For several years, I've wanted to write a poem about skiing
back in the day. I decided to try my hand at mirroring George Ella Lyon's fabulous poem,
Where I'm From. If you're not a skier familiar with the sport c.1960, this poem could leave you wondering.
WHERE I'M FROM
I am from long thong
straps
and Marker-Nevada
combinations.
I am from wooden
Kneissls, plastic K2’s, and the
cold black steel
of Head Competitions.
I am from boot-top
fractures and hand-held timing,
from leather
boots and bamboo slalom gates
whose
many colors and random sets
tested
our memories.
I am from the
opening day at Black Mountain:
4th
tower, red hotdogs on a bonfire, hot chocolate,
and hay bales piled
near the sleek new T-bar
that carried us
toward the sky.
I’m from Scotty’s
Mountain and
the hill in our
backyard below Liberty's,
I’m from the graveyard
ski jump at Sunnyside Terrace
and
the night trail at Chisholm Winter Ski Park.
I’m from
Titcomb, Saddleback,
Sugarloaf,
and The River—
from
Wild Cat and Cannon, Cranmore and Loon.
I’m from The
Suicide and The Aurele Legere ski jumps
that
we packed and packed and pack some more;
I’m from High
School Hill and the Lower Quirion Loop,
from Tuckerman’s and Hillman’s
Highway…
And once, kept out
of school, the slopes of
Mt
Abram with my mother and brother Rob.
I’m from the
Telstar Shuush, the Wes Marco,
and
the
Saddleback Cup; from Mack Miller and Herbie Adams,
from
Lufkin, Lutick, Miller, and Chenard,
from Blackie’s and Hamann’s ski
shops,
rope
tows and poma’s, chairlifts and T’s.
I’m from the
shores of the Androscoggin and Swift Rivers
where our
fathers fit pipe, tested pulp, and
sucked
in sulfur to make paper for our skis.
I’m from expert
trails and community, from real snow days
and hissing
radiators lined with mittens.
I’m from the western
mountains,
the River Valley…
my home.
