Remembering
Freddy Pieren
Commentary by Betty Bell
Last week, the Mountain Express received a
copy of an obituary from a Nevada paper, and when the editor showed it to me and
asked if I had known the deceased—when the name registered—Alfred "Freddy"
Pieren—it hit me deep as a stab.
Freddy Pieren. "Yes," I said. "I knew
Freddy Pieren. A long time ago."
I read the obituary: a standard list of
pertinent dates ... achievements … survivors… and a suggestion of how to honor
his memory. It didn’t and it couldn’t capture the essence of Freddy’s time in
our community and the gifts he gave to those of us who knew and liked and
respected and loved him. So here’re a few words about Freddy during his Sun
Valley years, the place and time in which I had a few lines in the script.
Freddy and I came to Sun Valley in the
late ’40s when Sun Valley re-opened after World War II. I had left the flatlands
of Nebraska for Sun Valley and a job as a soda jerk so I could learn to ski.
Freddy, after his wartime service, ran the ski school at Snow Valley in
Manchester, Vt., before coming here. He didn’t elect to teach skiing; instead he
set up Pete Lane’s wax room that was attached to the then small store tucked
into the "L" corner of the Challenger Inn by the duck pond. I believe it was the
best-organized and most efficient wax room anywhere. Freddy, born an innovator,
figured out and implemented the first mass ski waxing procedures. I remember how
I liked to walk in and smell those old-time waxes brushed at high-speed onto the
long wooden skis.
The wax room was where winter people, both
instructors and guests, gathered to share and exaggerate the delicious
happenings on the mountain that day, and then many of them headed to the Ram bar
to lift a glass or two or three to the good life.
The instructors kept their skis in a
step-down room within the wax room, and though that robust bunch was given to
horseplay, they knew the limits in Freddy’s place. Before they entered they
meticulously clomped the snow off their boots, and when they put their skis in
assigned slots, they lined them up properly—and Freddy’s crew was trained not to
tolerate scissors-crossed skis in the guest racks either.
Fifty years are too many for my old head
to remember just how it came to be that Freddy took on the task, once I got past
being a ski bunny, of turning me into the racer I secretly longed to be. He was
my first ski coach.
In a "B" and "C" beginner race, my first,
I wasn’t scared silly, I was scared sick. But in the starting area Freddy took
me aside, looked me in the eye, told me I knew this course better than the
quaking visiting girls, so get with it. I quit thinking about throwing up and
fixed my mind on what he’d told me during training—exactly what line to take to
be exactly where I needed to be through each of the few gates set on an Olympic
run cut that summer. The terrain was raw, and it was scary, and I didn’t win,
but I didn’t die, and eventually the skills Freddy taught me took hold. I became
a member of the U.S. alpine team and competed in Norway way back when. And no, I
didn’t win any medals.
Those who remember Freddy seem first to
remember a funny story—but even the funny stories convey the sense of regard in
which they held him. All the tales end with "What a man! …, or "That Freddy!".
Louie Mallane, of Louie’s Pizza fame, said that when he worked in the wax room
Freddy would get furious if he, Lou, misspelled a word, and he said Freddy told
him he’d been National Spelling Bee champion in Switzerland. I was surprised,
and I said I hadn’t known that, and Louie said I didn’t know it because Freddy
made it up.
Louie’s brother, Tom, said that Freddy,
who, though no hunk, was discretely muscled, would put his back against the
wall, crook his legs 90 degrees, and challenge all comers. The comers never won.
Fritz Watson remembers when Howard Head
came to the valley and, after meeting with Freddy, asked him to join him in his
new company that would build the first aluminum ski. When Freddy told Fritz
about the offer I guess Fritz looked crestfallen, because Freddy said, "Don’t
worry, Fritz. He’ll never give me enough money to leave." But history shows he
did. Freddy moved to Baltimore and worked for the Head Ski Company, and thus
began a ski industry career that turned into a life-long curve on the rise.
Freddy’s wife Frieda was a perfect soul
mate. And I guess you could call her a coach too. She taught me and three other
lucky brides to make her famous bread—an involved process that brooked no
short-cuts, but the bread was worth every minute of the entire day it took to
turn out three aromatic, beautifully crusted, and to-die-for tasting loaves. I
haven’t made Frieda’s bread for years, but remembering it now makes me want to
get out that recipe and try it again.
Freddy’s godson, Fred Haemisegger, taught
skiing here from 1954 to 1957 and then moved to Mammoth Mountain, and then on to
Houston where he switched to banking and investments. After his retirement in
1995, he built a home here, and in the winter, most days, he’s on the mountain.
Should you meet him on the lift or thereabouts, tell him that even if you didn't
know Freddy personally, stories of his—and Frieda’s—lasting brick-and-mortar
gifts are still goin’ ’round.