While maintaining vigil at my mother’s bedside, her last words, although perplexing to the nurse on duty, made perfect sense to me.
“Where are my cookbooks?” she queried lucidly.
From the time I could crawl, it was across the kitchen to a wall of shelves my father built to house the love of his life’s hundreds of hardcover volumes. Every Junior League on the planet earth had a spin on the chicken potpie or turkey divan. Each recipe collection contained markings, folded pages, and small scraps of paper whereupon my mother would weave orts of wisdom, often unrelated to actual entertaining. But when her directions did apply to any upcoming occasion, she relied on the tried and true success of some former fete.
This was very well accepted by all the ladies—even those who claim to abhor mayonnaise!
From the summer I was wrapped around Old Yeller until the one when I wept through the last page in Gone With the Wind, sultry, simmering afternoons would find her nestled in our Pasadena family room—the cool brick floor beneath her stylish high heels. Her legs crossed so that a hint of petticoat displayed, and there she would read—until evening when my father came home to mix the cocktail—recipes. I could not fathom the attraction to yet another list of guidelines dictated in short order, and simply in order to prepare a meal! Boring. Not to mention, the sheer number she studied and saved far outweighed the few she actually attempted. Why were these her reading material of choice? Compulsive obsession, I thought, long before I knew the meaning of those words.
Years later as I poured over her books and yellowed newspaper clippings while sorting through the contents of my childhood home, I discovered, really, my mother’s diary. Between the printed outlines of sugar, flour, butter and spices her musings brought to mind the occasions she had shared with bridge club buddies, charity luncheon friends, and cherished family.
But the real treasure lay in her cryptic comments, most especially found in the collection of her mother’s recipes that at one time she had collected, typed, bound, and dedicated to me, For Kathleen--the one I think is most like her. In it, she writes, All this Mexican stuff is not my mother’s—just more San Diego County influence on my sister.
Under the heading “Mayfield (the Catholic girl’s school I attended) Faculty Luncheon Punch—a great hit with the Sisters of the Holy Child Jesus” she scribbled, I got all the Hold Child nuns drunk on this (not on purpose) but it doesn’t taste alcoholic, although it is—2 members of my committee refused to spoil a good thing by putting in the soda water.
Alongside “Select 8 medium size fully ripe red tomatoes, she penned, HA! There was a day when you could, this noted in 1980. “Burt Reynold’s Beef Stew” earned the margin notation Mother did like this—I think she had a sort of crush on Burt Reynolds.
On and on she chronicles, remarking who was in attendance, who snickered and puckered over the lemon pie, and who was whose daughter, niece, friend or foe. By the time I’d fingered all the pages, I’d recreated my mother’s social calendar, and therefore the memory of her little girl watching grownups celebrate at table.
Ironically, I’ve noticed this year that a substantial segment of my spending money goes to the number of cooking magazines to which I now subscribe—and never used to. The magnetic pull to the culinary section of the bookstore is lately undeniable. While my husband watches baseball or football on television, I am turning the pages of the sixth slick publication to arrive in my mailbox this month. Frankly, although retired, I am having trouble keeping current—my mother would say there is no such thing when it comes to recipes. Their timelessness is their charm, she would tell me.
Surprisingly, I find this hobby (I prefer that word to obsession) to be a higher form of meditation—reading recipes, even the ones I know I will never cook. Some evenings, glass of wine in hand, I browse Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble.com for the latest collection of astonishing ingredients.
What is it that draws me to pouring over spice combinations and instructions to bake/broil/grill/saute? What is it about reading recipes that is, well, quite simply, so soothing? Perhaps it is the escape—unadulterated distraction. I travel across countries, flavors, kitchens, markets, and manners without leaving my comfortable chair. What I read is absolutely not newsworthy—neither political, nor societal. These pages hold no trouble. In lieu of anxiety over Armageddon, I will drift off to sleep tasting roast pork loin with mustard glaze, ginger carrots and sugar snap peas, chocolate mousse, and mocha shortbread. Visions of sugarplums will dance in this airhead.
As an unexpected bonus, I find a new connection to my departed mother—and to my daughters as well, who both scooped up that apple that doesn’t fall far from the tree—even three branches of it. My youngest, wed a year ago and living in Scottsdale, Arizona spends several cell phone minutes at the end of each stressful teaching day discussing the latest Southwestern creation she has discovered on some website—then e-mails it to me.
