Egg in Your Beer

When you're ambling down Massachusetts Avenue worrying about how many cases you should have put into McCloskey's first question, and you get clipped in the ear with a hickory stick and spiked in the ribs by an aluminum rod-then you know that exams are over and the big exodus has begun. They're all off to the slopes to "ski."

It doesn't make any difference whether or not they know how; it doesn't make any difference whether or not they have any skis; or boots; or poles-those who do invariably wind up in Stillman any-way-but what does matter is whether or not they have a sexy pair of ski-pants (If they're Radcliffe students) or a couple of bottles of Old Crow (if they're Harvard men). After all, the word "skiing" in the vocabulary of the normal red-blooded American doesn't usually fit Webster's definition-it means something different to every "skier."

Different in many respects, perhaps, but not in the basic one. Sure, some of them are Olympic vets-you can tell them because they schuss the slaloms, roll up their shirt sleeves, wear goggles, and usually flash a toothy grin and yodel something in Austrian at you-they are the ones that know how. Or else they're earnest. You can tell this type because they refuse a cocktail at noon and always rush off to the slopes like Greta Garbo-"I vant to be alone!" They do parallel christies all the way down the slope, stand at the bottom and examine the trail they left, and then climb on the tow again with a determined expression, swearing softly.

But the most numerous type (and at this time of year the resorts are lousy with 'em) is the "snowbunny." This term is usually mouthed with much contempt by those who "know how." It means that the poor guy hasn't had much experience. He asks straight as far as he can till he meets another skier, or a tree, or a bump, and then he falls down. When he gets up he tries again. But he's happy. He loves the feel of the cool clear crystals in his early, the wind whipping by his watering eyes, and the relaxing ride on the tow.

The tow. That is the wonder of the modern-day fairy-land that is a New Hampshire or Vermont ski resort. Whether it's a chair lift, a rope tow, or a T-bar, there they all are. All types ride the tow. And here is where the basic purpose of the skier comes to the surface.

The pretty girls stretch and wink at that handsome blond who sits two seats over in Nat. Sci. The normal boy juggles his position on each ride so he can find out what each pretty girl is doing that night.

And there it is-the basic human urge, and the fundamental purpose for a "ski" trip. Everybody, no matter what class skier he is, looks forward to the evening. The cozy fireside, the soothing Old Fashioned and the second and the third) and the pleasant company!

So the next time you're forced off the sidewalk by a Hannes Schneider pair of skis, or you bumble into a conversation about granular on the Nosedive, don't be misled. It's just ski jargon for what you too have discussed. Who does what, where, when, and how much.