It all started with Mom’s skis |

It all started with Mom’s skis

Peter W. Seibert

I enjoyed a New England childhood that was like growing up in a Norman Rockwell painting. We lived on a five-acre plot with a large lawn and fruit trees, a slightly run-down hundred-year-old white Victorian house, and a faded red barn. In summer, we had a swimming hole in Mann’s Pond, next to my grandfather’s textile mill.

Our house was located near three of the most notable landmarks in Sharon: the nine-hole Sharon Golf Club; Geissler’s Farm, which was famous statewide for its apple cider; and the nudist colony, where a couple of hundred naked souls spent summers living together in tents.

Nudes notwithstanding, winter was my favorite season.

The first time I ever touched a pair of skis, I was 7 years old. The great moment occurred while I was rummaging around among the hay bales and the worn-out harnesses stored in the loft of our barn. In a dark corner, apparently unnoticed for years, stood a pair of maple-wood skis, things of beauty and wonderment despite the dust that covered them.

It turned out they belonged to my mother. They had been carefully shaped and carved by a local woodworker especially for her. But she had given up the sport after she had children, and I inherited the skis.

Support Local Journalism

Never have I experienced a more complete sense of joy and adventure than when I first stuck my hunting boots into the leather toe straps and proceeded down the modest hills outside town. My life changed completely because of those first real skis.

Support Local Journalism