And my eldest? Having left behind for a week the bustle of her job in Manhattan she recently vacationed here where I’ve retired in Montana. No sooner had the plane landed than her father was wondering, did she want to escape urban pressures to commune with nature—go floating and fly-fishing on the Blackfoot River? Hiking in the Bitterroot Mountains? Picnicking at the shores of Fish Creek? She walked through the door of our log home, dropped her carry-on suitcase, and spied the 4-inch stack of recipes on the kitchen counter waiting to be added to my already haphazard collection I keep in a ratty three-ring binder.
“As long as we’re back here everyday in time to sit on the front porch and read recipes,” she sighed.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Not yet the winter of my life
“There’ll be no more skiing around here,” my girlfriend spoke of her recent aversion to any physical activity that might inflict physical pain. “Not by me, anyway!”
Kristie alluded to the fact that her husband, who had mountain biked over treacherous ground on their Utah vacation last summer, continues to recreationally risk life and limb. Men who were born in 1950 are about as willing as is Mick Jagger to admit the limitations of age.
I heartily concurred with her swearing off of the slopes. I’d suffered a broken ankle two years ago while walking my dogs (their fault), and ever since have avoided any sport more active than walking alone, and we both shared arthritic aches and pains that naturally accompany—ahem—a little later than middle age. Last winter, I’d ceremonially and permanently hung up my downhill skis. Instead, thinking I’d taken things down a notch in the danger department, I dabbled in cross country and fell head first in love with the sport and head back (twice) onto the snow so hard that I nearly suffered a concussion and another broken ankle. The invulnerability of youth has therefore evaporated and in its place is my new standard: Just not worth it.
Yet neither one of us want winter to serve as a reminder that we are nearing “the winter of our lives.” We continued to ruminate—as in what to do in a chilly climate in order to stay fit and deter the aging process besides watching the same aerobic DVD over and over again without yawning and reaching for another cup of coffee and a box of chocolates. Such videos had been our mantra for far too many years. Decades ago we’d given birth and after changing the first diaper were right back to bouncing around to Jane Fonda’s gyrations. Aerobic exercise and its ensuing video venue was, after all, the invention of our generation—and a stellar cultural achievement at that. So now what’s a boomer to do during winter if not some punishing, heart pumping routine that is oh-so-cleverly disguised as dance?
I am undaunted when it comes to getting out of doors. I strap on my Yak-Traks and hit the dirt (now blanketed in snow) roads out here where I live in the Ninemile valley. Breathing fresh air and ogling deer and elk are definite perks to my fitness purpose, and much preferred to the alternative of yanking on Lycra and driving thirty miles to Missoula for an exercise class. I dutifully perform my Mari Windsor Pilates tape and relish the stretching, but ah...there is nothing quite like stepping out the back door clad in snow clothes, face mask, and mittens that house four hand warmers (the solution to Renault’s syndrome that deprives me of all feeling in my fingers) into the bracing January air. Not to mention, my intrepid trek means a long hot bath awaits upon my return—if I can feel the faucet with my fingers to turn it on.
But where is the boast in admitting that no, I don’t ski, and no, I don’t cross country ski—I walk; it sounds so “old.” I love my daily constitutional—don’t misunderstand me—but after three years on the same route I’ve reached the point where I can track every neighbor’s footprints in either dirt or snow. I feel like I live in one of those English countryside towns of literature when I can determine by shoe sole who has turned up whose driveway to call. I beckon to each dog by name as it dashes out of the woods to greet me. I venture to say that if a pine tree has lost a cone in some breeze between yesterday and today, I notice, and when I can blindly walk my way home in a whiteout, it just might be time for a little variety.
Then I happened upon an article in a magazine about snowshoeing. “If you can walk, you can snowshoe,” the accompanying advertisement reassured. No sooner had I gleaned the details online than I was confidently whipping out my credit card and ordering a pair of REI’s MSR Denali Evo Ascents during the end of season sale last year. This was my winter to go for it.
