Homebody building

My in-town friends tell me Rangeley has the best health club ever seen in this neck of the woods. They invite me to check it out next time I come in, take the tour, get a membership. “Where else,” one of them asked recently, “can you get in a workout while looking out over such a gorgeous view of the lake and mountains?”

The view is spectacular, I agree. I really enjoy it each time I drive by the club on my way down Dallas Hill Road. And it was particularly awesome from outside the building on the lawn last July where I saw the Doobie Brothers’ perform a stellar benefit concert for our health clinic. But, while I do miss the social aspects of club membership, I politely decline going inside to join up. I’ve done the math several times and 40 miles round trip to walk on the treadmill or splash around in the pool takes the wind right out of my sails before I even think about throwing my gym bag into the Subaru. Besides, completing “the loop” to run errands, get groceries—and maybe hit the dump if I time it right—is workout enough on my going-to-town days. So I settle for sticking to my “at home” routine, substituting the extra car travel with just “getting out there” under my own steam. Out here I can’t socialize in my sweats or ask my girlfriends what’s up while we’re getting pumped for water aerobics. But where else can I do the “road wave” to which ever neighbor passes by on my fitness circuit?

Before moving away from proximity to such amenities, I often did carry a  gym membership of some sort. Over the years, I migrated from pounding the pavement at the YMCA to a snazzy, high-priced athletic club—where I needed to put on an attitude with my Reeboks and Spandex. Then, when the more down-to-earth Planet Fitness opened close by, I was thrilled. I got the huge “thumbs up” just for walking in and, once inside, knew I was OK as long as I tried to keep in shape alongside  everyone else who drew breath and could afford the $99 a year membership. Who needed a snazzy club when I could use the same fancy equipment painted in screaming yellow and purple? The color scheme alone drove me to want to jump on and go like hell.

Yup, I’m happy to say my gym going days are over and that, since I moved up here “working out” at home is working out better than ever. No longer is it just an excuse I give my former snazzy club member friends who wonder where I went. It’s a way of life.

“Gosh, you look great!” my former aerobics instructor would tell when she’d run into me in the grocery store and I didn’t see her coming first. Her smile seemed genuine, but her eyes said something more like: What in God s name have you done to your hair and did you actually ask for it to come out that way? My other aerobics classmates claimed they missed me, too. In gym buddy speak, though, that only meant they missed secretly eyeing me for cellulite and exchanging pleasantries prior to sweating. In any case, they seemed quite curious as to why I hadn’t packed on the pounds or lost major muscle functions.

“Been working out at home,” I ‘d tell them. I didn’t go into detail and let them picture a mini-gymnasium in my basement. They didn’t need to know I owned just one piece of equipment—an exercise bike—and at that particular time, my home workout routine entailed pushing the bike as hard and as fast as I could out of the family room so guests could use the bumper pool table. To compensate, I relied on tips from fitness experts who claimed those without the time or discipline for a regular routine could still stretch and tone while riding the train or standing around the copy machine. I didn’t do either, so I had to be really inventive.

At that point in my life, I was blessed by not needing free weights or upper arm equipment. I had kids—one who’d reached the too heavy to carry but too hazardous to leave running around stage, and another who needed to be lugged everywhere. They made me wonder how childless women kept in shape. Besides having way more time to go to the gym, they’d have to hoist a potato sack filled with 25 pounds of dried beans and a couple of cats or other small, squirming animals to feel the burn I was getting! Another key to my success then was the layout of my living quarters. I lived in a split-level home with everything necessary for survival divided equally between two floors. My washer and dryer was on the lower level, along with most things I needed upstairs, while stuff I needed downstairs in my office was on the second floor, often under the bed. Multiply 24 climbing movements (12 up, 12 down) by the number of times I’d check my laundry, answer my door and lug my kids around, and I was proof positive why stairs are a training staple for all athletes. Eventually, I kicked that up one more notch by putting a baby gate at the top of the stairs. What a way to improve my agility while building up my calves and thighs! I even added a couple nice shoulder stretches by dropping a sock from my laundry bundle on each stair on my way down!

Especially this time of year, in my old neighborhood I’d stick to indoor workouts out of preference and necessity. “Winter recreation” was an oxymoron back then. Plus my road had so much traffic that, even in fair weather, I chose to stay housebound and alive rather than clipped by a dump truck while out for a walk. But now that I’ve traded that address for my road less traveled, I’m tickled to have moved my workouts outdoors where I’ve swapped my Reeboks with Yaktrax or snowshoes, my Planet Fitness purple and yellow with Rangeley blue and green, and my Airdyne bike for riding in fresh air.

