Before Thursday night race league, we’d bait our mayonnaise bucket tip jar with a couple of crisp dollar bills. The beer league racers would pass their Volants or Volkls over the fence, usually with some kind of old man comment. “Take good care of them, will ya?” We’d trade the skis for a colored plastic valet tag.

Ski corral at Bittersweet Ski Area in Otsego, MI, paid five bucks an hour, a measly sum even to a couple of 17-year-olds. For a four-hour shift, we’d drive 35 miles round trip, burning up gas in Trevor’s minivan or my Plymouth. The economics of the job did not make a lot of sense.

A $20 tip, though, from somebody coming out of the bar after a couple of pitchers could really make the night. Anything larger than a five was a rarity. A buck, or nothing, was more standard. On the tip jar we’d write things like “college book fund,” though the money typically went toward gas and Taco Bell on the way home.

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