We’ve so far enjoyed an authentic Montana winter; one December afternoon our driveway was buried under fourteen inches of powder. It was time. I strapped on the platforms, grabbed the poles, and headed out the sliding glass door onto a blanket of untouched perfection. After making a few adjustments to my natural stride, I was underway, scaling hills and maneuvering around pine trees on our forested property. Areas impassable during dry seasons due to fallen logs, rocks, and holes were transformed—I could step assuredly! No doubt to the casual observer I appeared altogether athletic.
In ten minutes my heart was beating like a hammer and I was breathing harder than I had when I visited my daughter’s Zumba class. I desperately peeled off layers of clothing, in 10-degree temperatures, no less. Wow—has Jane Fonda ever tried this?
Now I can brag, “I snowshoe!” when boomers my age and older are ruing their latest ski trip while propped on crutches and wearing a boot cast. Today, when the winter storm warning is issued and my husband groans in anticipation of his workout once again being behind the arms of a snow-blower, I am jubilant, slithering into sleek Under Armour ski pants while tearing open with my teeth another hand warmer pack from the cut-rate Costco carton of them.
Best of all, I am walking and not clumsily attempting some graceful parallel turn. Moving swiftly, dressed in a top layer of down, and hiding gray hair under a trendy cap—I might look, and will still feel, thirty.
Kristie alluded to the fact that her husband, who had mountain biked over treacherous ground on their Utah vacation last summer, continues to recreationally risk life and limb. Men who were born in 1950 are about as willing as is Mick Jagger to admit the limitations of age.
I heartily concurred with her swearing off of the slopes. I’d suffered a broken ankle two years ago while walking my dogs (their fault), and ever since have avoided any sport more active than walking alone, and we both shared arthritic aches and pains that naturally accompany—ahem—a little later than middle age. Last winter, I’d ceremonially and permanently hung up my downhill skis. Instead, thinking I’d taken things down a notch in the danger department, I dabbled in cross country and fell head first in love with the sport and head back (twice) onto the snow so hard that I nearly suffered a concussion and another broken ankle. The invulnerability of youth has therefore evaporated and in its place is my new standard: Just not worth it.
Yet neither one of us want winter to serve as a reminder that we are nearing “the winter of our lives.” We continued to ruminate—as in what to do in a chilly climate in order to stay fit and deter the aging process besides watching the same aerobic DVD over and over again without yawning and reaching for another cup of coffee and a box of chocolates. Such videos had been our mantra for far too many years. Decades ago we’d given birth and after changing the first diaper were right back to bouncing around to Jane Fonda’s gyrations. Aerobic exercise and its ensuing video venue was, after all, the invention of our generation—and a stellar cultural achievement at that. So now what’s a boomer to do during winter if not some punishing, heart pumping routine that is oh-so-cleverly disguised as dance?
I am undaunted when it comes to getting out of doors. I strap on my Yak-Traks and hit the dirt (now blanketed in snow) roads out here where I live in the Ninemile valley. Breathing fresh air and ogling deer and elk are definite perks to my fitness purpose, and much preferred to the alternative of yanking on Lycra and driving thirty miles to Missoula for an exercise class. I dutifully perform my Mari Windsor Pilates tape and relish the stretching, but ah...there is nothing quite like stepping out the back door clad in snow clothes, face mask, and mittens that house four hand warmers (the solution to Renault’s syndrome that deprives me of all feeling in my fingers) into the bracing January air. Not to mention, my intrepid trek means a long hot bath awaits upon my return—if I can feel the faucet with my fingers to turn it on.
But where is the boast in admitting that no, I don’t ski, and no, I don’t cross country ski—I walk; it sounds so “old.” I love my daily constitutional—don’t misunderstand me—but after three years on the same route I’ve reached the point where I can track every neighbor’s footprints in either dirt or snow. I feel like I live in one of those English countryside towns of literature when I can determine by shoe sole who has turned up whose driveway to call. I beckon to each dog by name as it dashes out of the woods to greet me. I venture to say that if a pine tree has lost a cone in some breeze between yesterday and today, I notice, and when I can blindly walk my way home in a whiteout, it just might be time for a little variety.
Then I happened upon an article in a magazine about snowshoeing. “If you can walk, you can snowshoe,” the accompanying advertisement reassured. No sooner had I gleaned the details online than I was confidently whipping out my credit card and ordering a pair of REI’s MSR Denali Evo Ascents during the end of season sale last year. This was my winter to go for it.