There are some days, though, when Mother Nature has different ideas and staying housebound is still a survival strategy. That’s when I focus on my upper body and get inventive again. I augment reps of “throwing another log on the fire” with grocery bag lifting. When filled to capacity and used with proper technique, I’ve discovered grocery bags to be every bit as effective as free weights. I grab the two heaviest bags, one in each hand, and then clutch a third with whichever hand I don’t need for opening up the door. I concentrate on improving my load limit with each shopping trip. And, as I build up my tolerance and swear I can’t possibly hoist anymore, I reach out with one thumb and hook onto another IGA bag or maybe just a gallon of milk before charging up the porch stairs to my  kitchen. Another homebody building secret is to never ever put anything within arms reach. Canned goods for my favorite recipes need to be at the back of the cupboard, I figure, to do me the most good athletically. I aim for height too, stretching my hands above my head and then really pushing myself to go at least two inches above that point. Whatever casserole dishes and pots and pans I don’t have room for up near the ceiling, I store down low in a floor-level cupboard—way up against the back wall—and feel that stretch!

As I write this, it’s Fat Tuesday and I guess I’ll need to go out for a brisk walk to burn off tonight’s party food and drink. And when I come back inside, I’ll need to kick it up one more notch to avoid a Fatter Wednesday. I figure a couple circuits with my Swiffer duster will be just the right combo for adding strength training and agility…as long as I don’t forget to hit the really high shelves and the stairs!

Joy overflowing

While I’m never what you’d call a morning person, most days I do rise and shine with a bit more levity and luster than I did after the holidays. Nope, I wasn’t hung over (but good guess) and I didn’t get that holiday flu some friends caught. But my stomach was knotted in dread over what lay across the hall in the bathroom. I grabbed my glasses off the dresser on the way in—a sure sign I was taking an unpleasant detour from my morning routine. (Having to see details in the bathroom is never good in my book).

By the time my bare feet hit the cold floor, I was talking myself up. “I’m not alone. Everywhere all over the world, nearly everybody is taking this walk with me.” I paused, trying to feel the chi of all those souls moving with me in unified purpose. I got nothin’…just cold feet and a knowing that the only noble course was to stand tall, suck it up and seek the truth. I needed to move my feet off the floor and onto the scale and not chicken out.

The next steps in the routine were all too familiar. Dust the thing off. Square it up till it’s optimally aligned with the base of the toilet and the angle of the morning sun under the window. Tap the stupid thing with my toe to zero it out, resist the urge to muckle onto the wall for “help” and climb aboard. Next, watch helplessly as the little LED display shudders and goes blank as though trying to recalculate Newton’s law of gravity. If necessary, move big toes out of the way that are hiding the inevitable and…wait for it, wait for it…there’s my number!

Aw, jeez, what was I thinking?” I groaned. How was it that my dismay sounded much the same as those blissful sighs I’d emitted, long and low, as I lingered over my sack of Lindor truffles just a few days ago? “Awwww, man, these are just to die for!” I’d let their lucious peanut butter chocolatey-ness ooze into my every awareness until all that mattered was that I was a very, very good girl who deserved this once a year treat. Each wave of texture and flavor was so amazing, I could kid myself that Santa or some other stroke of good girl serenditpity had put them in my Christmas stocking. Truth was, they’d been placed there by dutiful Daughter Number One to whom I’d given a very short and very explicit stocking stuffer list. “Lindor Truffles,” I ordered, “and they have to be the peanut butter ones.” I got what I asked for and—despite the silent inner knowing that my groans of pleasure would soon have a different ring to them as they resonated off the bathroom walls—I dove in over and over.

Once again, in the harsh first light of the new year, I realized the truffles and the pie and the “special” coffee and the gravy-topped mashed tater towers and all the other treats I swore were “to die for” brought only cruel nanoseconds of euphoria that killed hours and hours of everyday dietary diligence. “Oh, I’ll be back to teeny carrots and protein cereal soon enough,” I told myself between mouthfuls. And—surprise, surprise—my prediction was so accurate, it was spooky.

“Yeah, I saw it coming,” I admitted, shuffling from the bathroom in defeat. I could have throttled back. I could have refrained from snickering when I read the pre-holiday advice columns. “Distract yourself with party conversation,” one instructed. “It will help you stay three feet away from the buffet table most of the time and enjoy what the holidays are really all about, which is reconnecting with family.” Oh well, so I hadn’t made it more than three inches away from the nearest candy dish or Chex mix bowl since the middle of November. But I did reconnect with family between mouthfuls. Besides, it could be worse. It could always be worse.

On the spectrum of shame dictated by my bathroom scale, this year I landed just this side of the danger zone. As I waited for my number to reveal itself, my own personal metering system flashed once more in my head. What range would I fall into?
Zone 1: Whoops, looks like I need to remember that one serving of wine only half fills that big, bulbous glass.
Zone 2: No wonder I’ve been favoring those “relaxed” jeans.
Zone 3: I need to throw out this friggin’ fancy digital scale and get an old fashioned one that actually works.
Zone 4: Oh, crap, serves you right, you lazy, spineless, worthless waste of blubber filled skin.

