I have the power of 10,000 men. I can change the weather. I am a Twomey.

Since the beginning of time, my mother (Julia Twomey Meara) tells me, the Twomey curse has ruled the clan, which sprung from the Ballyvourney region of County Cork in Ireland. The origins of the curse have been lost in the Irish mist but are rumored to stem from some rude words to Druid priests somewhere in the woods near Blarney.

Since that time, the Twomey family crest states (translated from the Gaelic) “If it wasn’t for bad luck we would have no luck at all.”

It’s not so bad really, when you get used to it.

It is no coincidence that most of the Twomeys emigrated to Boston around 1918 and started rooting for the Red Sox. They put the (meager) family fortune into the stock market in 1929. And so it has gone.

Sometimes, we forget.

When I suddenly found myself prematurely retired last August, I

maintained my efforts at self-indulgence by making reservations for the annual ski trip to Quebec and bought my very first ski pass, not at any local small-time mountain, but at Sugarloaf. After all, Sugarloaf had its best snow season ever last year. Mount Saint Ann in Quebec had snow until August last year.

I should have known better. I should have remembered the Twomey curse.

As December progressed, I watched the 6 p.m. television weather report, praying for a major blizzard. I checked the mountain Web sites, hoping for signs of life at either mountain. On the planned vacation week, Mount Saint Ann had two trails out of 50 open. I canceled my reservations and lost a $250 deposit. That’s the rule in ski country.

Sugarloaf was no better. Rain and temperatures in the 40s continued through the month. On the few days that had decent snow, the roads in the midcoast were too icy to consider a 250-mile round trip, even to ski. I keep my laminated pass on a chain beside me as I drive along the coast. Sometimes, I put it on, just to see how it feels.

I didn’t even get to ski on my birthday, three days before Christmas.

On the day before Christmas, Sugarloaf reported 17 trails groomed and open but the temperature at the summit was 34 degrees and it was drizzling.

I can issue my Twomey personal guarantee that this will be the very worst snowfall that Sugarloaf has ever seen.

A more intelligent family would employ the curse to their benefit. A Twomey could be hired out to gamble on weekend football games and the wise gambler could choose the other team. A Twomey could be hired to become a (ptui) Yankee fan and attend every game from spring training until September. That would end the dynasty.

Sugarloaf could buy me a pass at Sunday River.

A Twomey could play the stock market and sell the information to a Web site, which would allow careful investors to avoid those stocks like the plague. A Twomey could be hired (under an assumed name) to work in a political campaign. It was rumored that a Twomey was working on the Al Gore for president campaign then worked briefly in the Wathen for governor campaign, after short stints on the Rick Bennett for Congress effort and the referendum for a gay rights amendment and to ban clear cutting in Maine forests.

Until the family can figure out a positive spin on the curse, we will all struggle along with our misfortunes. I will sit here looking out at the rain, dressed in ski boots, goggles and long johns, with my Sugarloaf pass around my neck.

Praying for snow. It is the best I can do.

I am a Twomey.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com