JULY 26, 2023 – For the next four years, my life was consumed by the violin, and nowhere close to the state of Vermont, except for a few days during each Christmas vacation, when Uncle Bruce would invite me out to ski with him at Hogback[1].
Despite all the runs we took together, Uncle Bruce never once commented about my form, which had progressed from “beginner” on my first trip to Vermont, to “very proficient” as time progressed. I always wondered what he thought of my skiing. After all, as I would quip later in life, Uncle Bruce was “the man who invented skiing.” He himself was an expert if not exactly fancy skier, who could fully-critique any skier on the slopes. In addition he was quite in the know when it came to trends in the industry. He attended the big annual ski shows in New York City, hobnobbed with skiing greats, and subscribed to Ski and Skiing, the two major ski magazines of the day. Thanks to Uncle Bruce, I acquired a robust collection of “Think Snow” pins and buttons and autographed posters of skiing greats of the day.
But one day, I learned that he had indeed formed an impression of my skiing ability. The only other member of the family who had any notion of Uncle Bruce’s life as a skier was Elsa, whom Uncle Bruce invited on ski trips to Vermont several times during her years at Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. After one of those trips, she told me that while they were riding up a lift together, she had asked him to point out a skier on the slopes who skied like me. “He looked around for a while,” she said, “and he told me, ‘There’s no one out here who is as good as Eric.’” This surprised me because prior to having heard it, I honestly had no idea what he really thought of my effort to emulate the “best skier in the state of Vermont”—Erik Hammerlund, whom Uncle Bruce had arranged to be my private instructor during my very first ski trip to Vermont.
Elsa also gave me an amusing account of her inaugural ski trip with Uncle Bruce. He had decided to give her lessons himself, and the first instruction was on how to manage a modest incline from the ski racks in front of the lodge to the flats leading to the nearest lift. Normally, one would spread one’s skis out in a V-shape, ski tips apart and tails together, and hobble up in what’s called a “herring-bone” pattern. However, when Uncle Bruce attempted a demonstration with Elsa trying to mimic him, both kept slipping and sliding backward. Elsa looked around at nearby skiers and while adjusting the position of her skis, asked Uncle Bruce, “Aren’t we supposed to be doing it this way?”
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said the expert, “the man who had invented skiing.” As it turned out, he had absent-mindedly confused the “herring-bone” pattern used to go up an incline, with the beginner “snowplow” position for going down a slope.
“Classic Uncle Bruce,” Elsa said to me with a laugh. She and I were well-acquainted with Uncle Bruce’s eccentric inattentiveness. Her story reminded me of the time many years earlier when he’d looked in the mirror inside that model house trailer and discovered his hat was on backwards. (See 7/16 post)
Though he remained good friends with Wee Moran, for some reason Uncle Bruce moved his “headquarters” from Wilmington to the Marlboro Inn, just a few paces down the road from the Hogback parking lot. It was the quintessential vintage Vermont ski lodge, understated, comfortable, quiet and well-maintained. Invariably Uncle Bruce would engage other guests in conversation—their backgrounds and vocations, skiing, the politics of the day. I marveled at the ease with which he could discuss a wide range of topics and how he enjoyed the company of interesting people. Consequently, I was never bored around him during those evenings at the Marlboro Inn.
On one occasion, however, I remember staying at the Brattleboro home of Uncle Bruce’s friend, John Dunham, president and CEO of the Dunham Shoe Company. It was a palatial home in every respect, and Mr. Dunham, who seemed to be approaching Gaga and Grandpa’s age, had clearly done well for himself. He also happened to be an exceptionally cordial, well-educated and intelligent individual. I liked him. Uncle Bruce told me that Mr. Dunham was a fellow member of the Hogback ski area board of directors. I remember the three of us skiing several runs together at Hogback. Years later, Uncle Bruce mentioned that he had visited Mr. Dunham in a nursing home in Brattleboro. In any event, it impressed me that Uncle Bruce would be such good friends with a man of Mr. Dunham’s stature.
