On July 11th, 1999 the American League made quick, efficient work of the National League, 4-1, in Major League Baseball’s 70th Annual All Star Game. It was held at Fenway Park and while Pedro Martinez twirled a nearly flawless two innings, striking out five, it was Ted Williams arriving via golf cart from center field that I really remember. Despite being a prick of herculean levels to many, the guy could never do any wrong in my eyes. Beautiful swing, spoke his mind and only ever wanted to be ‘the greatest hitter who ever lived.’ His philosophy toward hitting was something I memorized and his approach toward nearly everything, at least that I knew of, was easy for me to buy into. “There’s only one way to hit or do anything really.” He used to say, “Just get mad. Go up to the plate and be mad at the ball, mad at the pitcher, Christ be mad at everything.” Sox brass trotted him out as part of the evening’s pomp and, after holding court at the Fenway mound for what seemed like an hour, it took several pleads from the Fens announcer Carl Beane to tear the biggest stars in the game away from him. Even after Beane’s begging, I remember Cal Ripken Jr and Nomar standing pat, shaking William’s hand with both of theirs, patting his shoulder and lingering several seconds longer than most. I remember the roar of the crowd and being surprised when he tipped his cap-an effort he refused as a player, never returning from the dugout to acknowledge the fans—even after ending his career with a home run on his final at bat; his 521st. As John Updike said in his famous accounting of the event in the autumn of 1960, “Gods don’t answer letters.” I thought after they’ve been a God for a while, maybe they sort of grew into it. I didn’t manage to see much more than the opening ceremonies and a few innings of the game. My wife and I had just returned home from the hospital with our new daughter, Dehlia, a few days prior and I had fallen asleep on our painful green futon with the struggling whir of an old window fan in the background. It was hot out but I nodded off easily with my wife and daughter in the other room sleeping dreamless sleep. I remember looking forward to the next morning’s Sportscenter to see how the ‘Knights of the Keyboard’, as Williams used to refer to media, portrayed him now that he was approaching, if not fuzzy, at least warm-status, in his later years. The phone rang around 3am and it was close to my head so I grabbed it immediately-without any time to think about the unlikeliness of good news. It was my friend Liz-at least that’s what the voice said. It took several seconds to come into myself and it was difficult to get a bead on what she was saying. “Steve, Tim is dead. He was killed tonight. Oh my God Steve, he’s dead. I’m so sorry, but he’s really dead.” Something like that at least. All I really remember about the call is hanging up. The fan still struggling. And the television already showing a game recap. I watched Pedro strike out Barry Larkin, Larry Walker and Sammy Sosa on 11 pitches before reality settled. My wife had woken up and was standing a few feet away in the shadow. I told her what I had heard and she put her hand over her mouth. Then I watched Pedro strike out McGwire to start the second before I stood up. Tim Maguire and I had been friends since Junior High School. In a standard group of friends he was anything but. He had interest-bearing IRA’s before any of us even paid for our own movie tickets. He was a ball breaker, and an instigator, a mixer-upper and indefatigably dependable. We belonged to a tight group of friends but even within that orbit, Tim and I connected across a different frequency. His ability to shoot-straight, even during that phase of friendship where it’s easy not to, drew me toward him. Our friendship wasn’t something that we ever really spoke openly about but we both respected and acknowledged the connection. We were lucky to have each other and we each knew it. Even after I had moved to Vermont 5 years prior, we’d speak every day and the space he occupied in my life expanded even as the time we spent together contracted. From what Liz told me, Tim had been killed by a drunk driver-someone that was good at it –as he 3 priors suggested. He was coming home from an apparently successful blind date and was stopped at a light. The driver broadsided him in his green, gas efficient, paid-for Saturn, and reports say he never saw it coming. I have convinced myself that his last thoughts were awesome ones. He was happy to have recently held his new God-daughter, the week prior in Vermont. Thrilled that he had completed what was probably a nervous evening. And excited to drive to his new apartment, where he lived alone in his peaceful quiet, and sleep and dream about playing football for Notre Dame or double digit 401k returns or maybe a second date. I know he was listening to AM sports talk radio-trying to collect enough game data to arm him for our morning call. He’d of suggested that Pedro didn’t deserve an MVP for two innings of work or that Donna Summer, despite being from Boston, didn’t deserve to sing the anthem. They say, while he