SEPTEMBER 21, 2023 – Conditions at 42 Baghdad Street saw no improvement in 2008. Cliff remained as busy as ever with Cliffhanger Productions, barreling straight through the financial crisis that fall. If people’s investment portfolios were taking a major hit, rich folks still needed someone to produce over-the-top birthday parties for their kids, and Cliff was their man. Given UB’s investment acumen, for all I knew he’d gone short on mortgage-backed securities.
I maintained my distance from Rutherford. I was particularly busy at work and thankfully so: I needed to keep up with the high cost of Byron’s education. With difficulty I conquered bitterness over UB’s gifting gobs of cash to support the drug habit and life style of a ne’er do well instead of loaning Byron education funds at an interest rate indexed to academic performance. I pretended that UB was perfectly sane but had a fetish for expensive Italian cars: his money, his choice as to how to spend it, except—what about Mother’s inheritance? Yes, what about it? If she had her way, it would all go to the church. Her money, her choice.
If Cliff remained saddled with the de facto guardianship of UB, that burden was often supported by Cliff’s money and always his choice. He certainly wasn’t duty-bound to look after UB and plug holes in the dilapidated warehouses. Whatever moral debt he’d accumulated during his devilish rock ’n roll days, he’d repaid it many times over with the angelic grace he’d bestowed over 42 Baghdad Street.
Mother’s relationship with UB was in hiatus. As long as I could remember, Mother and UB had talked regularly by phone, and when Gaga and Grandpa were in their late 80s and 90s, of course, Mother spent lots of time with UB on her long regular trips to Rutherford to lend UB help and support. As UB and Mother themselves reached their mid-80s, however, they seemed to have less to talk about. Or rather Mother grew more laconic as UB became more loquacious. I think Mother reached a point where she wearied of his blather. UB could talk your ear off about any subject he chose—often a ploy, I’d concluded, to discourage talk about personally nettlesome matters. Long stretches would pass without any contact between the two siblings. On one occasion when I asked Mother if she’d heard lately from UB, she startled me by answering nonchalantly, “No. Maybe he’s dead.”
In March 2009 I re-enacted a UB ski trip to Vermont but without UB. Cory and I flew out to Boston, picked up Byron from Babson College and drove to the Green Mountain State. From Brattleboro on the Connecticut River—116 miles upstream from Hamburg Cove—we took Route 9 west to Wilmington, UB’s ski headquarters back in the day. Halfway we passed Hogback Ski Area, where UB had been a member of the inner circle as part owner, board member, and close friend of the founders/managers. The area had closed for good in 1986, the year Cory was born. I felt a twinge of nostalgia and sadness as I began to describe my fond memories of the place. My voice trailed off when I realized my sons were probably being more polite than attentive.
Besides, I told myself, Hogback would have been too tame for Cory and Byron.
We stayed at a classic old Wilmington inn, ate at Dot’s Restaurant, where UB and I had often dined decades before, and skied Stratton, which in my youth I thought was a major mountain. On this occasion, Stratton seemed rather modest so we ventured farther north to Okemo in search of more challenging terrain.
We enjoyed a wonderful ski trip, but it was a constant reminder of my estrangement from UB—“the man who had invented skiing.” Upon returning home, I fashioned an olive branch. It took the form of a long letter replete with contemplative reminiscences.
Dear Uncle Bruce,
I hope this finds you in good health and cheer[. . .]
This letter is prompted by a recent ski trip to Vermont with Cory and Byron. I thought a lot about you during the trip and wanted to share some of those thoughts with you.
[. . .]
As the sun drifted toward the horizon, the boys and I drove on to Wilmington in search of a ski rental shop to get a head start on skiing the next day [. . .] When we reached the place of the “100-mile view,” at the highpoint between Brattleboro and Wilmington, I pointed out the three landmarks—the three memory-marks—to Cory and Byron: the old Marlboro Inn, where you and I used to stay, enjoying conversation in the small, quiet, cozy lobby after a hard day of skiing; the Skyline Restaurant, where we ate many a fine meal, served up by the Hamiltons, who always treated us so cordially; and of course, Hogback Ski Area, where we spent so many wonderful days skiing together. I slowed way down and pointed out with amazement how the abandoned slopes had been almost completely overgrown with trees. So many memories of that place flashed back—lessons with Erik Hammerlund and skiing with you down “Meadow,” “Rim Runner,” “Sugar,” “Slalom,” “Molly Stark,” “Olga,” and “The Great White Way.” I told the boys how Hogback was the place where “Uncle Bruce took me to learn how to ski.”
