Brainstorm

Brian hadn't called me in a really long time. I only answer my phone about 50% of the time, but I was intensely curious so I picked up.

"What are you doing right now, " he said.
"Heading to a doctor's appointment," I said. "Why?
"I'm thinking of going to Black Mo to make some turns," says Brian.
There was about three quarters of an inch of snow on the ground. I asked him if he'd wait an hour so I could come too.

One hour and twenty minutes later we're in the car driving to Black Moshannon. Black Mo is a state park with a defunct lift-served ski area. They hadn't mowed the slope this fall, so we made the first turns of the season in about five inches of powdery fluff coating about twenty inches of warm wet grass. It was so good we took two laps.

This is my problem. Brian is, oddly, looking for a job elsewhere. Somewhere with whiter pastures. Steeper pastures. Pastures that require a snorkel and an avy cannon to navigate. I don't know anyone else besides Brian who would have the desperation and vision to drive to Black Mo and hike for turns when there's less than an inch of snow on the ground downtown. It takes a odd sense of humor to be a skier in Pennsylvania. Appreciation of the absurd is helpful.

So I'm thinking that if I can find Brian a really classy girlfriend in the next month or so he'll stick around. A single, attractive, sane lady that's willing to share her living space with a super-size quiver of skis and won't mind playing second fiddle on a powder day.