wasn’t killed instantly, he never regained consciousness and was pronounced dead at the hospital in the first hours of the next day. Just about an hour before my phone rang, and a new line of before and after was drawn for me. After reality settled itself, I packed a few things, said goodbye to my wife, my 9 day old daughter and my mother-in-law (who had the good fortune of dealing with a new life, new parents and now, death), and headed south toward Boston. I wish I remembered the music I chose, the thoughts I had or maybe the color of the sunrise breaking as I crossed into northern Massachusetts. I wish I had more clarity of the memories I called upon or some recollection of the last words we shared, or something, anything, about that ride other than a stop at Chili’s in Lowell. I had been driving for 2 hours at that point-roughly an hour from the town of Lynn where Tim and I were brought up, when I pulled into the parking lot. The sun was just up and I remember feeling something new to me at the time—a real, hard sadness—it had moved in was starting to settle. Walking into the Holiday Inn, which abutted the Chili’s, I remember seeing a newspaper stand jammed with fresh Boston Globes. I stalled long enough to connect with the headlines. The latest in the Harry Potter series, The Prisoner of Azkaban, had just been released a few days prior. Someone had broken the 3:44 mile. Tropical Storm Beatiz was gaining intensity off of Mexico’s Pacific Coast and was expected to nudge hurricane status by the end of the day. On the front page, though, was a picture of Ted Williams talking to long time Sox hanger-on Johnny Pesky, seemingly oblivious to the bedlam around him. The supporting copy was, simply, “What a night.” I went into the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes. The 70th anniversary of MLB’s All Star get together was supposed to pay tribute to the game’s all-time greats and to bid farewell to the ‘old Fenway’ as a new ownership group was well underway with plans to relocate. This game had been scheduled for Milwaukee, but it was moved to Boston when the opening of the Brewers' new field was delayed. The Red Sox had been hoping to host an All-Star game at their own new ballpark, penciled in just across the street, but were so far back in the planning stages that they couldn't be sure when that would be. The plan was to give fans, and players, a chance to say hello and, for some, goodbye. The plan was to also announce MLB’s All-Century team-the top 100 players of all time and, for those still able, assemble inside the game’s oldest park. Williams was 3rd in the voting behind Babe Ruth and Lou Gerhig but was clearly the most revered among those in attendance. Prior to the first pitch, Williams and Pesky made their way, via golf cart, from the cavernous center field of Fenway, all the way to the pitcher’s mound. There, he was mobbed by the MLB elite; fawned over by player’s who idolized him, mimicked his swing and felt the need to pay their respects. He was in his element. Talking baseball, returning the idolatry (he loved Tony Gwynn) and soaking in the adoration as a past-player that he couldn’t or wouldn’t, as an active one. Despite the July heat, he was wearing khakis, a white baseball hat with The Ted Williams Card Company on it and a white t shirt with the word ‘Remember’ in blue. I got home and drove straight to Tim’s parents’ house and it was already a mob scene. The shock was still hanging off of everyone, but we did what we could to share stories and force smiles. I mostly listened. His Mom told me how much he loved me and his Dad hugged me for what seemed like the perfect amount of time. “You were always his guy Steve, always.” He said. Tim’s parents asked that I prepare and offer the eulogy and I did. I didn’t have enough time to write anything like what he deserved, but I talked about his dependability, his love for his friends and family and how some holes are bigger than anyone’s ability to fill. I told a story about my 29th birthday. In response to me taking him to Atlantic City for his, he got me a balloon ride. Up in Vermont. Just he and I and a bottle of champagne. I thought it was about the strangest thing anyone had ever done for me-amplified only by the image of two heterosexual males drinking champagne and eating strawberries, which I hate, in a yellow balloon over the hills of southern Vermont. “I didn’t know what the hell to do for you—it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck you.” Was his response after I busted his balls about it. “I love you my man.” I said. He said fuck you again in response. We put him in the ground quickly, went and ate sandwiches and drank coffee, and then I drove home. I thought about Tim and the things he wouldn’t become. A husband, a father, a grandfather; he would forever be a son, a brother, a best friend. I thought I was dry until a recap of the game came across the radio. Williams said something to the effect of “That night was absolute magic, it was beautiful. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, not a single thing.” It was the only disagreement Williams and I ever had.

