"LET'S GO, baby," said my 81-year-old grandfather, Barney
Shipnuck. "I'm not getting any younger standing here."
This is an article from the April 1, 1996 issue
With that, Grandpa slid on a sporty wool cap, rocked forward on
his skis and blasted into his 58th winter on the slopes. This
was not some ceremonial run, a lark on a par with Bob Hope's
playing a hole of golf. No, Grandpa can still carve up a
mountain. On this January day at Northstar, on Lake Tahoe's
north shore, he skied black diamond runs on fast snow, the way
he likes it. "I don't want to ski diddly," says the old man. "I
Grandpa skied for the first time in December 1937, coughing up
three dollars to ride the rope tows and a one-person chair lift
at the Sugar Bowl, in Norden, Calif. He was so smitten that upon
returning home to the Richmond district of San Francisc, he
bought himself new skis ($25), boots ($20) and poles ($10).
After that, nothing could keep him off the slopes, including
gasoline rationing during World War II. Grandpa would ride the
bus to Sausalito, Calif., where he worked as a shipbuilder, and
squirrel away his gas coupons for weekend drives to the mountains.
My grandmother, the former Ethel Gottstein, grew up in Chicago
and could not fathom why people would seek out snow for
recreation. Grandma, who passed away in 1989 after a 52-year
romance with Grandpa, saved her enthusiasm for exotic
destinations. Over the years Grandpa skied in six foreign
countries while his bride enjoyed the nations' cultural
Grandpa passed on his skiing jones to both of his boys. My
55-year-old father, David, is celebrating his 50th year on skis.
When he was 25 and in possession of a master's degree in
economics from the University of California, Dad spent the
winter as a ski bum in Aspen, Colo., before starting his
teaching career. Grandpa was so proud that Dad had his
priorities straight that he bought his eldest son a new pair of
How important is skiing in my family? When my Uncle Les, four
years younger than Dad, was a senior at Sonoma High, he was
suspended for a week for drinking beer during lunch hour. Upon
hearing the news, Grandpa responded, "Well, I think we should go
skiing. There's a lot of snow right now."
Some of my earliest memories are of learning to ski with
Grandpa. "You're starting to look like a skier," he said after I
executed my first parallel turn as a kid. It wasn't uncommon,
though, for those early sessions to end with me in tears, since
Grandpa was an exacting teacher who said there was only one way
to ski: the right way.
That zeal has kept him on the mountain all these years. Every
winter he looks a little more gaunt, yet he still gets stoked
for a ski trip. Using a StairMaster has helped Grandpa maintain
his muscle mass, and this season he switched to shorter skis. He
is also picky about snow conditions. If the cover is too crunchy
or slushy, thin or thick, he'll kick off his skis and grumble,
"I've had too many years of skiing to waste my time on this
crap." The only skiing injury he ever suffered was in 1960, when
he slipped on some icy stairs during a lunch stop and busted a
rib on the handrail. While Grandpa and I have always been close,
in recent years he has become one of my best friends. Sharing
long drives to the mountains, and chilly rides on a chair lift,
is a big reason why.
I told Grandpa all of this in a Father's Day card a few years
ago, and he wrote back, "As much as you enjoy our time together
in the mountains, it means even more to me." Before he got too
mushy, he concluded, "How about we continue this conversation
on a chair lift sometime?"
Happily, we have.