Luckily, I ended up in between zones 1 and 2. It wasn’t a ka…chunk moment, but it wasn’t a hugging my naked self one either. Ka…chunk is the sound the real serious doctor’s office scale makes when the nurse, after sizing me up and sliding the top metal arrow all the way to the right, gives up and shoves the lower fifty-pounder over one notch. Ka…chunk! “Hmmm, so this is the woman whose husband makes homemade wine,” I feel her saying at that point. “Guess she better rethink those empty calories!”

Nope, I didn’t let myself go that far off track. My weight gain was closer to a sack of sugar  than a sack of dog food or, thank goodness, one of those sacks the Blue Seal Feeds guy has to strong arm out to my car for me. So, I guess I did an OK job keeping myself balanced between sinfulness and celebration, at least enough so I won’t need to be melting off my extra truffles and treats way past ice out. That’s because, like most other disciplines of living out in the woods, not allowing myself to “work my way up in tonnage” springs just as much from frugality as it does from needing to stay hearty and healthy. Sure I want to eat right to maintain the best possible half-used-up body I can. But I’m also motivated to not bust out of my jeans and onto the next size. When I moved to the outskirts of Rangeley, Maine, you see, I cleared my closet of ka…chunk clothing. All my pleated pants and paunch pocketed shorts are now history. I’m kinda out of options, considering I have a distaste for shopping and anything mall-like that’s stronger than anything chocolate coated or rum soaked. Plus, relying on online catalog delivery out here could leave me virtually pantless till spring. So, I’m stuck without much choice but to keep moving, eat right, and stay this side of chubby. Had it been a ka…chunk year, that would have meant stretching my daily walks halfway the next county and back and leaving an extra pair of glasses in the bathroom. But this year, as long as I keep my scale and my walking boots dusted off, I figure I’ll be back to my ideal weight just in time to demand some Valentine candies.

Settling back in

I wasn’t in my usual hurry to put up my Christmas decorations. Most years, I’d be eager to add some sparkle to my little brown cabin in the now-brown woods, to say farewell to November and let DecemBear make my knotty pine a bit nicer before winter closed in around me. This year, though, I didn’t feel the same post-Thanksgiving, pre-holiday-party push. I’d just come back from “away,” and my little house on the lake didn’t need any extra cheer whatsoever to welcome me home.

“I’m baaaaack!” I called as I burst through the door a couple days after Thanksgiving. No one was inside, and Tom was still schlepping our luggage out of the Subaru. But, as usual, the house answered. It hugged me.

How does a house hug? Well, it’s a subtle and very subjective thing. I can only speak from what I’ve felt here, in this one home, but I imagine house hugs are like human hugs—each one good but different—minus the squeezing part. By the time I made it back up the mountain, down the Bemis track, up the winding camp trail and down my driveway, surrounding myself with my favorite stuff again felt pretty darn good.

I do love to travel, to explore new places, meet new people, and revisit old favorites. Especially in the colder months, I take any opportunity I can to “get out and around.” And, if I’m really lucky, I end up where I can exchange my snowshoes for Tevas. Although I didn’t get that far south this trip, I did enjoy a 70-degree November beach day in NH with my sister-in-law. Then I headed cross-country to meet up with Tom and my girls and spend Thanksgiving with the rest of our western family in Couer d’Alene, Idaho. The food was awesome. The east-west family reunion was even better. (And yes, Jon’s Big Green Egg did produce one hell of a tasty Quirky Turkey.) I was gone for a little over two weeks, but it felt longer. And when I finally came across the threshold again, I knew I’d traveled about as far away from Rangeley as possible in the continental U.S.

“Wow, by the time I get back home, I’ll need to hang up DecemBear!” I said to Helen. We were in the Las Vegas airport, waiting to change planes for the last leg of our outbound trip. The airport was abuzz with LEDs, electronic melodies and the jingle-jangle of slot machines folks had to throw their money into before and after they hit the Strip. I wondered what their deal was, imagining they needed way more holiday glitz than the kiddie advent calendar I’d hang on my cellar door and the string of lights around my three-stooled bar by the wood stove.

“Maybe we really are crazy,” I said to Tom as we finally turned onto our road. (It’s a common joke between us, one that somehow gets repeated just at that point in the journey when most folks, even those from around here, start to question how level-headed we are to have put so many miles of dirt road between us and town.) But then the beagles began stirring with anticipation in the back seat and we could all feel our special spot drawing us down the home stretch. One last turn, the soft crunch of tires on early snow, and…phew…there was our cabin in the headlights, waiting just as we’d left it. (After more than 20 years of coming back up here, the phew feeling never really stops. Even though we don’t drive away from October through April anymore, the relief at seeing the place still standing, surviving wind and fire and other acts of God and man, is hard-wired.)