Our approaching Disney vacation meant three things. Our dilapidated roof was going to have to tough it out another winter. My wife and I, after beginning the process of packing with good intentions, would be gnashing at each other like dogs by the time we were through. And my daughter, who possesses an almost professional understanding of Cinderella, would realize a 3-year dream of eating buffet food with the good Princess. She had once seen a cheery brochure showing Cinderella kissing a boy on the cheek in front of what appeared to be an omelet station that had piqued her curiosity. “You can eat with Cinderella?” I remember her asking, “Does she eat Mac and Cheese?” Come to find out, Cinderella eats the living hell out of Mac and Cheese. We were told to make dinner reservations well in advance of our trip and, while we thought 3 months covered the ‘well-in-advance’ part, we ended up getting ‘shut out of the castle’ as insiders would tell us, and had to settle for a banquet room inside the well-meaning Grand Floridian Hotel. The ‘Castle’ dinner was a sit-down affair located inside the Magic Kingdom and was reserved for families that had made reservations 18 months in advance. Stories told of marbled floors, exquisite food, impeccable service and attentive characters that fawned over wide-eyed kids and signed autographs until their fingers, and in some cases paws, cramped. Our experience would be, in a word, different. After an hour-long process of fitting my daughter into her costume-complete with the requisite blue dress, elbow-long white gloves, black throat-choker, tiara and ill-fitted slippers, we stopped at the Hotel reservation desk exactly 15 minutes before our scheduled reservation. Our hostess told us we could wait in a short line to get Fairy Godmother’s autograph while they prepared our table. Godmother was a meaty Chinese woman in her 60’s that didn’t omit any sort of fairy charm. She seemed a little angry to me and, as she passed by me on the way to her ‘break’ I wondered to myself what the Godmother at the Varsity dinner was like and whether or not she smelled like hot dogs the way that ours did. Dehlia, who had been a bundle of overstimulation all week, was quiet and reserved and ignored the lady altogether. She was staring inside the banquet room with her hands folded, her eyes wide and her lips pursed. She kept her eyes on Cinderella and watched her move from table to table. I called her name a few times but she couldn’t blink, much less answer me. She wanted to say something, she just wasn’t sure what. Our waitress quickly shuffled us to the farthest corner of the room, past a Stepford army of miniature princesses. The room was packed with 4-8 year old girls-all of them dressed in varying combinations of Princessery. Some sported crowns. Some violently shook magic wands. And others simply sat up in their Cinderella strollers and screamed. All of them, it appeared, were exhausted from Park hopping and appeared to be in the throes of turning back into pumpkins. The intent of the Character dinner was simple. Two mice, Godmother, Prince Charming and Cinderella herself would rotate throughout the entire room, stopping at each table for autographs, pictures and, at least in Cinderella’s case, anything buttered or fried. While waiting for characters to land, families visited the buffet lines—an adult version-complete with bloody-red prime rib, steaming whitefish and some sort of off-green vegetable buried in something white. If there’s a Hell, and they eat dinner there, this is what’ll be on my plate. For the kids.

