I grew up skiing at Holiday Hills. It's all grown up, too. It's now a mount.
It was the kind of place -- still is -- where your parents could drop you off, then come back several hours later to collect you, all cold and pink-cheeked and tuckered out.
My parents stayed and skied a lot of the time and some of my most horrifying memories are of my mother spreading out a tablecloth -- a tablecloth! -- and sitting us down to a family dinner -- a family dinner! In the lodge! -- with goulash and cocoa. A few years ago a friend confessed she was jealous of those dinners. I would have unhesitatingly traded for the french fries and Coke she got from the snack bar.
I remember specific snowsuits, including a checkerboard-patterned, heavy-on-the-hot-pink ensemble my 8-year-old self was sure would vault me into the snow bunny hall of fame.
I also remember my first pair of "buckle boots" (blue) and my first pair of Cubco bindings.
There were lift operators ("T-bar turners" in those days) I had such huge crushes on that I blush when I run into them today.
The PA blasted songs, often interrupted by announcements that someone's mom was there to pick him up. It still seems weird to hear "Nights in White Satin" or "American Pie" from start to finish.
But the most important thing I ever learned at Holiday was how to behave.
If you took cuts in the lift line, you got your ticket ripped. If you horsed around on the tow rope -- pulling it way out to the side in hopes of snapping everyone off or sliding backward until you bumped into the kid behind you -- you got your ticket ripped. If you schussed or bombed or skied out of control, you got your ticket ripped.
This was especially inconvenient if your mom wasn't coming to pick you up until 9. You might spend three or four boring hours in the lodge. (The older kids who hung out in there provided a whole different kind of lesson.)
The first time I skied at a hill downstate I was appalled and, frankly, scared to death. Kids were cutting me off, zooming right off the hill onto the lift and disregarding the downhill-skier-has-the-right-of-way law altogether. My son was in kindergarten at the time and I used the hooligans' behavior as a teachable moment, but we didn't stay very long and we never went back.
As we were leaving, I stopped at the ticket counter to tell them what a horrifying experience I'd had. "Sorry to hear that," they said, "but we can't really police the whole place now can we?"
You can give it a shot. You might just end up with a generation of safe, polite skiers.
Jodee Taylor is a specialty publications coordinator at the Record-Eagle. She can be reached at jtaylor@record-eagle.com.
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