Did my house smell this nice when I left? I didn’t think so as I opened the door to remnants of Rangeley Balsam room spray still clinging in the air, mingling with the vanilla potpourri in the L.L Bean kettle atop my wood stove. “It’s my own Bemis spa treatment,” I declared back in October when I dumped aromatherapy drops into the old blue kettle of water that would keep me warm, soothe my dry skin and rejuvenate my senses.) And I swore my knotty pine woodwork had mellowed since before I left. These walls felt homey compared to what I’d surveyed and said needed a boost—maybe some new paintings or a couple more cute moose and loon nicknacks for a splash of visual variety during the long months ahead.

“If this is crazy, I’ll take it any day,” I declared to no one in particular the next morning. I was sitting in my own chair, drinking my own coffee, admiring my very own slice of beautiful, wild lake. What great memories I’d made spending premium quality family time in two beautiful homes on both ends of the country! But after five different beds, four climate changes, three hotel rooms, two airports and one major case of jet lag, I was content to kick back and let the quiet of being back off the beaten track settle over me. I was grateful to be entering my second December of year-round Rangeley living, and to have the fresh perspective of traveling away now and again. And I sure was glad to be on the far side of saying: “To heck with all that home for the holidays crap, let’s go to Vegas.” Yup, with Black Friday avoided and December ushered in, all was calm and bright in my world as far as I could see…and would remain so, as long as I moved a tiny Christmas bear around a door hanging.

“Oh, jeez, DecemBear…!” I remembered. Guzzling the rest of my coffee, I sprang from the glider rocker to go hunt down the little critter.

Everything…and the kitchen sink

I do a lot of reminiscing this time of year. And, like any good cabin wife, I do a lot of it right where I should: standing behind my kitchen sink. From there I can look out the window and up the driveway, keeping track of any comings or goings, observing Nature’s ebb and flow while washing and rinsing. It’s my other water view—the one that lets me gawk and ponder the passing of the seasons while being way more useful than when I’m swiveled toward the front yard just staring at the lake.

“Vacation is just another sink,” a friend of mine used to gripe at the end of every summer. She was a mother of six grown children, two of them twins, and our office secretary back before we had to call her an administrator for political correctness. Mostly, though, she was a grumble puss, a glass-half-empty person looking for opportunities to bemoan what she saw as her fixed station in life.

At the time I wondered if she’d ever found herself standing doing dishes in some of the primo spots I knew and appreciated. Had she heard loons calling over her shoulder while Rangeley balsam wafted over her soapy hands? Was there ever a beagle beside her circling for crumbs, softening her heart more than her two-legged beggars? Did she ever vacation where she had to do dishes without a sink and swear if, by some act of grace she got a sink, she’d never complain again?

Back when I first heard the vacation-sink observation, I thought having a camp by the lake–plus having a working sink in the camp by the lake—would be the vacation of my dreams. I had the camp part, a rustic A-frame on the northern tip of Moosehead. I sort of had the sink part, too. I’d recently graduated from perching a large Rubbermaid Roughneck dish tub on my kitchen counter to an actual sink installed in the counter. Except for the drip bucket under the drain pipe that often became a cenote for sacrificial mice, the arrangement was a much better alternative for holding water. But, when it came to running water, the mechanics of getting it into the sink by way of the faucet, my first camp setup left a little to be desired. The only running water I had was the kind I got (or hoped my husband would get) by running down to the lake with a bucket.

Fast forward a few years to my newly-built but still rough Rangeley cabin. So thrilled was I by the promise of indoor plumbing, I didn’t really mind reverting back to the old Roughneck tub for a bit. It was way before the time the girls would want to live in the shower, so they didn’t care that I swabbed Spaghetti-Os off them with giant wads of  Wet Wipes. I, however, was psyched beyond belief. Water, warm wet flowing water over my hands and my crusty dishes, was looming closer and closer like an oasis.

“You’re getting hot running water at camp?” my mother-in-law asked in astonishment. “All those years on Great East Lake, I only had cold water coming out in the kitchen sink. Had to heat it on the stove.”

Yup, back in 1988, I was as spoiled as I thought a remote cabin wife could be. Not only did I have lakefront property, I was going to have the luxury of bringing some of that lake water into my basement, heating it up, and gushing it into my brand new sink on demand! Seems like just yesterday I stood by the Sears “almost-the-best” stainless steel sink sitting inside my plywood pre-countertop next to the Coleman stove that was about to be put into hibernation. I was holding my breath, praying for water to pour forth. Thanks to my husband and the wizardry of hydraulics he was overseeing outside–where a hundred feet of hose came up out of the lake, through the cellar window and into the pump tank–we were ready and waiting. Finally, on his third try priming the pump, the spigot let forth all its pent up air and whoooosh sent a glorious torrent splashing and sputtering inside the sink.

