Ripple Effect

Skiing is a hassle.

No one knew that better than my grandparents, Tom and Hilda, who hauled some combination of their nine kids up to Bear Valley, CA, from the Bay Area weekend after weekend in a 1971 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser.

The Moldsmobile, a moniker unfondly bestowed upon it after an unfortunate rainstorm with the windows down, rattled up into the Sierra, four-plus hours each way, frequently bursting at the seams with kids, utilizing the front, back, way back and unofficial way-way back seat, also known as the trunk.

At the time, it was just something to do, a way to entertain the whole family at once, the ski resort being the perfect place to turn half a dozen kids loose and not think too hard about what might happen. My grandparents learned to ski in their 50s, after some of their oldest children had moved out of the house and discovered the sport. Tom and Hilda embraced it with a fervor, and after a few seasons making day trips, they went all in and rented out a cabin for the entire season: a three-bedroom A-frame in the woods that required a 10-minute snowmobile ride to access. Grandpa would captain a bright yellow 1970 Ski-Doo with a pull-behind cargo trailer, loaded up with the same cast that had just piled out of the Moldsmobile, plus a few dangling off the back on skis.

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