In Wilmington I showed Cory and Byron Wee Moran’s old shop—and told them all about Wee—and other local landmarks, including Dot’s Restaurant. Wee’s building looked quite old, decrepit and depressed. It housed some kind of organic food and California-style Buddhist trinkets and literature—a throwback to Faye’s business, I thought—but the establishment wasn’t open, and I wondered if it wasn’t closed permanently or fading fast in that direction.
Dot’s Restaurant, inside and out, looked exactly as it had when you and I first ate there 41 (!) years ago, and I told the kids so. I suggested we try it out for dinner, and with a shrug of the shoulders, they followed me into the place. As it turned out, the food and service made such a positive impression on the boys, they insisted we eat there again each night of our stay in Vermont. The staff and the other patrons were all from central casting—locals wearing red and black flannel shirts and old-fashioned winter caps, and bantering with the waitress, all with strong Vermont accents; the chef calling out filled orders as he slid the plates onto the ledge of a small pass-through in the kitchen wall; the chef’s kitchen helper and floor sweeper—a guy as thin as a bean pole, wearing a faded baseball cap down tight on his ears, an apron down to his knees, and a beard down to his waist. I asked about Dot and learned that she was still alive, still around, but that years ago she had sold the establishment to the current owners.
On Friday morning, we got an early start, picked up rental equipment for Cory and me (Byron has his own), and drove north to Stratton Mountain. Ever since you sent me a trail map/brochure for Stratton back in 1966, I’d been curious about the place. It was treated favorably in the “List of Ski Areas” under “Vermont” in the back of that little book you gave me for Christmas in 1966, what would become my little bible of skiing, the little paperback book with the simple, direct title, Guide to Skiing. [See 7/17/23 post] You and I never skied together at Stratton (I had never skied there at any other time either), and so on this occasion, I decided we’d give it a try.
Enroute, of course, we drove past Mt. Snow, where you and I had skied one foggy day in January 1967. Back then it seemed so huge, particularly in contrast to Midwest ski areas, and I was quite impressed by a place with a gondola, many slopes I wasn’t then proficient enough to handle, summit slope signs pointing in every direction, and a big complex of buildings at the base. But this time, under clear blue skies and against our many family ski trips to Utah, Montana, and Colorado, Mt. Snow did not look so big and overwhelming, and in fact, from our relatively close vantage point along Route 100, the boys and I agreed that Mt. Snow looked rather tame.
We would think the same of Stratton. However, neither Cory nor I had downhill skied in over two years, and I am a full decade older than you were on my first trip to Vermont, so it was probably prudent to spend our first of three days at a “tame” ski area. The views were stupendous, however, and I fully enjoyed the experience of satisfying my curiosity about this “Stratton Mountain,” which had inspired an essay I wrote for a seventh grade English assignment. If the pitch and terrain of the slopes weren’t particularly challenging, the crowds were for much of the day. We heard lots of people from “Joisey,” and saw lots of people of ethnic backgrounds that we never would have seen in lift lines 40 years ago. How extraordinary, really—my own sons, born in Korea, remarking about how many Asians were at the ski area!
The next day we decided to aim for a place with more vertical and more black diamond runs. We settled on Okemo—a ski area boasting 2,200 vertical feet and located about an hour and 20 minutes from Wilmington. I’d heard of Okemo, of course, but never in a way that attracted my attention. However, on the recommendation of several skiers, we decided to give it a try.
The day promised to be perfect for spring skiing—bright and sunny, with overnight temps climbing quickly out of the high 20s at sunrise, through the 30s and into the mid- to upper-40s by day’s end. It would be a perfect day, too, but before I provide a sketch, let me tell you about the miraculous conversation I enjoyed with Cory on the way to Okemo.