That was more than 20 summers ago. But I still feel the same inner release, the same
liberated feeling over knowing it is possible for me to listen to loons or watch hummingbirds hover inches away white I’m rinsing crusty pots clean down to the
shine. My vacation sink is now my everyday sink, the one I’m glad to come home to, even after taking hiatuses now and again to some pretty sweet condo sinks in the Caribbean.

“All done up there?” I can still hear Tom hollering from his plumbing control center in
the basement. “Can I shut it down?”

It would be this time of year, time to shut down the water, close up camp and head down the mountain till May. “Yeah,” I’d yell back, taking one last swipe at the counter with my sponge. “Done with the water. You can shut ‘er down.” I’d look out at the hummingbird feeder dangling in the wind and hope none would come by first thing in the spring before I’d have a chance to fill it up again.

Now I’m happy to stay put, standing at my newer, shinier sink that fills with well water. I can look for as long as I like—through the yellowing birch branches to where I used to haul a “camp stuff” box out to the car, interrupting the flow of my best possible life for the cold months ahead. ‘Course, what’s not to be happy about, now that I’m living my best possible year-round life in Rangeley AD (After Dishwasher)? I grin each time I grab the box of dishwasher detergent out of the old Roughneck tub in the cupboard and know that, even if I wanted to roam far and wide, I couldn’t find a better place to hang my towel.

9/11: A time to share Edie’s story

Ten years ago. What do I remember? What have I learned? How has it
changed me?

If ever there was a day for sharing stories, it would be on Sept. 11, 2011. Knowing that weighed on me as August turned to September. For almost 10 years, I’d written about Remembering 9/11, sharing my stories. What more could I offer to best commemorate, to add meaning on this tenth anniversary?

Sitting and staring blindly out the window didn’t produce any answers, so I walked, talked to myself, walked some more, wondered, and waited. Finally I found myself at the south end of the lake, taking a long look at West Kennebago mirrored in the calm water, framed in evergreen and the clear morning sky. Then I felt it: Something was up with Edie.

Of course, something was up with her. I knew many, many things would have to be up with her. My friend Edie Lutnick, Co-Founder and Executive Director of the Cantor Fitzgerald Relief Fund, would be busier than ever planning the tenth anniversary memorial service, helping her families pay tribute to their 658 loved ones who were killed at the World Trade Center attacks in 2001. She’d be missing her brother Gary like he’d been ripped from her life just yesterday. And she’d be thinking back, wondering when the days and weeks she’d struggled just to hold her head up and keep moving forward without him had somehow stretched into a decade.

My 9/11 story led me to Edie’s story a few months after the tragedy. I’d gone to New York on a whim, hoping for some answers. Is this all there is—a painful, haphazard existence only briefly touched by joy? With so much love lost in death, is there any hope it can still reach us in spirit, help us cope? I found my proof and wrote about it in Come and Meet Those Dancin’ Feet. I found Edie, too. Sharing my story soon became a catalyst, setting off a string of serendipitous connections that kept looping back around to Edie and her work. A kindred spirit on a different path, she was a woman I otherwise wouldn’t have come to know at all. But I instantly knew I admired her tremendously, her resiliency and compassion, her ability to find financial and emotional support for so many in the bleak chaos of post-9/11. I loved her and what she stood for. And, as August turned to September this year, I knew that any more words I could offer on the tenth anniversary would only be a footnote. The real story, the one that truly needed telling, was Edie’s. She had a book in her, for sure. But as a fundamentally private person thrown into a public life—one who was way too preoccupied with the priorities of the day—I couldn’t imagine how she’d ever be able to let her own story take form. The writer in me always longed to help but never said anything, and learned to be content with crafting award nominations, inspirational verses and other snippets.

“So, besides busy, how are you?” I emailed as soon as I got back from my walking meditation. We’d lost touch for a bit after I moved to Rangeley and, aside from one or two “How’s life on the lake?” emails, hadn’t caught up in almost a year.

I’d barely hit send when her response popped up in my inbox. “I wrote a book,” she said. A final draft of An Unbroken Bond was headed to the publishers soon so it could be available by Sept. 11. Could I help proof it and maybe write about it on my blog?

Most certainly, I said. I couldn’t wait any longer, and neither should you.

 There are lots of television shows and documentaries about “9/11.”  There are also numerous books and articles that have been written about that event. But none like Edie Lutnick’s An Unbroken Bond.

If you read nothing else about 9/11 on its 10th anniversary, you must read this book.  Poignantly and painstakingly, Edie lets the reader sit like a 24/7 video camera on her shoulder as she narrates a first-person account, beginning with being awakened by a phone call on September 11th, 2001 that would change her life, and continuing through this anniversary. Edie poses some challenging questions about personal responsibility and justice. She asks, “Have we truly honored the victims that were murdered on what should have been an ordinary day in their lives?” An Unbroken Bond reminds us that the single greatest sacrilege we could perpetrate concerning the events of 9/11 is forgetfulness.