We’ve so far enjoyed an authentic Montana winter; one December afternoon our driveway was buried under fourteen inches of powder. It was time. I strapped on the platforms, grabbed the poles, and headed out the sliding glass door onto a blanket of untouched perfection. After making a few adjustments to my natural stride, I was underway, scaling hills and maneuvering around pine trees on our forested property. Areas impassable during dry seasons due to fallen logs, rocks, and holes were transformed—I could step assuredly! No doubt to the casual observer I appeared altogether athletic.
In ten minutes my heart was beating like a hammer and I was breathing harder than I had when I visited my daughter’s Zumba class. I desperately peeled off layers of clothing, in 10-degree temperatures, no less. Wow—has Jane Fonda ever tried this?
Now I can brag, “I snowshoe!” when boomers my age and older are ruing their latest ski trip while propped on crutches and wearing a boot cast. Today, when the winter storm warning is issued and my husband groans in anticipation of his workout once again being behind the arms of a snow-blower, I am jubilant, slithering into sleek Under Armour ski pants while tearing open with my teeth another hand warmer pack from the cut-rate Costco carton of them.
Best of all, I am walking and not clumsily attempting some graceful parallel turn. Moving swiftly, dressed in a top layer of down, and hiding gray hair under a trendy cap—I might look, and will still feel, thirty.
Is there a dot-Doc in the house?
Recently my doctor suggested that a diminishing number of my white blood cells might signal a more serious condition; after eliminating all the usual suspects, he referred me to an oncologist. I wonder if oncologists follow dentists on the list of most likely professionals to commit suicide. Is anyone happy to see the doctor who resides in the Cancer Center office?
Like every red-blood celled American, no sooner had I hung up the telephone than I jumped on Google to type in every word combination of low white blood cell and causes and symptoms and treatments. It’s a love-hate relationship I have with the Internet: on the one hand, I felt compelled to educate myself while on the other, with every keystroke, deeper and deeper I plunged into unhappy diagnoses. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, my fall was endless. One twist led only to another turn. Just when I would have eliminated, say, bone cancer, as my fate, due to the fact that none of the enumerated symptoms were mine—whew! That’s when I would discover the caveat “Some patients suffer no symptoms.” Click and double click; I was on to another web site in the ever-widening spider web of information.
Once I yielded to the suggestion that I might require a bone marrow aspiration, I was traveling through medical mazes that detailed that procedure until, after two days of immersion, I had actually reached the point where I thought I would choose to endure it, just to eliminate all possibility of what positive results would bring. How much worse than natural childbirth can this test be? That was my squeamish standard, as I scanned faster and faster until my eyes glazed over and I was barely conscious enough to push the “print” key.
For seven days, since it would take that long for the oncologist to be able to work me in, I disappeared into cyberspace. Each evening I would emerge from my computer- screen coma just long enough to eat dinner—whatever I had read would increase white blood cell count, be it cauliflower or pepita seeds. Every morning I would awaken to a cup of coffee and the sound of my MAC booting up in order to produce my medical school lesson for the day. No matter what distraction I set in place, as hard as I tried to break away and take a walk—even if I took out my knitting or worked on a story, I was putty in the hands of my laptop; compulsively, I clicked. In the end, reams of paper under my arm and a prayer on my breath, I exited the lab and entered the oncologist’s office with white blood cells to beat the band that day. There was a common-sense explanation for the miraculous result, and one I did not discover during my weeklong website woe.
Lesson learned: When everyone tells you not to go to the Internet until you’ve seen the doctor for a diagnosis, hearken to that advice.
Of course, my husband just got word he needs an ultrasound of his renal artery because despite medication intervention, his blood pressure remains high. A man of wisdom, he patiently awaits the results during the week it takes for his doctor to obtain them. But I am a woman of weakness: File; New Window; Google—“renal artery blood pressure.” Alice, I’m falling…
Like every red-blood celled American, no sooner had I hung up the telephone than I jumped on Google to type in every word combination of low white blood cell and causes and symptoms and treatments. It’s a love-hate relationship I have with the Internet: on the one hand, I felt compelled to educate myself while on the other, with every keystroke, deeper and deeper I plunged into unhappy diagnoses. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, my fall was endless. One twist led only to another turn. Just when I would have eliminated, say, bone cancer, as my fate, due to the fact that none of the enumerated symptoms were mine—whew! That’s when I would discover the caveat “Some patients suffer no symptoms.” Click and double click; I was on to another web site in the ever-widening spider web of information.
