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Requiem for an old school ski mom — celebrating the generation that started it all

" My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it." - Mark Twain I lost my mom last week. Poof — just like that. One day she was there, the next she was gone. Died in her sleep, they told us. Probably felt no pain.
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Suzanne and Gabriel Beaudry

"My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it."

- Mark Twain

I lost my mom last week. Poof — just like that. One day she was there, the next she was gone. Died in her sleep, they told us. Probably felt no pain. And that was a huge relief. I mean, why drag it out? My mother was well into her '80s, suffered from diabetes and high blood pressure, and had lived a full and eventful existence. The last thing she needed was a prolonged skirmish with the grim reaper.

Besides, I'd already seen what it had wrought on my dad. His dignity, his self-regard, his quiet pride — they were all stripped away by the ugliness of the soul-destroying battle that he'd had to endure. I was in tears long before he was declared deceased. Just to see his pain.

So I figure Suzanne — that's my mom — got off lightly. As a family friend put it: "I always admire people who can arrange to die in their sleep. Such a great way to go."

Still, her passing made me stop and take stock. They say that there's a special place in heaven for the mother of four sons. Well, if that's true, then my mother's inclusion is assured. When I think back to the task Suzanne was handed in the 1950s, '60s and '70s — wrangling four hyperkinetic boys and an adventure-crazed husband; essentially running a four-season sports camp for high-performance kooks — I can only shake my head and marvel. She did it all.

My mother hiked and skied and paddled and swam and pedalled and golfed and tennised and... well, she never stopped. And when things got tough, she just got tougher. Suzanne, you see, could take care of herself. Even the way she skied... although her technique was far from conventional, the inimitable power-stem-cum-parallel turn she'd mastered over the years had seen her safely down slopes from the Alps to the Rockies. The lady was fearless.

But more importantly (at least for us), was that she was always there at the end of the day, when the playing was over and we were all tired and hungry. While we lounged about and shared war stories about the day's adventures — and waxed impatient about the upcoming victuals — there would be Suzanne, hunched over the kitchen range or the campfire grill, or even the family's battered Coleman stove, making sure that her brood was properly fed and watered before attending to her own needs.

No wonder she got snarky from time to time...

The pride Suzanne felt for her boys was legendary. But she never indulged that pride within the family circle. With us, it was tough love all the way. As in: "Get over yourself ducky. You're not the only hero on the planet."

My friend Cathy Jewett — herself a formidable mom — put it best. "Your mother was one feisty lady." For sure. Gutsy. Spirited. Energetic. Aggressive even. Suzanne was all that. And more. She was like a grizzly-bear mom. You didn't want to cross her when she was on a mission. But then, how could she have survived otherwise?

I can still remember the Saturday morning equipment check. Goggles, gloves, hat, lift pass, skis, poles, lunches... times four. Mom would laboriously go through the list with each of us before we'd get in the car. "Does everyone have everything? I'm not coming back this time," she would warn. But it didn't matter. Invariably — invariably! — we'd be halfway to the hill and one of my brothers — never me! — would admit (often in tears) that he'd forgotten a vital bit of gear back at the ranch. "Please mom. Just this once. It'll never happen again, Pleaaaaaase..." Rolling of eyes. Grumble, grumble. Even a curse or two. Still. Each time, my mother would turn that ol' station wagon around and head back for the missing item. Berating the forgetful one all the way, of course. Making sure we'd all remember just how painful the process had been. But that was fine. It was a price my brothers were all willing to pay.

And somehow — I never figured it out — we were never late for our ski school classes or our gate-training sessions or just meeting up with buds at the base lodge. She was the best that way. Totally committed. Entirely engaged. But she wasn't alone.

It was my parent's generation — the children of the Depression — who first elevated this snow-playing thing beyond a mere sporting curiosity. It was my dad and his ski racing buddies, their friends and acquaintances — in Ottawa, Montreal, Calgary and Vancouver; even Trail, Rossland and Kimberley — who figured out how to make skiing a compelling (and accessible) activity for middle-class Canadian families.

But the men could only do so much. It was my mom and her cohorts who transformed the rough base lodges and remote mountain cabins into the social havens they would soon become. Who dressed the kids and warmed their frozen toes and soothed their fragile egos. Who, with every little thing they did, transformed a fringe sport with limited appeal into a broad-based winter culture.

Without these singularly committed winter enthusiasts — people who, mostly, had to work for everything they earned — we baby boomers would have never lived the skiing experience we were treated to as teenagers and young adults. As for our own children... Sigh. Few millenials will ever understand the scope of the sacrifices that grandpa and grandma had to make in the old days. Indeed — given today's obsession with immediate-gratification, it's almost impossible for kids (and many adults) to truly appreciate their forebears' ability to delay their own pleasure in the pursuit of a better life for their offsprings. But I digress...

A picture of Suzanne around 1960: We must be in Mont Tremblant. It's chilly, frigid in fact. Hard to look good when it's this cold. And yet... My thirtysomething mom wears a white rabbit-fur hat — more like a bonnet than a cap — which she's securely fastened under her chin with a soft length of doeskin. Her parka is white too, belted of course, with dark-etched snowflakes appliquéd on its surface. A pair of sleek, black Bogner stretch-pants completes the ensemble — emerging demurely from under her jacket only to quickly disappear again into her ankle-high ski boots. The effect is very Jackie-Kennedy-Visits-Vermont. But it works.

Funny what comes bubbling up from the family memory banks. Funny too how so much of it relates to skiing and mountains and living and playing outdoors.

Take the story of how my parents met. It was the early 1950s. In those days, young Quebeckers liked to congregate at Mont St. Sauveur, a popular Laurentian ski resort located a short train ride north of Montreal. Sliding on snow was always the purported aim of the trip, of course, but meeting members of the opposite sex was no less a motivation. But wait. Why not let my mom tell the story?

"Your dad was in town for a ski race," she'd always start. "And he and his buddy had gone to the bar to celebrate. Well, it was a crowded night and all. And there weren't too many empty tables. So when he saw one, he rushed to grab it." She'd usually take a break here. Grab a sip of wine (she loved her wine). And then she'd continue: "Well, it just so happened that I wanted that table too. And we kind of claimed it at the same time. You see, I was up for a ski weekend with a girlfriend from work and there was no way I was going to let a couple of ski bums steal our table!" A pause. Then she would sigh dramatically. "But they were as stubborn as we were. So in the end, we decided to share the table."

At this point in the story, she'd laugh. "I can still remember that scene," she'd eventually continue. "My friend and I had placed our mittens down the middle of the table to make sure the boys knew where the demarcation line was. After all, we didn't know who they were. And we didn't want them to take liberties." But the two ski racers didn't let the girls' concern for propriety stop them. And the mittens were soon whisked away. "They were polite and quite charming," my mom would explain. "And well, one thing led to another and before I knew it, I had agreed to a date with the cuter of the two."

Alas, that first date didn't turn out quite like she'd expected. "So the big night arrived," she'd recount. "I'd gotten all dolled up for the evening as I was anticipating a romantic candlelight dinner... or something similar." But my father had other plans. "Imagine my shock when I discovered that your dad's idea of a date was sitting in a dingy garage watching him prepare and wax his race skis." Here she would roll her eyes. "It was the most boring date I'd ever experienced." And then she'd pounce on the punchline. "I should have known right then and there," my mother would say at this point. "Should have grabbed my coat and run for my life. I mean, what kind of a crazy man invites a girl to come over and watch him wax skis?" And then she'd sigh one last time and answer her own question. "Only your dad..."

Here's to my mom, Suzanne. The world is a sadder place without her.