The one time that we didn’t ski at Hogback during my high school years was Christmas vacation of my senior year. I had applied to Bowdoin College and Colby College, both in Maine, as well as to Uncle Bruce’s alma mater, the University of Vermont, or “UVM,” as people in the know call it[2]. Uncle Bruce volunteered to take me on a college tour, and in the event, he gave me advice that would have a profound influence on my life.
We first toured the Bowdoin campus on a gray, rainy, dismal day two days after Christmas, when no one was on campus except our guide and the admissions director. The next day, we visited Colby College, up in Waterville. It was a cold, crisp, clear winter day, and the blinding sun reflecting off the fresh snow that covered the campus contrasted sharply with the rich blue sky. In such fine winter weather, the Colonial style architecture of the place gave it excellent “curb appeal,” and the people we met all seemed very bright and friendly. The ski coach even dropped in on my interview and gave me a compelling pitch. The day after that, we drove over to Burlington to see UVM under equally beautiful winter conditions.
That evening over dinner near Stowe, where we planned to ski the next day, Uncle Bruce gave me his opinion. “Of the three schools, I really think Bowdoin is the best place for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. That college is a cut above the other two. I could just feel it. Nice skiing near Colby and UVM, but if we’re about education, then you should go to Bowdoin if you’re accepted there.”
That conversation was a turning point. All three schools accepted me, but I had little trouble deciding. I took Uncle Bruce’s advice, particularly since he had endorsed a school ahead of his own alma mater. It was all I had to go on as far as the family was concerned: Mother and Dad knew next to nothing about the three colleges, and however much they were “all about education,” I don’t remember that they participated much at all in the application or decision process. Though in his own way Grandpa had lobbied for his alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, there was no way I would attend a school in the middle of a big city. I think he knew that, having seen me enough times pass through Rutherford, New Jersey with my skis in tow[3].
When I graduated from Bowdoin four and a half years later, Uncle Bruce (along with Dad and Grandpa) attended my commencement ceremonies while Mother stayed in Rutherford to look after Gaga. Uncle Bruce got to see me as class president, ceremonial scepter in hand, lead my class in the commencement processional, and as I passed by him, I winked and smiled broadly for his brand new video camera. I never got to see the result of his videography, but I did notice that he’d remembered to remove the lens cap.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] In fairness to the geography surrounding my new school—Interlochen Arts Academy in the beautiful northwest reaches of the lower peninsula of Michigan—I skied (x-c) on my own every day and at least twice a week went on school outings to any number of local downhill ski areas. The region had abundant snow and more relief (hills) than the downhill skiing choices at home in Minnesota but nothing compared to the elevations of Vermont ski resorts. In any event, when I wasn’t practicing or studying I still managed to ski my brains out.
[2] The background to my choices was a bit haphazard. When I informed my college counselor at Interlochen that I didn’t want to pursue a career in music (I knew that no matter how hard I worked, I’d struggle under the long, dark shadows of my sisters), he gave me a stack of catalogues for a dozen colleges and universities, all in the Northeast. UVM and Colby College (unknown to me) were among them. Both made the cut because they were in ski country. I’d never heard of Bowdoin (nor had my counselor) and upon seeing the name, couldn’t pronounce it correctly. Neither could my counselor when I mentioned it to him. The way I discovered it was by way of a recent issue of National Geographic, which featured an article about Maine, including a small photo of a graduation ceremony with the caption, “Commencement exercises at Bowdoin College in Brunswick.” I was browsing through the magazine over breakfast during spring break my junior year. Mother happened to be looking over my shoulder and saw the photo and caption too and said, “You could apply to BOW-dwin”—mispronouncing it. She had heard of it, she said, knew it was an old (but good!) school but nothing else about it. Upon returning to Interlochen, I mentioned it to my counselor who sent for the catalogue. The rest was history—as it were, for that, with Classics, would be my major.
[3] As a testament to his generosity, however, Grandpa gave me a major “needs based scholarship” to Bowdoin, despite its being a small, non-Ivy League, New England liberal arts college far from any big city. (At least he’d heard of it and knew how to pronounce it.)