Soon after we left Wilmington, Byron nodded off, which he often does on long car rides, while Cory started talking—pretty much non-stop—which is his custom on extended drives. Now, by way of background, you need to know that Cory, that perfectly precocious, well-behaved, well-adjusted, cute-as-a-button kid who joined us (you, Cliff and me) on those train trips to Big Mountain in Montana, went through pure hell as a teenager, which put Beth and me through a different kind of hell. I’ll spare you the details, but it was one rocky road, one turbulent ride, and if it didn’t take a decade off my life, it certainly turned my hair and beard prematurely grey and drained our financial resources [. . .]
For the entire trip to Okemo—and again on the road trip the next day—I listened to Cory describe his current take on life, its challenges, its promises. It was the most remarkable conversation I have ever had with him. In the course of it, he revealed how extremely intelligent he is and articulate too. He expressed insights not only into his own life but life in general, the greater world, the business establishment where he works, the financial crisis, the failings of higher education, his artistic aspirations (he has produced some amazing ceramic work), his relationship with others, the way to a happy life, the way to a productive and meaningful life.
But then, Uncle Bruce, this thought came along: this conversation, this conversation that I swear to you nearly every parent of a foreign-born-adoptee would pay a million dollars to have, would not have happened if we were not on a ski trip, on this particular ski trip. And the reason we are on this specific ski trip, this drive on this road from Wilmington to Okemo is because of Uncle Bruce. If Uncle Bruce hadn’t reached out to me way back in 1966, if he hadn’t so generously brought me to Vermont every year after that throughout my high school years and beyond, if he hadn’t provided lessons for me, coached me, gotten me totally hooked on skiing, I wouldn’t have introduced my sons to the sport. I wouldn’t be leading them on a ski trip. I wouldn’t be leading them on a ski trip to Vermont with Wilmington as our base. I wouldn’t be having this amazingly critical and rewarding conversation.
It occurred to me that this episode is a reminder of how the world turns, how our actions influence the lives of others, and how one event in life can lead to a profound but unforeseeable outcome in the distant future. And of course, I was struck by what an enormously positive influence you have had on my life, and indeed, on the lives of Cory and Byron.
* * *
Over the course of our second two ski days—both at Okemo under deep blue skies, a bright shining sun and balmy temperatures—the boys and I would proceed to “own” the mountain. Each of these days we skied very hard for six hours straight, skipping lunch and taking only one bathroom break and one granola bar break. As a veteran skier, you know how extraordinary a feat it is for three skiers to ski together, non-stop, and no more than three or four turns apart down every single run (vertical feet ranging between 1,000 and 1,600), most of which were black diamonds, many of which were mogul-filled, all day long for two days straight. But that is how the three of us skied—often to cheers from passengers on the chairlift above us and to exclamations by skiers stopped on the slope as we flew past them. “Wow!” they’d say. “Look at those guys go!” we’d hear.
I skied in the style I learned in Vermont over four decades ago—feet close together, poles planted in precision rhythm with every turn, upper body facing downhill at all times, lower body doing all the turning—with turns executed in quick succession at a fast downhill clip—the Austrian wedeln. It was the style of Erik Hammerlund, my first instructor at Hogback, a style that I knew then and there I wanted to learn to perfection. It is not a style one sees any more, but the boys told me they liked it, and Byron even worked hard at emulating it. At the bottom of one run, an Asian-American man skied up to me and in heavily accented English told me how much he liked the style and asked where I had learned to ski like that. “Right here in Vermont,” I replied with a smile.
Considering my age and my two-year hiatus from downhill skiing and upon realizing that next to most equipment I saw on the mountain, my rental skis were complete garbage, I found great encouragement on this Vermont ski trip. I realized I still had it in me. That the lessons, the proficiencies gained decades ago, had been so deeply embedded in my brain, all I need to do is stay in shape and I’ll be able to ski into advanced age. But more than that, I realized that the memories I had of those formative years were as deeply beautiful as the majestic vistas that surrounded us there in Vermont on this most recent trip.
I have written a little memoir about my first ski trip to Vermont and am enclosing a copy. I hope you will enjoy as much reading about that trip as I did recounting it, and I hope it will in some small measure, at least, work toward reconciliation between us.
To sign off, I used UB’s customary valediction . . . years before when he sent me handwritten, engagingly friendly letters:
Best wishes,
I was neither surprised nor disappointed that UB never responded directly to my letter. A short while later, however, I learned from Cliff that UB had, in fact, reacted very positively to the letter, though with regard to the “memoir” (heavily edited versions of 7/18 – 20/23 posts), he had remarked, “that’s not how I remember it.” This puzzled me greatly. What was it that he didn’t remember the way I had told it? His perception of current reality had become so distorted, I surmised, there was no reason that delusion wouldn’t also recast his memories.