The Green Mountain Flyer, a creeper train that putts from St. Johnsbury Vermont into Newport, and back, once a week, was off in the distance about a mile or so. I couldn’t see it yet, but it fired its whistle a few times and, although not really close, it was certainly headed our way. A few minutes more, and it’d be on its way past. We sat on the edge of the field, Brooke and me and the girls, alongside our dog Shaka. She sat on a blanket in the sun with heavy, sparkless eyes. She had been diagnosed with a long-sounding disease that wasn’t going anywhere and the pain meds to make her moderately more comfortable were darkening the bit of light she had left. So she sat there in the sun while we touched her and did what we could to say things we thought might make her feel better. You’re a good girl Shaka. You’re a good girl. The relationship I had with my first dog didn’t come easy. At times I was too permissive and other times I was overly aggressive with reprimanding her. Louder than I should have been when she did wrong, and much too quiet when she did right. And she mostly did right. Still, sitting in the sun with my two daughters, my wife and my dog, I felt sad. My 2-year-old wasn’t conscious, really, of what was happening but my 8 year old was. She alternated crying with soft strokes to Shaka’s back. Good girl Shaka. ‘Saying her name makes me feel better Dad’, Dehlia said. Dehlia and her sister were headed up to spend time with relatives while my wife and I got down to the business of putting things in motion with the Vet. My father-in-law Brendan showed up just about the time we could actually see the Flyer off in the distance. Still moving slow, still headed our way. I asked Dehlia to say goodbye to Shaka and give her a hug and she did. She walked away holding her sister and Mother’s hand then disappeared behind the barn. Shaka turned her head and tried to stand and follow them but she was too weak and sat back down in a groan. Good girl Shaka. Good girl. My wife came back after seeing the girls off. ‘I’m not sure I can do this Steven.’ She said, knowing she could. Our Vet, an empathetic woman,as vets seem to be, assured us that it was the right thing to do and that, “Deciding what’s best for your pet at the end of its life is the most difficult and important part of owning them.” This isn’t a sentence I expect to soon forget. So we laid there on Shaka’s favorite blanket in the sun. My wife and I would take turns lying next to her telling her things we thought specific to our own relationship with her. “Remember that time I tried to teach you to swim”? I said, “You would have done much better if I stayed with it, that’s my fault Shaka, I’m sorry I gave up so soon.” I said. “Remember laying in the sand traps back on the golf course. You loved that didn’t you?” Good girl Shaka. Yes, you’re a good girl. Brooke was sobbing when they came with the needle. A lethal dose of barbiturates that would put our dog to sleep before the chamber was empty. The train was almost on us now and the allegory, however maudlin, wasn’t lost on me. Its whistle fired again, came within sight and then kept on rolling. Our Vet administered the shot. You were always a good girl Shaka, always a good girl. We held her close even after she left. She was warm and smelled like our dog and I started missing her immediately.

I want to be nocturnal; like a bat or a giraffe (the image of a pair of eyes in the dark, blinking once, then a light being turned on showing it’s a giraffe, may be funny) I won’t ever kill a lady bug (maybe a small child looking at an enormous lady bug who’s rapping a rolling pin in one of its hands would be funny) I want it to always be winter and always be summer I won’t ever eat my steak medium again (a kid sticks a fork in the backside of a live cow-cow raises its eyebrows) I want to be a Unimaid (Half unicorn and half mermaid) I want to live at the top of Jay Peak with my llama I’m going to drink wine every day-sometimes by myself. I will only golf if I can use colored balls I’ll always get green (?) I will watch The Walking Dead all day and probably not get scared I will always eat more than one scoop of ice cream. I will be the boss of me. When I’m big I will read big books.  And I will write long books. I will learn things.  I will invent things. I will say a lot of things I will be better at peeing in the woods. I will be a snowboard instructor I will be a princess that doesn’t care about princes. When I throw snowballs at my sisters heads, I will never miss. I won’t be scared to jump from the highest ledge. I still won’t drink Orange Juice with pulp in it. I will be in charge of the grill. I will loan my parent’s money if they need it.  They don’t even need to pay it back, you know, right away. I will expect a lot from myself. I won’t cut people in line unless I have to.  (Thought about powder day/lift line possibilities here) I will always get the last slice. I will share stuff.  Even stuff I like. I will go barefoot in the summer, everywhere I go, as long as I can wear sandals. In the winter, I will ride other places then Jay Peak, as long as they take pictures of me and give me lunch I will never forget my season pass again.  Although I probably still will I’ll probably marry Bill Stenger.  He’ll probably be really old, but nice. I will care more about snow storms than my homework I will like snow days more than beach days although beach days are better than rainy days and rainy days are better than no days. If someone falls down in Moonwalk Woods, even if they aren’t crying, I’ll make sure they’re ok I will still like snowboarding better than skiing, and skiing better than bowling and bowling better than nothing. I will eat ribs a lot and probably wipe my face on my shirt, but not if my mom is watching. I won’t catch butterflies in a net because people don’t do that. I won’t lay in a hammock because they aren’t that comfortable is you ask me plus when you fall out you could get a commission (she meant to say concussion) I will put sunblock on because it helps prevent cancer and makes you smell like you had a bath even if you haven’t for like 9 days. I will eat outside even if there are ants and grasshoppers and dirt I will play golf if I can drive the cart and not play golf.