— Clarence B. Jones,
Former counsel and draft speech writer
for Martin Luther King, Jr.

So, what have I learned? Before reading Edie’s book, I was part of the “Where were you on Sept. 11th?” population who hadn’t been directly impacted, but thought they knew enough about it. I had a special connection, my own sidebar of a story, and that’s how I coped with the unimaginable. I still will never really know how it was for Edie and the survivors but, now that I’ve read An Unbroken Bond, I understand.

Just as Clarence Jones describes in the book’s Foreward (excerpted above), I became more than a reader as I was sitting on Edie’s shoulder day by day over the last decade. It was not an easy ride, but one that I needed to take. The tempo was one minute frenzied, the next minute broken. With raw honesty, grace and amazing humor, she showed me the details of what comprised the “new normal” in her personal life. She took me behind the scenes to endless meetings and strategy sessions so I could look behind the sanitized “Rebuilding Ground Zero” TV and newspaper accounts. I was proud, sad, and often frustrated as I saw her struggles and triumphs while fighting for what was right for her families, but never allowing bitterness to stop her, or her own grief to throw her off balance.

Thanks to Edie’s book, I have learned more than ever that the love we’ve lost in death still binds us together. It inspires us to share our stories, to open our eyes and our hearts. On thousands of outstretched arms we can feel but no longer see, it holds us up…unbroken.

Letting myself stay

The first time I remember being concerned about how much older really old folks were, I must have been about four. “How old is Nana?” I asked my parents.

Their answer was way, way out of my arithimetic comfort zone. “Fifty-eight.”

At first, I just frowned and tried to comprehend that number. I knew I had six marbles in my little drawstring pouch and that each Sky Bar came in four sections. Anything beyond that was as bewildering as adding up all the stars in space. Then I got scared and burst out crying. If my grandparents had been around for whatever that forever-sounding number was, I knew they must be ready to die any minute.

Fortunately, I was too busy being a kid to worry myself for very long. After all, my parents weren’t upset that their parents had one foot already in Heaven. And Nana was always smiling. Plus, she had soft, crinkly, Nana skin on her hands and arms that I found oddly comforting. It wasn’t until early grade school had broadened my mathematical reach that I questioned old-age relativity again.

“How many birthdays have you had, Mommy?” I asked.

“Thirty-four,” she answered.

This time I didn’t cry. But I was still pretty darn scared. “Gee,” I said, “that’s even more than the number of days I have to wait between Thanksgiving and Christmas!” Of course, I desperately wanted to be older myself. Not as old as she was or, Heaven help me, my grandparents—just a year or so wiser, taller and worldly enough to hang with the “big” kids.

During middle school, when the desire to age myself out of braces and away from bullies had become a constant daydream, I overheard a conversation that made me ponder the wisdom of wishing away time. “Tammy’s got a tummy!” my mom announced moments after we were driving away from visiting family friends. Not a caddy woman by nature, Mum was delighted to discover that her once skinny college pal now had a mid-life paunch, especially since she could make the observation into a taunting little rhyme. “Yup,” my dad concurred from behind the wheel. “She let herself go.”

“Go where?” I remember wondering from the back seat. Not to the mall or the beach, it didn’t sound like. And with emphasis as much on the letting part as on the going part of his statement, I knew there was a great deal of loss of control implied. “She let herself go,” he said again with authority. Suddenly that other mother went from a cool mom with a great backyard who bought the good kind of chips to Mrs. Tammy Tummy.

“Could she have hung on?” I began to ask myself as a teen when I’d hear my dad make the remark. “And why is it always a she?” I drew a mental picture of a poor woman teetering on the brink of 40, hanging onto a wimpy branch for dear life while nature’s relentless pull raged just beneath her like a waterfall. One moment of weakness, one lapse in concentration and…woosh…away she’d go to the point of no return. I started checking out my mother with a whole different eye. Blessed by genes from the tall, lanky side of the family, she was still a bean pole, but for how long? Would I get some sort of a warning that she was slipping so I could somehow give her a heads up? Or, would Dad just pronounce her gone when she was too far downstream for help? And, when I got to be her age, would I instinctively know how to muckle onto the branch where she let go?

In hindsight, I think it’s a good thing women in my mother’s generation didn’t know what we know now. They hit 40 back before coed gyms, body mass calculators, and good carbs versus bad carbs. Back then, if anybody’s mom said she was “working out,” she meant in the garden, not spotting you on the weight bench. So, they could let gravity and lower metabolism take over without the added torment of Dr. Oz or Dr. Atkins telling them they had only themselves to blame. Healthy eating meant ordering a Fillet o’ Fish with small fries and no shake. There wasn’t Biggest Loser Bob showing you how to take charge of your own proactive lifestyle, how to get up off the couch, elevate your cardio and steel your abs. There was Jack LaLanne doing a few jumping jacks with you in front of the TV. And, if that didn’t do the trick, you couldn’t turn on an infomercial and know that a Spanx body shaper would answer all your prayers. You were just incredibly grateful panty hose had been invented so you didn’t have to squeeze your shape into a real girdle like your mother did.