Once I yielded to the suggestion that I might require a bone marrow aspiration, I was traveling through medical mazes that detailed that procedure until, after two days of immersion, I had actually reached the point where I thought I would choose to endure it, just to eliminate all possibility of what positive results would bring. How much worse than natural childbirth can this test be? That was my squeamish standard, as I scanned faster and faster until my eyes glazed over and I was barely conscious enough to push the “print” key.
For seven days, since it would take that long for the oncologist to be able to work me in, I disappeared into cyberspace. Each evening I would emerge from my computer- screen coma just long enough to eat dinner—whatever I had read would increase white blood cell count, be it cauliflower or pepita seeds. Every morning I would awaken to a cup of coffee and the sound of my MAC booting up in order to produce my medical school lesson for the day. No matter what distraction I set in place, as hard as I tried to break away and take a walk—even if I took out my knitting or worked on a story, I was putty in the hands of my laptop; compulsively, I clicked. In the end, reams of paper under my arm and a prayer on my breath, I exited the lab and entered the oncologist’s office with white blood cells to beat the band that day. There was a common-sense explanation for the miraculous result, and one I did not discover during my weeklong website woe.
Lesson learned: When everyone tells you not to go to the Internet until you’ve seen the doctor for a diagnosis, hearken to that advice.
Of course, my husband just got word he needs an ultrasound of his renal artery because despite medication intervention, his blood pressure remains high. A man of wisdom, he patiently awaits the results during the week it takes for his doctor to obtain them. But I am a woman of weakness: File; New Window; Google—“renal artery blood pressure.” Alice, I’m falling…
You still should be dancin’—yeah!
“They shoot horses, don’t they?” I was panting heavily as I pushed the pause button on the remote control and my daughters looked bewildered. Obviously, my reference to the 1969 movie where Jane Fonda nearly dances herself to death during a marathon escaped them.
My frustration was over my inability to perform to the 2010 family Christmas gift: Xbox 360’s Dance Central. After we’d ogled our 26-year-old daughter leap to the center of the carpet and get down in ways with which I wasn’t familiar but was entirely impressed, it had been my turn. I’d scrolled the soundtrack list in confusion: Couldn’t I simply sway back and forth and make little circles with my hands to The Supremes, twirl to the Temptations, or twist a la Chubby Checker? These artists and their accompanying hits were as foreign as an Eastern European language. The last time I’d tried to master a new dance routine, it had been when the girls were in high school and had decided to teach their mother Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk. I’d given it my all, but sadly come away after hours of rehearsal with a pitiful performance—and paralyzing shin splints.
Still, I would have opted for MJ over the selection choice now before me: Who is Beenie Man? Pitbull? I knew better than to even try something titled “Drop it Like It’s Hot,” and no one, not even my own husband, would need to reminisce about the holiday with the memory of Mom attempting “Rump Shaker.”
I gasped to a few bars of Lady Gaga, gave “Teach Me How to Jerk” a stab, erroneously thinking that Audio Push (whoever that is) meant the Jerk I used to do. Ultimately, for our family competition, I chose The Commodores’ “Brick House,” since at the very least I recognized it. Kate had already locked in a stellar score on level three following the lead of some gansta ripping out “Funky Town.”
“This is a fabulous workout!” An exercise aficionado, she loved nothing more than another way to sweat away the holiday feasting. Her older sister Clary, too petite for the camera to note her normal movements, flailed dramatically to “Poker Face,” and finished with a respecatble total. Their father flat out refused.
“I couldn’t do this to save my life!” He left the room, and then re-emerged only when Kate beckoned.
“Daddy! Come see! Mom’s bustin’ a move!”
I was bustin’ something all right. The instructor/animated kid with a sweatshirt hood pulled down to his lips offered words of encouragement—syllables I failed to recognize until my daughters translated. When had I lost track of hip, except in conversations about replacement surgery? As hard as I worked, and as much as every muscle in my body trembled, my numbers came in too low to even advance to the next level, called “Perform.” Just as well.
