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.

Visit Kathleen Clary Miller’s blog to read other stories: http://kcmillersoutpost.blogspot.com/. Kathleen Clary Miller is the author of over 300 essays and stories that have appeared in such publications as Newsweek Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, The Baltimore Sun, The Hartford Courant, The Los Angeles Times, The Orange County Register, Orange Coast Magazine, Missoula Living Magazine, Flathead Living Magazine, The Johns Hopkins Memory Bulletin, and The Christian Science Monitor. For two years, she was a regular columnist for The Missoulian and now appears on their “Missoula Mom” Blog. Her column “High on the Wild” appears in the Pines Literary Journal and her column “Peaks and Valleys” appears in Montana Woman Magazine. She has contributed to National Public Radio’s On Point.

She lives in Huson, Montana.

Is there an AA for aerobics?

“Mom, have you seen the infomercial for the Mari Winsor ACCELERATOR Pilates tape?” my toned and trim daughter asked me on the phone.  “I was tempted, and I knew you would be too.” Read more

Throw this dog a bone!

“Look what I bought Abby!” my daughter Katharine exuded enthusiasm while on Skype with me last Saturday.  She had just come home from her errands, one of which was Bonnie’s Bakery, an intimate Scottsdale, Ariz., bon-bon boutique — for dogs.

I am not a stranger to such news.  As she held up the elegantly decorated confection that resembled a gourmet cupcake, I averred that I’d seen such Bowser bites in my favorite pet store here in Missoula, Mont., Go Fetch! “They always look so good!”  I announced, “and they smell so good when I walk in and they are freshly baked.” We chuckled over the trend, and then Katharine told me the woman who owns the shop she frequents likes to nibble on them herself for a mid-morning healthy snack.  Go figure.

“Read me the ingredients,” I ordered, after pointing out that the ones for sale in establishments I’ve seen advertise only the purest peanut butter, sweet potato and icings made with organic non-fat yogurt.  What about that is not to be consumed by humans? “Gingerbread, cinnamon, nutmeg, flax seed, and whole grain wheat are the only things in this one.”  She lifted to the camera a lovely square petit four my mother would have purchased at Jurgensen’s Bakery and served at the Pasadena Junior League Luncheon.  The other selection Katharine had made was a small sack of Savory Sweet Potato and Chicken Biscuits.  Fit for a king — Shepherd, that is.

Dog food has made the leap from nasty to natural; I feed my boys natural and organic Canidae, and even reward good behavior with natural treats as opposed to the “junk food” for which they might more readily do back flips and fetch me a beer from the refrigerator — probably even pop the top.  But dessert? Is that really deserved and more importantly, can I leave it to them and resist such temptation?

“So she really eats it?” I wanted to get back to the woman in the Arizona shop who nabs a nibble now and then from the gingerbread.  “I wonder if it tastes like spice cake?  With ingredients like that, how could it be bad? Remember when your brother double dared you to eat a Dog Bone dog biscuit?”  We eyed each other on camera, mischief in our musing. “Do you dare me?” Katharine taunted.  And with my nod, came her tentative nibble. “Yummmmm!”  She turned to face Abby, there in the background, tail wagging in anticipation, and took another, larger bite. “Want a bite, Abby, before Mommy eats it all?” Then she turned again to me to note that, “This would be healthier than the power bars I eat for a snack before working out!”

These days it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish man’s health care from that of man’s best friend — and not just when it comes to medical care.  At most pet stores they’ve covered the preventative disease bases:  There are dog memory puzzles, brain games, and even pet medication websites that compete in the same pricing war and advertising that human prescriptions do.  Who will outlive whom?  When I was informed that medical requirements for one of my dogs would involve a lifetime of treatments, three times a day, entailing eye flush, eye ointments and eye drops, and the vet said, “for the rest of his life,” I couldn’t help but add, “or mine — whichever ends first.”  Still, I perform the daily ritual as I toss Glucosamine/Chondroitin Sulfate and Flax Oil capsules into his organic kibble.  Remember opening those cans that reeked to high heaven?  Well, the dog to whom I served those along with whatever scrap of fat was left on my father’s plate lived to be 17 years old — and on Dog Bone Biscuits.

