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By Slim Randles

December 10, 2004

Marvin Pincus usually has something to say about almost everything, and this time it was skiing. He was stopped, there on Parker’s Ridge, our local ski slope, resting his arms on the antique wooden ski poles he’d used since the Hoover Administration.

Down the hill came youngsters, swooping and swooshing on snowboards, cutting roostertails of powdery snow, and setting ol’ Marvin to shaking his head.

"When I was young, we had to work at this, you know," he said, his breath rising like geysers of human antiquity. "First of all, you had to have skiing lessons. Then you had to buy the right equipment and practice learning to stop and turn. When you got really good at it, you could go out and pick up a handful of snow and tell exactly what kind of wax to use on your skis."

He shook his head. "But now we have these snowboards. It sure does look like a lot of fun, I must admit, but near as I can tell, all you need to get started in that sport is an idiot and a six-pack."

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