But wait a minute! Hadn’t I been the one who, at seventeen, dragged a date to the Hollywood studio where "Shebang" (our local version of Dick Clarke’s American Bandstand) was filmed? And, much to the horror of said date, weren’t we featured on the platform performing for the TV audience (albeit failing) the Frug? Pictures of me in high school recorded me wearing my uniform—the sweatshirt that read "Live to Dance and Dance to Live." I might be flirting with sixty, but sixteen still beat strong in this aging heart. Why not on the dance floor?
Fortified by a large cup of coffee, I demanded a rematch. This time I knew what to expect from my heretofore-uncooperative limbs. Now I anticipated every move of the Avatar, stayed focused, got my rhythm, and—graduated to the second level! The routine was more challenging but conquerable, and I finished—not the winner after three rounds, but not that far behind her. Exhausted and sucking in breaths like a strangling bass, despite having lived through the dance, I concurred with my husband: I might be too old for this.
Kate just called to tell me that XBox has just come out with "The Experience."
“It’s all Michael Jackson!” She shrieked into the phone. "I'm getting it for you for Mother's Day!"
Maybe I'll revisit the Moonwalk.
My frustration was over my inability to perform to the 2010 family Christmas gift: Xbox 360’s Dance Central. After we’d ogled our 26-year-old daughter leap to the center of the carpet and get down in ways with which I wasn’t familiar but was entirely impressed, it had been my turn. I’d scrolled the soundtrack list in confusion: Couldn’t I simply sway back and forth and make little circles with my hands to The Supremes, twirl to the Temptations, or twist a la Chubby Checker? These artists and their accompanying hits were as foreign as an Eastern European language. The last time I’d tried to master a new dance routine, it had been when the girls were in high school and had decided to teach their mother Michael Jackson’s Moonwalk. I’d given it my all, but sadly come away after hours of rehearsal with a pitiful performance—and paralyzing shin splints.
Still, I would have opted for MJ over the selection choice now before me: Who is Beenie Man? Pitbull? I knew better than to even try something titled “Drop it Like It’s Hot,” and no one, not even my own husband, would need to reminisce about the holiday with the memory of Mom attempting “Rump Shaker.”
I gasped to a few bars of Lady Gaga, gave “Teach Me How to Jerk” a stab, erroneously thinking that Audio Push (whoever that is) meant the Jerk I used to do. Ultimately, for our family competition, I chose The Commodores’ “Brick House,” since at the very least I recognized it. Kate had already locked in a stellar score on level three following the lead of some gansta ripping out “Funky Town.”
“This is a fabulous workout!” An exercise aficionado, she loved nothing more than another way to sweat away the holiday feasting. Her older sister Clary, too petite for the camera to note her normal movements, flailed dramatically to “Poker Face,” and finished with a respecatble total. Their father flat out refused.
“I couldn’t do this to save my life!” He left the room, and then re-emerged only when Kate beckoned.
“Daddy! Come see! Mom’s bustin’ a move!”
I was bustin’ something all right. The instructor/animated kid with a sweatshirt hood pulled down to his lips offered words of encouragement—syllables I failed to recognize until my daughters translated. When had I lost track of hip, except in conversations about replacement surgery? As hard as I worked, and as much as every muscle in my body trembled, my numbers came in too low to even advance to the next level, called “Perform.” Just as well.
But wait a minute! Hadn’t I been the one who, at seventeen, dragged a date to the Hollywood studio where "Shebang" (our local version of Dick Clarke’s American Bandstand) was filmed? And, much to the horror of said date, weren’t we featured on the platform performing for the TV audience (albeit failing) the Frug? Pictures of me in high school recorded me wearing my uniform—the sweatshirt that read "Live to Dance and Dance to Live." I might be flirting with sixty, but sixteen still beat strong in this aging heart. Why not on the dance floor?
Fortified by a large cup of coffee, I demanded a rematch. This time I knew what to expect from my heretofore-uncooperative limbs. Now I anticipated every move of the Avatar, stayed focused, got my rhythm, and—graduated to the second level! The routine was more challenging but conquerable, and I finished—not the winner after three rounds, but not that far behind her. Exhausted and sucking in breaths like a strangling bass, despite having lived through the dance, I concurred with my husband: I might be too old for this.