“Joy’s keeping herself up real nice,” I overheard my dad telling one of his fishing buddies  when I was almost 40. By then, the remark should have gotten him slapped, sued, or both, but I took it as a supreme compliment. I was forever bemoaning my slant toward the short, stocky side of the family and beginning to wonder if the dryer was shrinking my jeans. Suddenly everyone, including me, was jumping around the gym in their Reeboks and ripping the skin off their baked chicken. Still, it seemed harder and harder to not get sucked under, into the flow of middle-aged complacency. But then I’d think about Mum and lift my real self above those troubles. As it turned out, she didn’t let herself go. Before she had time, she got swept away by an undetected “defect” she’d been born with and would have been powerless to hold in check. She never suffered, though, and left with a smile, a teeny pot belly on her lanky frame, and the very beginnings of Nana skin. Nana herself, on the other hand, ended up living way longer than I originally predicted. While in her seventies, she’d waged war with her short, stockiness and shrunk herself about five dress sizes by eating little but plain yogurt and Melba toast. Even if she had let herself go, though, or had stayed gone, it didn’t matter. Soon after, she forgot where she was completely, how she’d gotten there, who was with her, or what she’d had for breakfast before leaving.

Dad who, ironically, was the patriarch of stockiness (or, as he called it, barrel chestedness)—became a gym rat later in life. When he wasn’t out fishing, he was horsing around weights at the health club, keeping an eye on whether or not the women in Spandex were letting themselves go. He’d puff out his chest, flex his biceps and say, “Not bad for almost 70!” But his coronary arteries did not agree. Eventually, all his pre-Dr. Oz years of letting himself eat whatever he wanted took him down at 68.

Dad watches me, though, I can feel it. And, hopefully, he still brags. Mum was with me, too, as always, when I celebrated a landmark birthday the other day. I’ve now lived ten years longer than she did, as much by hanging on as by letting myself stay in the moment. I remember them when I turn down chocolate in favor of carrot sticks. But I think of them just as vividly when I decide to say yes to a pair of “just because” earrings or to savoring every last bite of cherry cheesecake. They’re my hiking buddies, now that I’ve traded my gym membership for long walks along the lake they brought me back to. “We’re doing just fine,” I tell them as my heart gets pumping and I take deep breaths of Rangeley balsam.

My daughters concur. They’re keeping an eye on me for any signs of slippage and they swear I don’t need pleated pants or a swimsuit skirt. They tell me I “don’t even look scary yet” in my underwear. And, if I promise to not start wearing bright pink lipstick, they promise to warn me when it’s time to give up the hair dye and let myself go grey with dignity. Plus, best of all, they’ve taken the opportunity to keep me young and run wild with it like I never could with my mother. I’ve decided, with their help, that the Nana skin on my hands looks just as wonderful gripping a fishing rod against a West Kennebago sunset as it does wrapped around a roller coaster handle bar at Six Flags, screaming like a 12-year-old, and hanging on for dear life.

Mumma energy

“I got a nice dose of Mumma energy last night,” Becky called to tell me awhile back. She was going through a bit of a rough spot and really needed me in person, but had to settle for one of my cross-country pep talks instead. She’d been to a meditation/healing circle, led by a holistic Moab woman with “Mumma hands,” a giving heart, and wise, empowering words. Once again, my younger daughter had found just the surrogate she needed for that specific moment in her worldly travels.

“Oh, I’m so glad you feel better, honey,” I sighed. “Why don’t you book a couple office visits with her? That would be nice, huh? Think of it as my Mother’s Day present.” 

“Uh, Mom,” Becky said, “you do know that Mother’s Day is when I’m supposed to give you stuff, not when you tell me to give stuff to myself?”

“Right. But I’m telling you this is what I want more than anything. If you give yourself this gift, you will actually be pampering me, making my heart glad.”

“What is it with her?” I imagined Becky saying after we hung up. Every Mother’s Day for as far back as she and her sister could remember, I’d told them not to fuss over me, not to get me anything. As long as my girls were happy and healthy, I assured them, I had everything I needed. I meant it too, wholeheartedly. Of course, they’d still give me plenty of little trinkets and tokens, including their annual hand-drawn coupons for ice cream at the Pine Tree Frosty. I’d stash those in the glove compartment and promise to cash them in as soon as we got “back up to camp.” Last count, I had eight of them stacked under my snow scraper, never redeemed. We still enjoyed our share of Rangeley soft serve, regardless, lapping up the late spring sunshine as we fed the pond ducks even more than ourselves. Fortunately, all my Mother’s Days perfectly coincided with opening up camp, with no formal gifts necessary because the earth was warming up, the road was drying out, and we were returning to Rangeley. And, now that I am home here for good, I know it’s thanks to my three mothers, my beautiful daughters and husband, and all the nurturing, creative “Mumma energy” that works in mysterious ways to give us this life.

