Beyond the Quad

In 2010, beloved teacher and honorary graduate Jan Haman H '16, P '80, '82, '83, GP '15 started writing articles for our weekly newsletter called "The World According to Jan." The idea came from Head Brad Bates, who approached Jan with the idea of writing a column of her own discretion about whatever moved her during the week that might also tie to the past. Being a teacher at Dublin School for forty years, NO ONE had more stories or a deeper understanding of the invisible links connecting the people and places of Dublin's past and present. 

These articles were collected into a book in 2016, and they are just too good to let go unshared, so here is one from December 10, 2010, when the Norm Wight Ski Hill was just being constructed. We hope you enjoy the article and if you have any questions about Dublin's past, let us know (alumni@dublinschool.org), and we'll pass on your questions to Jan, who still lives in the area and follows the lives and success of Dublin and its wonderful alumni and faculty. 

Photo below: Old Administration Building cir. 1980s

December 10, 2010

TALE OF A MISGUIDED SNOW QUEEN

Now that we have the newly completed on-campus ski slope, it’s hard to believe that it was only August when the monster trucks attacked the hill behind the Art Studio. All we’re waiting for now is the white stuff. This project, I must say, is a brilliant Bates scheme. Students can take runs during sports, and on weekends the facility will offer exciting options for all of us.

The new slope will be dedicated as the Norm “Pro” Wight Slope on January 16. This is our 75th Anniversary Ski Day, and it is named for venerated ski coach Norm Wight, who taught here at Dublin for many years; the slope will generate the enthusiasm for winter sports that pervaded the campus when I arrived here in 1971. “Pro” Wight was still around Dublin then, and his torch had just recently been passed to his son, John.

Now, I myself have never been a successful skier. One, I am a dismally uncoordinated waif. Two, I had several unfortunate skiing experiences- both cross-country and downhill. In the winter of 1971-72, there was a great network of cross-country trails leading from Alumni Field up to Beech Hill. One snowy afternoon, our Headmaster, Mike Cornog, invited me to join him and his wife, Mary, on a cross-country romp up to Beech Hill. Now, skis in the early ‘70s were pretty basic - one size fits all, needing lots of wax depending on the temperature, the time of day, and the skill of the skier. Needless to say, mine was wrong that day or inadequate for the temperature, the time of day, and the skier's skill (It was my first time on skis of any kind.)

Mary was, and still is, a good athlete. She flew up those trails like a rabbit. Mike and I struggled. The swirling snow blinded me, and I collapsed into a ball of snowflakes at every slight turn or bump. There were others on the trails that day, and at one point, Brooks Parsons, a compact, experienced cross-countrier found me- a snow-covered bundle lying under some brush on the trail. “Jan,” he cried, “is that you?” My snow-clogged mouth was unable to answer him. Eventually, Mike and I gave up that “struggle,” took off our skies, and stumbled back to the Bungalow, defeated, dejected, and deeply damp. When I fell through the back AB door at 5 pm for play rehearsal, my cast was shocked at the sight of a miniature Bigfoot arriving to lead them. “What happened to you?” they all asked. I replied, “Snow happens.”

That same winter I tried again. My three young sons and I tackled the South Slope, downhill, all the way. Only not so much “way” for me. In those medieval times, one shopped for equipment at “ski sales.” The boots, bindings, poles, and skis were whatever you could find and/or afford. As we teetered at the top of that precarious slope, it was Winter Break. The students and faculty were gone. There was no ski tow. Just me and three excited boys staring into the abyss. I said, “No way. I’m not going down there,” as I wobbled in my ill-fitting boots and bindings. But the boys were adamant! Finally, they pushed me over the edge, and down I went, hurtling toward oblivion.

I never tried Mr. Bates’ favorite sport again. But I do have snow-flecked, exquisite memories of afternoons in the rope tow cabin at the summit of that slope. With ruddy-faced Mr. G manning the tow, I proffered hot cider and coca, watching as the many exhilarated boys and girls took run after run on the hill. Years later, my eldest son, Glenn (the one who probably threw me off the cliff that day) was, as I remember, the last person to run that simple but unsteady rope tow and keep the fire going on the wood stove, where the cider and cocoa brewed in that cabin of yore. A fitting epilogue to my ski days here at Dublin.

Photo Below: South Slope Cir. 1970's