We’ve always been a little more nuts than bolts with a few loose screws (or, possibly, just tools in general).  Too much fresh air and altitude over the years may be to blame, who knows.  Thankfully, it appears many of our guests (or those that would have us believe they’re so) are in the same rudderless boat.  The affinity toward social media extends past posting, tweeting and hashtagging.  There’s something more primal about offering people your thoughts and then being acknowledged for them.  Lucky for you, we listen and acknowledge.  Unfortunately, for you, we listen and acknowledge. If you stay, ski, ride, eat, etc, you may be hearing from us and, when you respond, you may win things.  Regardless, we appreciate your thoughts.  Even the crazy ones.  Especially the crazy ones actually.

The Jay Way is an uncommon take It’s easy to follow but tougher to fake It’s seniors and juniors and never before's It’s powder and puddles and not keeping score Just do what you say, then say what you do Your friends might not get it, but that’s ok too (You’re much better looking and much smarter too) It’s here when you’re ready, this ground you can walk It doesn’t take luggage, but pack some good socks Because when it’s all said, it still isn’t done You’ll meet uncommon people and have uncommon fun It’ll unfold before you this season, this day Maybe you’ll join us, it’s this way to Jay.

Before Gluskab of the Abenaki made the world safe for humans, the Monts–mountain-like children of the creator and Gaia–walked and talked like men. Despite being mystical children of ancient spirits, I reckon they got lonely like men, too–because, they got together often to play a game called Ranges. Standing hand-in-hand, teams competed in casting the biggest shadows. Yes, it was painfully boring, but hockey wouldn’t be invented for millennia and they didn’t have cable–so it was popular. So popular that its inventors, Birki and his brother Jaya, were rewarded a kingdom to share. The Great Coronation Confrontation Monts from everywhere came for the brothers’ coronation. A Ranges tournament was to be held, followed by a feast of fresh Catamount (no stir fry jokes, it’s an important plot point). Now, as is often the case when bands of ancient, elemental creatures get together–you know how it is–they had too much wine and a dispute broke out about Ranges official rules. Himy (the tallest Mont) argued that biggest shadow meant highest, while Andy’s team (from far south) argued it meant longest. For an official ruling, they took it to the game’s inventors, the soon-to-be brother kings. Jaya, being taller, confidently answered “higher”, just as his older brother answered “longer.” A mildly embarrassing contradiction, that started a calm discussion as each pointed out how the other had misunderstood a fairly obvious rule. A discussion that quickly escalated, because if one thing’s true of Monts, it’s that you can’t move them. You can go over, around–even through them–but you’ll never move them. So neither brother would budge from his position. And the argument raged on until most of the guests, bored, went home to wait on the official ruling. And the coronation was put on hold. The Cat’s Divide Now the wise–many say handsome–Catamount, saw a way off the menu and spoke. “You Monts aren’t aware, but I am a master of gamesmanship.” Which was true. “Let’s settle this with a King Contest. Both of you create a crown. One will, undoubtedly, be more magnificent and its wearer will be king and decide the rules. If, somehow, you can’t agree on a winning crown, I volunteer to judge. With no dog in this fight, I’m impartial.” An odd choice of words, since dogs hadn’t been created yet, but the rest made sense. So they went with it. The brothers stormed off to create their thrown-winning crowns. But as Birki walked, he cooled off. Being right about a stupid game wasn’t worth losing his brother. Why not play with two sets of rules? Set up two leagues? And then, at the end of a season, the champions of both leagues could square off in a seven-game series. Alternating rules. No one could ever argue with that, could they? Just call it the Gaia Series. Problem solved. And it would have been, had his path back not taken him past the clever–dare we say brilliant–Catamount. After hearing Birki’s plan, the Catamount shook his nearly perfect head while crafting another ingenious way out of being dinner. “Birki,” he said, “Your brother’s name, Jaya, means victory. Yours means birch wood. The younger Monts are naïve and think winning is his birthright. Those young, green Monts will line up behind Jaya. So if you bring up this idea, they’re gonna laugh. You have to take victory and make it a part of you. It’s the only way.” With that, a dejected Birki fled to the edge of the kingdom to think and the handsome Catamount lived another day. A Clash of Crowns The Day of Crowns came. Jaya presented first. Taller, he could just reach