The Greatest Ski Instructor in the West by Gary Heins - HTML preview

Epilogue -- 139

A song addressing Gary's departure into exile: Faded Gloves

(A parody of a Bob Wills classic:)

As I look at the chair-lift

that you rode with me,

It's your skiing . . .

that I am thinking of;

We skied the lines . . .

that to you were so steep---

And I wore my faded gloves.

I miss teachin' skiin'

more and more everyday,

As powder would miss the skiers above;

With every snow-flake,

I still think of you---

And remember my faded gloves.

As I think of the past,

and all the lessons we had,

As I helped the students learn to carve,

It was in the spring-time

when-the-Roamin' Ski School set me free Because of my faded gloves.

I miss teachin' skiin'

more and more everyday,

As powder would miss the skiers above;

With every snow-flake,

I still think of you---

And remember my faded gloves,

And remember my faded gloves.

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140 -- THE GREATEST SKI INSTRUCTOR IN THE WEST

Sunday Mornin' Skiin' Down

(A parody of a Johnny Cash classic)

Well, I woke up Sunday mornin'

and decided to go skiin', instead o' Church.

And the coffee I had with breakfast was good, but it was time now for more research;

Then I fumbled through my locker for my goggles and heard a meanest . . . dirty smirch; Then I grabbed my poles and clicked-into my skis and shuffled to the chair to ski the day.

It'd snowed three feet the night before,

just like in the songs and I'd been hopin'; But I knew, when I saw the ski bums,

they'd make the ole-mistake of gettin' people hoppin': What they really need in the deep stuff

is a gentle bounce instead of stinkin' hoppin'.

And, Lord, it took-me-back to Certification

that I lost somewhere somehow along the way.

On a Sunday mornin' ski-run,

I'm thinkin', Lord, this should be Heaven;

'Cause there's something about skiin'

that makes a body feel at home;

But there's nothin' short of dyin'

that's half as loathesome as the sound

of the sorry-teachin' done by ski-bums

on Sunday Mornin' Skiin' Down.

At the bottom, I saw a daddy with a cryin' little girl that he was teachin',

And I stopped beside the Ski School

and listened to the wrong-stuff they were preachin'; Then I headed for the steep

as I remembered all the doe I wasn't earnin', and it echoed through the ski-runs

like a disappearin' dream of yesterday.

On a Sunday mornin' ski-run, . . . .