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, . . . .