the clouds and had pulled one from the sky, covering it with white crystals that fell down his back. The Monts cheered, unknowingly supporting the Catamount’s clever ruse. You can’t blame them, he had a cloud resting on his head, it’s impressive. An angry Birki then presented a crown made of every tree in the forest, vast and beautiful. But before any could react, he put it on and yelled, “This forest is my crown, it is called Victory. And no Mont can take Victory from me.” Now Jaya, too was enraged. And a scuffle broke out that threatened to destroy the whole kingdom, until the voice of the Catamount–silky might describe it best–calmed them. “Fellas, you agreed that if you couldn’t pick a winner, I would be The Judge. Now, I’m surprised at anyone, but this appears to be the case. It will be hard, both are beautiful, but I will bear the burden. Perhaps if you untie me and I can walk a bit, the decision will come easier.” Blinded by the need to win, the brothers let their coronation feast stroll off. “I’ll go North,” the charming Catamount said over his shoulder. “You two wait, here.” and disappeared. The brothers, still angry, went to opposite sides of the Kingdom. Birki to the East, sat with Victory forest at his side. Jaya to the west with the Green Monts, frightened of Birki, falling in behind him. There they sat. Too stubborn and proud to speak to one another, time turned them both to stone. Forever apart, the story of the Monts–mountains as people call them was forgotten and only their names remained. And the Catamount was never seen in the Kingdom again. Fast Forward. In the summer of 2012 a business decision was made that would reunite these mythical brothers. It was business. Prompted by a phone call. Or that’s what they would have you believe. But maybe, just maybe, softened by age or guilt the Catamount whispered to two boys in their dreams–a spirit guide of sorts–and shaped the course of their lives. Boys who, maybe, grew up to be respected men–business owners, financial partners. The kind of men who don’t talk of spirit cats guiding decisions–well, not without being considered even crazier, at least. Who would believe them? How could anyone? This is the real world, right? Men aren’t guided to right ancient wrongs. Even if it was true, they could never tell. And what of the charismatic, clever Catamount, the Judge? Well, I’m not talking either.

In Vermont her own life. Born in Newport. Grew up in Irasburg. Lived in Troy for 25 years. Been at Jay Peak for 10-15 years on the Tram. Worked in HK before the Tram—wasn’t much a fan of cleaning bathrooms. Cleaned the old Hotel Jay—worked with Alice—that lady can room. Most definitely prefer the Tram. I look at this way though, one way or another, we all have to clean our share of toilets. (Chic is here, and talking about toilet cleaning) Her position on the Tram, I think I’m in charge of the tram, but most people don’t listen to me anyway. Usually 7:30 midweek, 7:00. First things, we load water, test run, shovel cabins, have to go up on top every once in a while. I wear a belt. One guy slipped a few years ago but the harness held. He was scared enough of that. I like winter better. More people. In the summer tram runs too slow. Challenging folks stay on longer. Interesting things I’ve seen---moose, turkey, bear, (1st one last summer)—black bear. See Moose on the goat run a lot. (Chic tells us it’s his 85th birthday this year—I will likely get drunk and play golf with my relatives. I had a wedding up here last year. It was awesome. I drank red wine.) I eat in the little bits of time at the bottom. I don’t eat it all at once. First the sandwich-it might take an hour which they say is good for you. I bring small stuff. Sometime I get tips in the summer. Older folks usually. Sometimes they miss the sign to buy tickets and I head out and get it for them. I used to hate to check tickets but then it got easier. Rude people can come from anywhere. But most people are nice. People bring all sorts of stuff with them to the mtn. Who knows. Some people get scared. Lady wouldn’t get in to come back down. Had to have JVFD to get a track vehicle to take her back down. (Chic tells story about his first trip on tram. Violet thought it was stunning but she never opened her eyes, not once). Practice evac all the time. Just did it a month ago. (Chic talking about where he stayed when he first came up here. I had to go through their living room to get to my bedroom—embarrassing when I had half a snoot on and the parents were watching Make a Deal). Because of investors, I see folks from all over—talking to them is a real challenge. One family from near the equator somewhere, and they said Christmas here is much better than the beach. People who have never been here before, even if they’re from crazy far away places, think it’s really really special. Probably because it is. They love the views. Very cool to watch folks light up.

