was almost the exact opposite of what I had experienced growing up. To them, I was totally American. I had to teach people from Saudi Arabia to finally be American. My Saudi friends even got a nickname — Team Saudi Arabia. Imagine that when I met all of them, I assumed that they all hated America. Imagine my further surprise when they showed up at the fourth of July wearing American flag t-shirts.
The Saudis were like these total goofballs. I like to call them the Deltas, like the zoo fraternity from Animal House. One of them came up to me one day and said “host family have big dog, big dog” and spread his arms out to show me the host family has a dog the size of a horse. Another just came to class wearing glasses with no lenses in them. He also delivered to me the immortal lines that not only had he in his career as a nurse delivered a baby, but that he had also delivered an old man.
Somehow I’d always end up having to tell the Saudis that I wasn’t actually American and we’d have a little geography lesson to figure out where Boland was on the map. There’s no P in Arabic, so the country of my birth would get turned into Boland time and again. I just got used to it. I also slowly realized that I was the first Polish person most of them had ever seen. One day I was talking to one of my favorite Saudi boys, a kid who I consistently describe as looking like broccoli, and I saw another Polish guy in the school out of the corner of my eye. I walked my friend over and said “look. That’s another Polish person.” My Saudi friend grabbed his face in disbelief, still one of the funniest moments with my beloved team.
I spent every holiday and birthday with the Saudis for over five years. One of my birthday parties was fully Arabic themed, complete with hookah and Arabic food.
My interest in the Saudis stemmed from my experience of being discriminated against by people in Valhalla but it went further. If I had some kind of preconceived notions about them and judged them by where they were from, the friendships never would have formed.
We can’t wash off who we are and we shouldn’t have to. Cultures should be respected and not washed off in the name of what? Homogeneity? To what? For what? I frequently wanted to ask Christ Wynne or Paris Von Thomas what solution they had to my otherness. I think in one of those middle school exchanges I might have even said that and one of them might have responded with “go back to where you came from.” Again, if selling my soul to the devil were actually a viable option, I would have done it to leave that place forever. I heard Aziz Ansari give the best answer to that. Go back to where you came from, Aziz asked. You mean my mom’s uterus? Where were you Aziz when I was in middle school?
We’re all from somewhere Donald Trump and NOBODY should ever be discriminated for that. Here are some photos from today’s protest against your stupid executive order. May your time as president be short and may it pave the way for an understanding, welcoming United States:
Posted on January 23, 2017
I’m not writing here that I’m kind of over skiing. I’m going to write here about how skiing has become part of my life, part of my winter and how I’m starting to feel close to the resorts.
It truly seems crazy to me that a few years ago, skiing never crossed my mind and how big of a part of my life it is now. In one of my multiple conversations I’ve had on the lifts, a person told me that on Sunday, I go to church and that is totally true. I’ve also been thinking lately that I don’t even think “I want to go skiing today” or “I don’t want to go skiing.” I just kind of do it.
Lately I’ve been thinking how the resorts are kind of like my friends. Wachusett is the friend who lives nearby and is always there for you. Killington is the moody friend who is happy sometimes, unhappy other times. Stowe is the fancy friend who has to have all the latest things, top of the line. Impossibly glamourous. Cannon Mountain is your complicated friend. Sunday River is your short friend who thinks they are a lot taller. Jay Peak is your friend who smells of weed and is likely to show up to meet you wearing the same clothes they wore the day before. Or maybe just in their pajamas. Sugarbush is your best friend for life, no questions. All of them are good friends.
To good friends: