God Is The Boss, Francis
I was
visited by an old friend the other day walking along the Rio Grande Trail through downtown Aspen. I had
just passed the Aspen Art Museum on my way to the John Denver River Sanctuary,
passing a stainless steel 30ft artist’s rendering of the “Last Tree.” The Rio
Grande Trail is a beautiful scenic trail that skirts along the river and opens
upon a small meadow by the river. There are large boulders with many John
Denver song lyrics carved into them. It was there among the yellowing aspens
that I sensed it, that very faint trace of the dampness of winter in the air.
My good childhood friend came to me. I looked up and saw him hiding in the
scrub oak turning red along the base of Red Mountain and the multi million
dollar mansions that exist there. The Aspens’ turning gold along Smuggler
Mountain, one of the last working silver mine, that made Aspen the Silver City.
How I used to wait on his arrival with
great anticipation in Albany, New York. The fall season is different in the East
because of all the hardwoods to be found.
In the Adirondacks, the Berkshires, the Green Mountains, and White Mountains,
you will find an array of reds, yellows and golds. It signaled to me the coming
of winter and my sport of choice, skiing. I imagined all of the hats that I
have worn over the years to pursue my great love of the sport. How it has been
my refuge through my trials and tribulations and how whenever life of the world
got to me, I would simply choose another mountain to learn and ski.
It had begun simply
for me in the early days. My grandfather filled my head with dreams of the
Adirondacks and the beauty of them. I quickly made friends with the other
skiers in my class. One of those friends was my good friend, Frank Thompson who
has become “Captain Zooms” in my stories. I, a shy retiring bookworm, who found
great solace in learned knowledge versus outdoor activity, was immediately
attracted to him. He was already a ski technician and worked with skis and
understood ski hardware. He turned me on to my first pair of jet foamed form
fitting ski boots, called Strohlz, and my Rossignol Strato 105’s, they were 215
cm’s long. “My steel beams to hell,” I called them. My boots were purchased for
me by my high school girlfriend Sandy. Frank’s room was a classic of ski
posters and equipment leaned up in every available corner. One particular
poster of a buxom woman in a tight fitting yellow Bogner ski outfit, unzipped
to her navel exposing her abundantly large breasts, she was exploding through
this incredibly awesome mogul field, and the caption read, “Keep those tips
up.” It was a K2 ski poster. I thought he was the coolest kid in school. He was
a real rebel where I was the nerd. Other
posters, like the infamous Solomon Ski
Binding Poster that said, “Solomon, Deliver Us From Premature Release.” These have all become great
collector items. Frank became my ski mentor, and mountain teacher. Every
available evening, weekend or cut day from school was spent chasing snow flakes
and sunsets, until at a very young age, I took a year off from college, to
pursue my dream of being a true ski bum, (I wish to write, Every Ski Bum’s
Bible, a commentary of all the things you need to give up in life to pursue
that dream.)
The culmination of
that dream was skiing at Arapahoe Basin, which at the time was the highest lift
operated mountain in North America. I had arrived. The steep, the deep, anti
everything that corporate society stood for. No material hang ups or needs with
a true disdain for the Corporate Whores who would sell their soul for the
almighty dollars. I considered myself the self appointed King of the Mountains.
I knew every inch and every skiable trail in America. Many places in America that
I had skied were not accessible by lifts and had to be climbed. I was young, “no
problem.” I conquered and truly loved every one of them.
Every year my friend
that first trace of the wet dampness of winter would arrive and I would gear up
for winter. In the early years we would leave Albany on Sunday to ski the
mountains of Vermont, a state that I came to love dearly.
Francis’s mom, Bea Thompson, was a devout Christian and practicing Catholic.
Her greatest concern was for our almighty souls and redemption from sins, she
was sure that we were committing. Her concern included where we would attend
church on Sunday if we were skiing. We were quick to allay her fears by
informing Bea, that we attended Mass on the Chapel on the Mountains, every
Sunday. We justified our lie by rationalizing
that God invented Mountains and they were places of awe and inspiration since
the days of Moses and we were somewhat of Biblical Characters ourselves with
long hair and beards. Modern day Prophets if you will, we attended the almighty
church of the high mountains. Our justification was dashed one particular
Sunday Morning when Frank and I dressed in our White Stag ski sweaters tight
fitting ski pants with our brightly colored ski jackets were confronted by Bea
Thompson in her large blue terry cloth robe on her snow covered concrete steps
in suburban Colonie, New York as were fastening our skis and poles to the roof
rack of Frank’s Tan Dodge Dart. (Algernon, named after the Book Flowers for Algernon, yes it had push
buttons on the dash to shift instead of a typical stick or automatic shift lever.)
We had to face down the wrath of Bea who had found out about our lie, that ski
areas did not have chapels on them. Like Moses, delivering her edict to the
infidels who were worshipping the false gods of gold they had wrought, she
stood with her outstretched blue terry cloth arm raised in accusatory fashion
delivering a divine message straight from the mouth of our Lord himself. The cold chilly air crackles and rings in my
ears to this day as she yelled, “God is
the Boss, Francis!”
I have been more
fortunate than most and have had the ability to build a tremendously successful
Plumbing, Heating, and Electrical Service Business in perhaps the richest Ski
Town in the world, where the occupants ask questions like, “Is it the biggest, is
it the best?” How wonderful that I who took a year off from my pursuit of an
Industrial Engineering Degree to go skiing in 1973, could be designing and
installing mechanical systems in multi-million dollar commercial and
residential building in Aspen, Colorado, owned now by exclusive Billionaire Industrialists.
During my early tenure as a property manager, before opening my business, my
job was to decorate 8 of the most prestigious Commercial Buildings in the
downtown core of Aspen with Christmas lights and decorations. My then
Supervisor, (now turned Wife) and I decided to change the drab white lights on
all the trees and buildings to brightly colored Salsa Lights, The red, blue,
green, orange, amber lights, tightly woven from all the trees in front of the
buildings, and hung along all the rooftops, literally set the up tight
establishment of the Aspen Town fathers on their ears. I was summarily crowned
the “The King of Lights,” in Aspen Colorado in 1994, in a ceremony presided
over by our entire Property Management Team, which has since become the most
prestigious Property Management and Real Estate Company in Aspen and the Entire
Roaring Fork Valley. I was presented with a tin foil crown and in a mock
ceremony became the King of Lights of Aspen, Colorado, by my boss and future
wife.
So as I stand among the Words of “Annie’s Song,” and
“Rocky Mountain High,” and listen to the gentle waters of the Roaring Fork
River cascading out of the pristine mountains of Independence Pass. I can't help but hear the refrain of Frank's Mom, "God is the Boss, Francis."
Today's Song
Cat Stevens, "Where do the Children Play"