In lieu of the bone in your Christmas roast, the latest, healthy chew that is superior salve for gums and teeth is the elk antler.  During a visit Katharine’s mother-in-law nabbed one for her Lab back at home but was told she could not carry it onto the airplane as it would be considered “a weapon.” I begged Katharine to sample the sweet potato biscuits, that root vegetable being a healthy alternative to the white russet, and one that we actually both prefer.  When she readily took a bite, turns out she couldn’t masticate.  Guess that one’s intended for canine canines only.

“Chris is going to leave me,” she chuckled at the thought of her husband’s reaction to her confession.

“Or want one of those gingerbread cakes for himself,” I proposed, right before I headed to the car to check out what Go Fetch! was offering at today’s bakery counter.  When I walked in the door, the scent of cheese and garlic was intoxicating.  Wheat-free cheese heart crackers touted rice flour, garlic, parsley, cream cheese, cheddar, and eggs.  Dipped Puppy Paws were made of carob and then dipped in white chocolate, Garlic Bagels were literally just that, and for the sweet tooth?  Pure and simple ginger cookies.  My mouth watered as I texted Katharine with news of my local health food finds.  She wrote back—jealous.  But they were going out to dinner that night I reminded her—how about stopping off at Bonnie’s for dessert?

The Bear Essentials

When I retired from a lifetime in Southern California to the forest west of Missoula, Montana, in a tiny community with nothing but a post office known as Huson, the last thing I anticipated was that my neighborhood would ever make headline national news.  Seems a woman in my neck of the woods fended off a black bear with her garden-fresh zucchini—an event that landed on the front page of The Missoulian and Bill Handel’s KFI talk radio show.

What really strikes me about it, however, is that all the bear education I’ve received since moving here is now out the window.  As a devoted power walker, I hit the trails and dirt roads the first spring after we’d moved into our log cabin nestled in the pine trees. “Watch out for bears!” my husband Brad called out as I pumped down the driveway. Bears? Really? The previous winter we’d attended wildlife lectures on the topic of co-existing with the Montana bear population.  I had practiced the skill of distinguishing a black bear from a grizzly (the one that attacks just for the sake of attacking rather than to defend).  We’d watched the infamous “Night of the Grizzly” PBS television special about the two young women killed in their camp in Glacier National Park.  But never the drama queen, and always adept at denial, I was skeptical of warnings and supposed local sightings—until I rounded a corner this autumn to find a bear ten feet ahead of me, playing with its paw.

Brad had taken me to the shooting range, and in the freedom state of Montana a woman can carry a concealed weapon in her purse.  Here, the joke is we have no road rage because the guy in the pickup next to you is loaded for bear or bad driver.  I’d attempted the operation of various handguns at the range to determine which model I might tote on the trail—the .44 magnum being the only one powerful enough, Brad pointed out, to do anything other than annoy the beast.  Dirty Harry I am not; I could barely lift the thing, let alone lug it in a holster on my aging hip or drag it along in a fanny pack.  And the problem with lightweight, portable, handy dandy bear spray is obvious:  Unless you’ve got it out and your finger is on the trigger, you’re too late.

Face to face with potential foe, I froze—with no bear spray, no weapon, nothing but a lot of education and no ability to think on my feet. But thanks to the unidentified neighbor in Huson, I know now what I didn’t know then:  All you need is a solid squash and a brain that hasn’t turned to vegetable.

Visit Kathleen Clary Miller’s blog to read other stories: http://kcmillersoutpost.blogspot.com/. Kathleen Clary Miller is the author of over 300 essays and stories that have appeared in such publications as Newsweek Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, The Baltimore Sun, The Hartford Courant, The Los Angeles Times, The Orange County Register, Orange Coast Magazine, Missoula Living Magazine, Flathead Living Magazine, The Johns Hopkins Memory Bulletin, and The Christian Science Monitor. For two years, she was a regular columnist for The Missoulian and now appears on their “Missoula Mom” Blog. Her column “High on the Wild” appears in the Pines Literary Journal and her column “Peaks and Valleys” appears in Montana Woman Magazine. She has contributed to National Public Radio’s On Point.

She lives in Huson, Montana.

Am I obsessed?

You can stop compulsively channel surfing; on the heels of “The Biggest Loser” and “Hoarders” hails the latest in intervention reality shows, “Obsessed”—this one splashing on screen the sorrows of sufferers from OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Read more

Hats off to my ugly hat

My friend, Rickie, is reacquainting me with the art of knitting—a craft I dabbled in as a child, but never before with the notion that I might actually produce anything that resembles apparel.  She has me whipping out lacy scarf patterns and cable stitches, much to the amazement of anyone who acknowledges my inability to be creative.

