Forward: I’ve decided to share my family’s adventures of building our ski house since I was a girl.
For several weeks, I’ll recount in my column early memories of our Killington years.
Isn’t it strange while living our lives, we often lose sight of what is special—of people, places, and all that helps to form us which is unforgettable? While reminiscing about my childhood and writing down memories that I treasure, (some of which I’d forgotten), I’m realizing how unique and amazing building our ski lodge in Killington was. To follow Dad’s dream and commute each weekend from Montclair, New Jersey, was a formidable life journey. Now that we live in it half the year, (with running water and flushing jons), I treasure the years that we spent here, roughing it and building our lodge. It makes me appreciate more than I realized the gift my parents bestowed on me.
Vermont or bust
We began our weekly Vermont pilgrimage from Upper Montclair, New Jersey, where we lived. I was 7 when Killington first opened in 1958. Dad had just bought two acres of land near the beginning of Roaring Brook Road off the Killington access road. We forged the stream, for there was no bridge, (where later the first firehouse was built), turned the bend, headed up the hill, then ascended our driveway (as steep as Mount Everest). Ours was the first homesite on the left. The Ayers Family was a little farther up and Preston Smith’s house, one mile at the end.
Dad was a mechanical engineer at Foster Wheeler Corporation and Mom, a piano teacher/poet/writer. My wonderful brothers, Jack and Bill, were 10 and seven years my elders, respectively. They joined us on weekends whenever they could between their other commitments. Jack studied forestry at the University of New Hampshire while Billy played football at Montclair High and later attended Bates College in Maine.
As a proper young lady in Upper Montclair, heading north to Vermont was my great escape. It was the opposite of our New Jersey life where we enjoyed luxuries and comforts. I donned tomboy clothes and grabbed my gear, ready for adventures in the great outdoors. Our life in Vermont was challenging and tough, but I relished the freedom it provided me.
Hours into the six hour drive, we stopped for a midnight snack at an eatery like the Silver Dollar Diner in Whitehall, New York, or the Coffee Cup in Castleton, Vermont. Mom adored clam strips and onion rings at Howard Johnson’s until the day McDonalds opened in at the Albany exit off the Northway.
Friday evenings we left New Jersey as soon as Dad got off work. Sometimes we fetched him in New York City then took the Taconic or Merritt Parkway, past the iconic Taconic Diner. When Dad’s office moved to Summit, New Jersey, we drove north on the Garden State Parkway to Route 17 for the cheapest gas, then passed the Motel on the Mountain near the beginning of the New York State Thruway. Every week Mom told the story of the Japanese architect who camped out there to find the best views of the sunrise and sunset. He positioned the motel based on aesthetics and the feng shui of that spot. (I’m sure it inspired Mom to make sure our views were of sunsets, Pico and Killington.) We continued north to the Northway and east on Route 4 to Rutland and Killington.
Our Labrador Retriever, Black Star of Highland, remained on duty throughout the night, panting over Dad’s shoulder and ear, watching for squirrels, groundhogs and deer and anything else in view that moved. Mom sipped hot coffee she poured from her Thermos. Dad drank Postum. I savored hot chocolate. We munched on bologna or tuna fish sandwiches as we looked for our favorite landmarks.
Hours into the six hour drive, we stopped for a midnight snack at an eatery like the Silver Dollar Diner in Whitehall, New York, or the Coffee Cup in Castleton. Mom adored clam strips and onion rings at Howard Johnson’s until the day McDonalds opened in at the Albany exit off the Northway. Then hot coffee, a burger and fries were the fare that she craved every weekend. Dad liked burgers but preferred a Western sandwich, which reminded him of his boyhood years when his father served as American Consul General in Juárez, Mexico. (I still choose Western sandwiches when I can.)
Stopping for a bite was a dreamy experience because I’d already fallen asleep. It was well worth waking up for the food, camaraderie, tradition and excitement of being on our way to further adventures in the Green Mountain State. To be continued next week…
Marguerite Jill Dye is an artist and writer who divides her time between Killington and Bradenton, Florida.
Courtesy Killington Resort