I recently had a conversation with Alice Chicoine-a Jay Peak Housekeeper, bed-maker, and Raised—Jayer for the better part of 35 years. I spoke to her in my office one Spring morning roughly 30 minutes before the start of a shift that would send her into The Tram Haus Lodge for the beginning of ‘Annual Cleans. Alice neither looked forward to, nor dreaded this effort-“It is what it is” she offered when I asked if it was something she either dreaded or looked forward to. This unconsciously ambivalent tone would be interpreted as unconsciously ambivalent coming from just about anyone else. From Alice, though, the reading was literal; an answer, albeit an economic one, to a question. A life of child raising, farm tending and annual cleaning doesn’t leave much room for adverbs, for adjectives-for anything else, really, but the quick and critical. She suffered my questions with the patience probably reserved for her 25 grand and great grandchildren and, when we had finished, shook my hand, turned and went to start her shift.

I have this plant in my office that, each year around this same time, spits forth a red flower. I’m not sure of its species though I believe the genus is called a Succulent. This I remember not only because it’s sort of a pleasant word but because these sorts of plants are good at storing things for later; basically botanical hoarders which is an interesting thing to remember. They are perfectly adapted for dry environments partially because of their mucilaginous nature which, as a word, is somewhat less pleasant. All this to say, it’s a heckuva plant and right around the time we go to print with the Magazine? Bam; a flower. This is the sort of thing that passes for summer inspiration around these parts in February. As we press on, temps are in the double digits below zero, heavy snow is pounding, and a light pole on the Tramside of the resort has just blown over. Small, hoarding plants will have to do. Regardless, we have enough stored in our personal data files to remind us of what’s in store. Deep greens and blues. And Friday night BBQ’s. Indoor waterparks with their tops down. Swimming holes and Tram rides and hiking and viewing the sweet season from a mountain peak rather than a week-at-the-beach. These are things Jay Peakers remember about summer. And not unlike Ms. Succulent, our ability to store away these memories help us through what can be an interminably long, if not still joyful, winter. Summer begins just as school ends and many stories inside this season’s Magazine will connect to that. You’ll see how locals use the resort to strategically vacation (Lancasters) and learn about the strategy required to win a grueling footrace up and over the mountain (Run for the Hills). You’ll hear what our critics think about holding onto winter inside our year-round Jay Peak Ice Haus (Taming The Critics), as we start holding you accountable in our Raised Jay V Raised Something Else section (xx). We’ll show you how, euphemisms be damned, a kid handles the monster (For the Love of The Links pg xx) and what to do when confronted with a monstrous decision (August West pg. xx v. VSO pg. xx). In between, we’ll show you how to book a package, where to stay, small bits of nothing and medium bits of something. What else is in store for this upcoming Jay Peak Summer? We’ve heard things about big Stateside concerts, outdoor amphitheaters, new events and, of course, development that will net us a new climbing center and independent movie theater for next winter. We may even surprise ourselves which happens in a more regular fashion than you’d imagine. Remember this though-whatever happens here, and whatever you get to be a part of this Summer, for sure, will be worth remembering.