In exchange, to our weekly meetings I come bearing gifts;  a bottle of Merlot, a box of Kashi dark chocolate oatmeal cookies (we strive to keep it healthy), or the nubbin of a Nylabone, chewed too small for my twin King German Shepherds, but just the right mouthful for one of her four Australian Shepherds.

Last week she wanted out of the confines of her own house and so we agreed to sit on my front porch and work on our projects.

Read more

A stroke of luck

I had been married for fourteen years to a man who accused me of going to the supermarket because it was “ a social occasion—you’re not kidding anybody.” One Saturday he stood at the end of our five-foot-long driveway hand in hand with our two children as the three of them wept to watch me back away. I was driving four miles to a baby shower. I wasn’t exactly accustomed to spending time apart from a husband. On the contrary, I was led to feel that separate spousal time was a sin nothing short of mortal and that it invariably led to marital demise. Read more

Chug or chew: How do you like your greens?

When I open the freezer, out spill Costco industrial-sized bags of spinach, blueberries and chopped bananas.  Blocking access to cereal and crackers in the pantry cupboard are large sacks of  “supergreens,” protein powder, and barley. 

My husband, whose idea of a nutritious lunch is goopy grilled American cheese, potato chips, and a chaser of gummed spice drops, and whose fantasy fruit juice is Dr Pepper, has experienced a conversion:  He is swallowing large green smoothies for his midday meal.

“At least it’s not red convertibles and younger women,” commented a friend when I was explaining my theory that this is Brad’s version of an age crisis. He turns sixty in a few months and is concerned that he never ingests enough fruit and vegetables. Suddenly, whispers like “cancer” and “heart disease” –the current subject of his breakfast reading material — are seeping in through the cracks of his resolve to remain oblivious, forever young.

It’s not only a harmless acknowledgment of age, but also a healthy one. As we all know by now, produce fights all sorts of fatal disease.  That’s the reason Brad is certain I am silently simmering with jealousy—green with envy, you might in this case say.

I am the queen of leafy green; my daily ceremonial salad occurs in a wooden bowl that serves eight.  It brims with organic cabbage, spinach, collards, kals, cilantro, mushrooms, and broccoli.  A day doesn’t pass before some seasonal addition appears on the supermarket shelf and it’s in my mix.  Needless to say, I invest a substantial amount of time both in preparation and ingestion of the contents of this behemoth bowl.

I must admit that when the first bag of super greens arrived UPS, I was intrigued.  I hated to confess; didn’t care to succumb to the trendy.  But any food product carrying a label with the word combination “super” and “green” was impossible to ignore.  My daughter was visiting at the time and chided, “Oh Mom…can you really resist such powerful antioxidants?”  I assured her I could.

“She won’t be able to stand it. She won’t hold off for long before she’s dipping into the bag,” challenged my husband who at last felt the right to wield nutritional superiority over my healthy eating habits.  I vowed that I would.

You see, I like to chew my food. I garner a great sense of satisfaction when I masticate—the more the better.   What does that say about me?  Oral fixation?  Tension release? Grinding to gain power over?

Brad, on the other hand, couldn’t be bothered.  He would rather swirl soft and soupy than chomp down on substantial.  He claims it’s a saliva thing—that he produces little of it and hence, most food seems dry.  I have determined that it’s an outcropping of his calm demeanor; he refuses to succumb to the sort of anxiety that generates the gnashing of teeth.

“I couldn’t eat your salad to save my life,” he groans, just looking at the sheer size of it.  “But I can drink it!”

On the bar counter rests the high-powered machine that pulverizes anything that grows.  He shops for his own ingredients, makes and cleans the mixer himself, and his sense of pride reminds me of the day I made my first monster salad.

Shhhh….Don’t tell him I’ve been topping my veggies with a sprinkle of his supergreens.

Much ado about abdominals

“What does it mean when someone refers to abdominal muscle appearance as ‘six-pack’ abs?”  I asked my 25-year old daughter who breathes only to find the next exercise regimen.  Kate’s gone from to Bosu Ball Aeroibcs class to Zumba workout; one might say from A to Z; I knew she would be my optimal information source. Read more

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 flailing in front of my peers. 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.

“During 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 too 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 ogling the Winter Olympics and a few YouTube 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! I’d leave walking with Yak Traks in the dust and announce my new found 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 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.  As if I had been at any 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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