New Jersey 1, or The Important Things

Skiing. I say it now, and I know so many of my friends think: wealth. Richies. New Yorkers who come up to Vermont and New Hampshire and Quebec in their flashy outfits and latest gadgets and pay exorbitant prices to be shuttled up and down the mountains. Mountains which have been bulldozed and carved into a giant group of trails; the perfect playground for the class that doesn't care.

This is not what skiing means to my grandfather, and by proxy, to anyone in my family. When I was five, six, seven years old, I whined my way through the process of buckling and strapping myself into kiddie-sized ski boots while the adults around me said Remember when Paps had to lace us all into our boots because nobody was strong enough to pull those things tight?

When Paps learned to ski, his mother taught him how to strap his skis to his back before starting the hike up the mountain they'd later ski down. Wooden things, now museum pieces, or ski lodge decorations, they boggle the mind. How in the world did one manage - no real bindings, no technical advances, no trails?

Somehow they did - they spent half the day hiking up the mountain, and the other half skiing down it, stopping for lunch and snacks, and what would later be known in my family as CITP - Chocolate In The Pocket. It imbued my grandfather with a love and respect for mountains that would lead him to teach his wife, children, children's husbands, and grandchildren how to ski, how to carve their own paths.

He stopped skiing about a decade ago, shortly after his senior citizen's entitlement to free skiing took effect, but my memories of him on the mountain are clear: tanned, windblown, and whistling. Often, as he passed me on our way down the slope, I could catch snippets of songs from other countries. My mother says it's a good way to keep your breathing regular, and she too, whistles her way down. I've picked up the habit myself, though I'm more inclined to sing.

So it's no surprise to me when, at dinner, having just announced that my book will not, in fact, be published by Six Gallery Press, because I am voluntarily ending the process before any more unprofessional behavior, stalling and heartache can occur, I am thinking of the most important things in my life. My grandfather is using this opportunity to grill me about the rest of my life plans, and I am starting to wash the dishes in an attempt to distract myself from the embarrassment.

He wants to know if writing is really something I can make a career of. He doesn't ask it like that, but I sense that's the heart of things. What can be learned from this experience with my awful publisher? How can I begin to see things for what they are instead of what I want them to be? Do I just want to believe I can make a living being a writer, or am I only seeing what I want to be instead of what I can be?

And I hear you asking: what the hell does any of this have to do with skiing?

I ask him a question that I ask myself occasionally. If the rest of the world disappeared, and no one was left watching, what would you still do?

When I ask myself this question, I always get two firm answers: writing, and a little bit of singing. I wouldn't cook the way I do for other people. I wouldn't make interesting clothes for myself, or do push-ups or go hiking.

For Paps, I have to make some allowances. Okay, so let's assume you're forty years younger and you can still do everything you've ever loved to do - hike, travel, ski, listen to music, make music, whatever.

He thinks about it and says he thinks - if really nothing were left but the snowy mountains, Dandoo, I'd probably go skiing.

I nod as I keep doing the dishes. I'm so distracted that I start scrubbing the cast iron pan with a soapy sponge.

Mammy announces: I already lost everything once. And all I did was keep trying to live.

It's a fair point; neither Paps nor I has ever had to actually contend with my scenario of "nobody watching." Mammy's come closer than either of us.

And? I ask her. What kept you going? What made you want to stay alive?

I was too young to die, she shrugs. And I loved my husband.

I think about that for a minute, and then turn again towards Paps. Here's the thing: writing isn't a hobby. It can't be a hobby, it'd take up too much time. It's just what I do. And if I have to spend the rest of my life cobbling together jobs and figuring out how to make it work, then that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

He considers this, then offers.

But, Dandoo? If everyone disappeared, I'd probably go skiing. But I don't think I would whistle.