Family Matters
By BRUCE McQUISTAN

Easter Sunday, the last lift served day at my little hill and I got first chair.

Stupid, yes, as it was rattly hard and made my knee hurt. Despite the blazing sun, the joy of the ressurreactionists, and all that spring stuff, it made me think of the impermanence of all things. Funny, because all year long we revel in the turn, in fresh tracks wiped clean by the next most minor meteorological event. But now I teeter vertiginously on the edge of depression, wrought with sadness and the pangs of loss. I miss skiing with my wife, I miss my kids, I fret about the future, the mica sheets of sanity about to shear off and spin me away.

But then it warms up and starts to soften, as do my thoughts. I think back to all the great powder days, of hiking the backcountry, of showing some stashes to friends. I'm thankful for all the days at my little rathole with the likes of Rusty, the Rehabits, Natty, Chronic, Joe, getting to finally meet Samwich and make turns with other kooks from the obscura electronica.

I think back to a trip to Silverton with Natty, Cletus, the Rev, Cornhole, Pinner, Hev, Foggy, and skiing pow and hiking to heights no fat-assed desk jockey flatlander should attempt.

But a sticky-fingered whirlwind blew across my winter. Joyous ravings around and around, puzzles, toys, and omnipresent glee spattered, blond-topped effervescence glowing at the door. A storm that never ended, that dropped bottomless smiles every day and night. There were soakers, stinkers, and tumultuous rages, angst and fatigue, tears and fright, all of it incomparably right. The best studded snows gave no purchase against the slickness of the heart.

My family replaces the deepest days as the highlights of winter. My bubbling wife, strength and love beyond compute. And my children, glowing with a love I cannot begin to convey.

I got first chair, but family is what lasts.

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