In any event, Cliff’s call a couple of weeks later was prompted by something quite apart from the letter. “Happy Easter, Cliff!” I greeted him.
“Yeah, Happy Easter,” Cliff answered, “except there’s no church involved for me.”
“Nor for me,” I said, “now that I’m officially a doubter.”
“About five years ago I went around telling people I was an atheist, but now I really mean it!” Cliff laughed. “Anyway, I didn’t call you to wish you a Happy Easter. I called you to tell you the latest in the world according to Bruce.”
“Uh-oh!”
“Yeah, ‘uh-oh’ is right. Yesterday, Angelo came rushing into my store, all hyper and nervous—you know the way he gets—and told me that UB had asked him, Angelo, for a cash loan in the amount of $1,200.00. ‘What in the world is he asking me for a loan, Cliff?’ he said. ‘He’s the one with all the money.’
“We both know, Eric, why he needed the money so desperately,” said Cliff. “That fucking blood-sucker over in London or Belgrade or wherever the hell he is right now, threatened not to talk to him ever again if he didn’t send a pile of dough like now. It’s emotional extortion. I’m telling you, Eric, this whole money drain has gone to another level. We’ve got to stop it. This is utterly ridiculous—that Uncle Bruce should have to go to his handyman for a loan. I mean, this is crazy.”
“Cliff—this just in: Uncle Bruce is crazy.” My attempt at humor elicited a laugh from Cliff, but my heart sank. If the “fucking blood-sucker” was a drug addict who knew how to work UB like an ATM, UB was an ATM flat out of cash, but more critically, a desperate and vulnerable one, so addicted to the drug addict, that he would go to any lengths to feed their symbiotic habits. I suspected that because UB didn’t have enough cash on hand to meet the drug addict’s blood-sucking demands, and since the banks were closed, and further, they typically impose a daily withdrawal limit, UB had gone to the nearest conceivable, albeit unlikely, source—his gardener, handyman. UB’s entreaty wasn’t triggered by his impoverishment but by the immediacy of Alex’s demand. Cliff was correct: it was emotional extortion. Whatever the cause, the circumstances were pathetic.
Later Easter Sunday, Beth, Cory and I drove to Anoka to visit Mother and Dad. I didn’t breathe a word of my conversation with Cliff to Mother or Dad. I knew it had the potential to send Mother on a bad psychological trip, and what was the point to confiding in Dad? He would react with disgust, which then or later would undermine Mother’s equilibrium. I made the mistake, however, of mentioning it to Beth and Cory on the way home from Anoka. They both came down hard on me for not having taken more decisive action against UB long ago.
The conversation was an almost exact repeat of the periodic arguments I had had with Beth over the years.
By this time in my life, very little seemed certain—to the point paradoxically where I was even uncertain of my uncertainty. But Beth and Cory hailed from different worlds of experience—and different gene pools from mine—wherein certitude about many things reigned supreme. In Beth’s judgment, UB was a despicable convict awaiting sentencing by me, the judge, who was shirking my judicial responsibilities. Count One: Guilty (UB was obsessed with gay porn and lived in a garbage house). Count Two: Guilty (He’d squandered his sister’s—my mother’s—inheritance). It didn’t matter that UB had never had been formally “charged” and treated by a psychiatrist or clinical psychologist. He was bad and wrong, and enough was enough. Moreover, the proper sentence was self-evident: life imprisonment behind the controls of a court-appointed guardianship.
Of course, I’d been through the metaphorical trial a hundred times and kept reaching the same verdict: the protracted process would (a) force me to spend further time away from my law practice; (b) require UB’s confinement in an expensive institution, draining his resources as much as Alex was doing; and (c) kill Mother in the bargain. However earnestly I attempted to lay out the nature of trench warfare, I could never get Beth or even Cliff to understand fully. One of the blessings of my life, though, was that all three of my sisters understood thoroughly the realities of the war that none of us wanted to fight, and if it was anyone’s war, it was ours and ours alone to declare and fight—or not to declare and not to fight.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