It’s really the damn marketers fault. The expectations we put on vacations and corresponding, though potentially unconscious, notion that we better damn well be creating memories I mean. And those memories better be huge; 65 MPH drop, favorite meal ever, biggest snowstorm in history type huge. It’s what we’ve all come to demand from our vacations-even your friend to the left that simply offers, “I just want to relax.” is really saying “I better remember this as a vacation so relaxing my heart slowed to a full stop” type experience. Marketers have leveraged the notion of memory making by promising things like, ‘Memories Created Here’ with Cinderella’s Castle as backdrop, ‘The Sea Is Calling’ with an ocean liner the size of a Junior High School, or a Paragliding tour company who send folks over an active Indonesian volcano suggesting, ‘We Can’t Guarantee You Won’t Get Scorched!” as its cutline. Double negatives aside, each Marketing Department is, not-so-subtly, promising you a vacation you won’t forget by trying to create moments so big, you can’t. If only we were innocent of the charges here at Jay Peak. On one hand, you can’t fault us. When you add $200,000,000 worth of on and off mountain upgrades ranging from indoor ice arenas, increased snowmaking firepower and gorgeously affordable slope side lodging to Championship golf courses, new Mountain Learning Centers and a massive indoor waterpark-you feel obliged to promise a vacation that will stick with you, somewhere, forever. See, there we go again. We can’t help ourselves. But this year, we’re betting on the small. On the slow. And the deliberate. We’re betting the memories you’ll make, while spending time with us in the mountains, won’t be judged by their size or speed but by how well they connect you to a place in time. To a moment. To your moment. And then we want you to share them with us. In some sense, this year’s Jay Magazine will bear out the benefits of anticipating the big while appreciating the slow. You’ll read about The O’Shea’s small, thoughtful corner of the Kingdom and better understand the small bits of Jay that kid’s value (Pg XX). You’ll get insight into a major shot in the arm of our Snowsports School with the addition of our new Mountain Learning Center (Pg XX) and get a whiff of our alarmingly big sandwiches, piled high, and served higher-up in our refurbished Sky Haus Café. You’ll hear our Mtn Planner Walter Elander plan (Pg xx), you’ll get an idea of what’s Raised Jay and what isn’t (Pg XX) and you’ll get a first-frame look at what the most ardent within Raised Jay Nation consider moment-worthy. In between, we’ll show you how affordable it can be to visit, the best times to land, what’s new, what’s better, and what’s what. And then you can take it from there. What’s always been special about Jay Peak-what separates us from other great vacations, is us; the real belief that the distinction between employee and guest can be very small. Show us what means a lot to you—what you remember and what’s likely to always stay with you. Those moments you’ll share are likely to feel very familiar. To all of Us.

I started taking French in the 7th grade. And by taking I mean slouching, perfecting the ACDC lightning bolt doodle on my book-covers and, mostly, flailing around with uncomfortable words like inconfortable and avoirdupois. I realized that I simply wasn’t one of those people meant to speak in any more than one language and English had, if not a head start, a smallish lead. I did, however, find that certain words held an appeal that I couldn’t understand. Charcuterie for one. It means pork products or French deli or something. And bric-a-brac which I’ve kept close to my heart since the moment I realized it actually has no meaning at all and no official translation. I hadn’t thought much about those halcyon days until I recently came across another French word with a strange yet undeniable appeal as we prepared this summer’s magazine. Terrior. I, of course, wanted it to derive meaning from the terror family, carrying some dark, insulting gloom that I could fire off at co-workers. Unfortunately, it means a special set of characteristics that geography and geology and plant genetics combine to create. Like special characteristics that wine, coffee, and tomatoes can carry—that sort of thing. French winemakers first developed the concept of terroir by observing the differences in wines from different regions or even micro-variations from different sections of the same vineyard. This says much about both the almost artful focus of winemakers and the equally incalculable amount of down time the French appear to be burdened with. Nonetheless, it was a word that kept inserting itself into story ideas as we created this year’s travail d’amour. How about that, huh? If it isn’t obvious that the terra firma surrounding us at Jay Peak grows things differently, one need look no further than page 27 and our interview with local Rob Conrad. Not unlike coffee or chocolate, those raised inside our fertile borders carry with them an unmistakable stamp that is as easily recognized as it is difficult to describe; our interview with co-owner Ariel Quiros on page 5 bears that out perfectly. Our story on the Green Mountain Avalanche Hockey Tournament Series (page 16) proves that ice, and not just soil, can be foundation for the ties that bind. Maybe the best option, the best hope of sinking roots that’ll hold, happens through our Raised Jay Camps (page 18); a little water, some ice, and just enough dirt to ground you; that’s what our summer youngsters get access to. In between you’ll find stories and sidebars, pictures and marginalia and enough wonderfulness, to keep you inspired. Or, as the French call it, inspired.