Kate just called to tell me that XBox has just come out with "The Experience."
“It’s all Michael Jackson!” She shrieked into the phone. "I'm getting it for you for Mother's Day!"
Maybe I'll revisit the Moonwalk.
Right back where you started from
“I really want to try cross-country skiing!” pleaded my daughter moments after she’d picked up her bag. We were heading toward the airport terminal ladies’ room to change clothes so we could hike to the “M” and reward ourselves with sweet potato fries at Hob Nob on the “hip strip’ in downtown Missoula.
I was game, having downhill skied throughout my lifetime, albeit not adeptly. I’d recently announced that I would never ski that way again. I’d been feeling my age and had sworn off virtually everything but walking, fishing, or pumping an elliptical trainer. Balance and coordination have never been my forte, but outdoor desire burns bright, I’d struggled with acting it out all my life, and now I imagined cross-country to be less harrowing a winter endeavor for one in her, ahem, late fifties. If I experimented with the technique—or lack thereof—with Katharine, I’d be safe from the embarrassment of falling and flailing in front of my peers who had heretofore invited me to come try it. This way, I could grow comfortably seasoned before next ski season!
Two days later we set out to rent the necessary equipment and head for the hills—Lolo Pass to be exact, since all sign of snow had evaporated, literally, from the valley, even though it was only the second week in March. Geared up and giddy, Katharine pulled out our sack lunches as I turned onto Highway 12.
“After lunch, “ I dictated, “We’ll start your list of pros and cons.” She had brought along a yellow-papered legal pad so that we might create a list of reasons for her to either leave her current job and accept another—or not. Everyone knows this is the best way to go about making a difficult decision where both sides of the scale appear to be balanced. And for Katharine, a sufferer of a rather advanced case of OCD, tipping one side or the other can go on for days on end. Her stepfather had opted to stay home and clean out the shed rather than have to listen to yet another spin on the same advantages and disadvantages he’d been privy to in conversation for the past forty-eight hours.
“I can hear her debating in my sleep!” he teased—he being the father of two adult sons whose only behavior disorder had been one to many bottles of beer or a party gone haywire while dad was away.
Sandwich gripped in left hand, Katharine deftly multi-tasked with pencil in right, tablet on lap, set to embark on mental machinations. Back and forth, forth and back, we approached the decision from all angles, the drive flashed by, and we pulled into the parking lot not only equipped to ski, but with her firm decision to stay right where she was, a three-year veteran in the job with a plethora of advantages over any other.
“After all that,” she sighed. “All that angst and anxiety just to figure out the best thing is to stay! Why did I go through all that?”
“Sometimes…” I surprised myself with such sagacity…”you leave home in search of greener grasses for the sole reason that it will lead you right back to the field where you started.” Dang, I’m good.
We stepped into our skis and I began to instruct her with what little I’d gleaned from a combination of ogling the Winter Olympics and a few U-tube videos on how to cross-country ski. She took a few of the usual tumbles, but once underway, we glided, lunged and poled like the best of them. The scenery was astonishing, the temperature a mild 55-60 degrees; we skied sans jackets, gloves, or even hats. And the best part? Ours had been the only car in the parking lot and so it follows, were the only people on the trail. Glorious.
I’d discovered my retirement outdoor sport: Skiing for the second half! I’d leave walking with Yak Traks in the dust and announce my newfound passion. After weighing the concerns about attempting it, the skill had come easily to me after all.
That’s when I stopped to study the trail map and while standing perfectly still, instantly found myself sitting, having whip lashed my neck and overextended both ankles beyond human capability. The brief, sharp pain subsided, and blessedly, when I managed to crawl around until I could hoist myself erect, I was able to ski quite normally the two miles back to the parking lot. Even after a nasty fall, cross-country skiing was kind to my aging physique—not to mention the ankle I’d broken just over a year ago, a feat likewise accomplished while standing utterly still.
It wasn’t long, however, before my perfect-sport bubble was burst. The ankle began to swell that evening, the sprain-pain became unbearable, and Brad had to carry me to bed, tears running down my cheeks over the loss of the delusion that I might actually be somewhat athletic in my old age.
