I remember my brother, standing at the top of Vail Mountain, sobbing. He must have been 5 or 6 years old and my dad was trying to remain patient. I was 10 and had been skiing for years and was doing little to mask my indignation toward my brother for his reluctance to put the skis on and head down. He wanted to take the gondola down and my father, a weekend ski instructor for children in Vail's early days, was having none of it. "If you're going to learn to ski, David," he explained for the thousandth time, "you've got to put the boards (the skis) on." You can't just talk about skiing. You can't just watch movies about skiing. You have to do it." David cried louder. My father was undeterred, probably because he'd been through it so often with other people's children.

"It's that way with anything. If you want to get as good as the guys in the movies," -- my brother loved to watch Jean Claude Keely skiing movies - "you have to put the boards on." David paid attention to that. He definitely wanted to get as good as the guys in the movies. He was certain, by the age of 4 that he had a future as an Olympic skier. Finally, he took a deep breath, stepped into the bindings and, tears freezing on his cheeks, pointed the boards down the mountain.

My father has been a source of common sense, folksy and mostly wise counsel for me for as long as I can remember. His admonition to David was, of course, about skiing, but it became family lore. When, as children, we were reluctant or frightened and, to this day as he faces the challenges of aging, dad will say, "Gotta put the boards on." That's just before he hits the slopes or mounts his horse for an early morning ride.

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