“I’m never doing anything again!” I boo-hooed, as I slapped a bag of frozen peas on the swelling. Sometimes those greener grasses (or whiter ski trails) only lead you right back to where you started.
By morning, however, I was considering snowshoeing. I’d read an advertisement: “If you can walk, you can snowshoe.”
I think I can walk. I just can’t stand still.
I was game, having downhill skied throughout my lifetime, albeit not adeptly. I’d recently announced that I would never ski that way again. I’d been feeling my age and had sworn off virtually everything but walking, fishing, or pumping an elliptical trainer. Balance and coordination have never been my forte, but outdoor desire burns bright, I’d struggled with acting it out all my life, and now I imagined cross-country to be less harrowing a winter endeavor for one in her, ahem, late fifties. If I experimented with the technique—or lack thereof—with Katharine, I’d be safe from the embarrassment of falling and flailing in front of my peers who had heretofore invited me to come try it. This way, I could grow comfortably seasoned before next ski season!
Two days later we set out to rent the necessary equipment and head for the hills—Lolo Pass to be exact, since all sign of snow had evaporated, literally, from the valley, even though it was only the second week in March. Geared up and giddy, Katharine pulled out our sack lunches as I turned onto Highway 12.
“After lunch, “ I dictated, “We’ll start your list of pros and cons.” She had brought along a yellow-papered legal pad so that we might create a list of reasons for her to either leave her current job and accept another—or not. Everyone knows this is the best way to go about making a difficult decision where both sides of the scale appear to be balanced. And for Katharine, a sufferer of a rather advanced case of OCD, tipping one side or the other can go on for days on end. Her stepfather had opted to stay home and clean out the shed rather than have to listen to yet another spin on the same advantages and disadvantages he’d been privy to in conversation for the past forty-eight hours.
“I can hear her debating in my sleep!” he teased—he being the father of two adult sons whose only behavior disorder had been one to many bottles of beer or a party gone haywire while dad was away.
Sandwich gripped in left hand, Katharine deftly multi-tasked with pencil in right, tablet on lap, set to embark on mental machinations. Back and forth, forth and back, we approached the decision from all angles, the drive flashed by, and we pulled into the parking lot not only equipped to ski, but with her firm decision to stay right where she was, a three-year veteran in the job with a plethora of advantages over any other.
“After all that,” she sighed. “All that angst and anxiety just to figure out the best thing is to stay! Why did I go through all that?”
“Sometimes…” I surprised myself with such sagacity…”you leave home in search of greener grasses for the sole reason that it will lead you right back to the field where you started.” Dang, I’m good.
We stepped into our skis and I began to instruct her with what little I’d gleaned from a combination of ogling the Winter Olympics and a few U-tube videos on how to cross-country ski. She took a few of the usual tumbles, but once underway, we glided, lunged and poled like the best of them. The scenery was astonishing, the temperature a mild 55-60 degrees; we skied sans jackets, gloves, or even hats. And the best part? Ours had been the only car in the parking lot and so it follows, were the only people on the trail. Glorious.
I’d discovered my retirement outdoor sport: Skiing for the second half! I’d leave walking with Yak Traks in the dust and announce my newfound passion. After weighing the concerns about attempting it, the skill had come easily to me after all.
That’s when I stopped to study the trail map and while standing perfectly still, instantly found myself sitting, having whip lashed my neck and overextended both ankles beyond human capability. The brief, sharp pain subsided, and blessedly, when I managed to crawl around until I could hoist myself erect, I was able to ski quite normally the two miles back to the parking lot. Even after a nasty fall, cross-country skiing was kind to my aging physique—not to mention the ankle I’d broken just over a year ago, a feat likewise accomplished while standing utterly still.
It wasn’t long, however, before my perfect-sport bubble was burst. The ankle began to swell that evening, the sprain-pain became unbearable, and Brad had to carry me to bed, tears running down my cheeks over the loss of the delusion that I might actually be somewhat athletic in my old age.
“I’m never doing anything again!” I boo-hooed, as I slapped a bag of frozen peas on the swelling. Sometimes those greener grasses (or whiter ski trails) only lead you right back to where you started.
By morning, however, I was considering snowshoeing. I’d read an advertisement: “If you can walk, you can snowshoe.”
I think I can walk. I just can’t stand still.
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