“Oh, honey, you didn’t need to give me anything!” I remember my mother telling me as she unwrapped my Mother’s Day gift. I was 17, and had presented her with a set of stoneware salt and pepper shakers I’d proudly bought with some of my $1.80-an-hour paycheck. “All I need is for you to be happy, really,” she insisted, setting them on the dining room table for “special company” and hugging me.

When Mum died suddenly a couple months later, I couldn’t imagine happy being a possibility for me ever again. Smiling was forced torture. And for years laughing was only a release mechanism that left a pain deep in my chest. Happy—as in sitting in the sunshine humming and wanting to hug myself? Well that, I believed, was forever on the other side of the big, dark wall where I’d left my previous life. But then, in spite of myself, slowly but surely Mumma energy began trickling back into my world. It came from Prudy, my step-mom, who helped me love myself as a grown woman while seeing the wonder in all things. It came from my Reiki teacher, Holly, who channeled Mother Earth energy into my heart and hands, empowering me to heal myself and those I love. It came just in time from my mother-in-law, Ruth, when—after holding each other at arm’s length for years—we finally embraced the power of unconditional love. It came from my Mum, who shows me everyday how love lives on in Spirit. (For more of this story, see my Come and Meet Those Dancin’ Feet series.) And, the Mumma energy came full circle in Helen, my mother’s namesake, and her sister, Becky.

“I couldn’t have chosen anyone better to become the mother of my child,” Tom wrote in my first Mother’s Day card. “Really?” I remember thinking, resting the card on my enormous belly. “Will he still feel that way a couple months—and a couple decades—from now?” I was seven months pregnant with Helen, my first-born, and my attitude towards motherhood had just barely switched from “Babies are cute, but keep them away from me,” to “As long as my natural instincts don’t fail me, I think maybe I could be a mom.”

Fast forward past college graduations, a wedding, and mother-daughter memories better than any Hallmark could anticipate. My Mumma energy is pumping just fine, I’m glad to report, triggered just as much by giving birth and from holding my babies as it is by having my daughters mother me back. It’s more ethereal than any biological process, flowing within the laughter that bubbles through the phone line, in long, tearful goodbyes, and those that went unspoken. It’s in the sweet, mysterious grace that keeps me here—alive and well—as a middle-aged mom, riding roller coasters and rapids, or dancing in a concert crowd to the songs that bind us together. Turns out, it’s the gift my mother asked for so many years ago, the one that never needs wrapping. I am grateful I found it, in the kindness of friends and strangers, in the courage to live my legacy, to create my own health and happiness every day. Thank you, Mum. Thank you, everybody. I really don’t need anything more.

Mustang memories, Subaru soul

It was one of those Indian summer afternoons that had us fooled into thinking we could get by awhile longer with light fleece and no gloves. Tom and I were in the Subaru, glad to have the windows open enough to blow the dust off one last time. With errands done and weather just right for moseying around without spoiling our groceries, there was no particular place to go but home, and no particular sense of urgency propelling us there. We had that footloose feeling of driving aimlessly we’d felt as pre-oil crisis teenagers, balanced by the wisdom that we now needed to suck every last drop of practicality out of each $50 tank of gas. We were “riding around” Rangeley-style. Having shuttled ourselves to all points on our plotted route and, circling back from the grocery-dump-PO loop, we were optimizing our fuel consumption by poking along and enjoying the ride.

“No regrets, you know,” I proclaimed. “Not even a twinge.”

I’d told Tom as much on several occasions. As always, he gave me his “good thing ’cause you’re stuck now anyways” nod. But on this particular day, I wasn’t simply making a general observation about our new lifestyle compared to our old lifestyle. I might have sounded like I was riding around just repeating myself to keep my vocal cords limber, but my reaffirmation was prompted by something so specific and serendipitous I’d spotted along the road that it demanded comment.

A red Mustang convertible had just passed us with its tunes blaring and top down. The driver was heading from the overlooks toward town, not looking in the least like he was concerned with groceries or gas. He was lettin’ that pony just run wild, grinning and singing along, with the wind in his hair. He flew down Route 17 like a shiny red rocket, blowing by the Subaru in a blast from my past.

Not too long ago, I had a car just like that. Torch red she was, with black leather interior and a black convertible roof. I called her the Joyride, a name she wore proudly on her license plate, never allowing me to drive anonymously anywhere near where I used to live. (Technically, her license said JOYR1DE. When I went into the DMV to claim my vanity plate, some other New Hampshire Joy just as clever with word games had already beat me to it. I stood there crestfallen, with no second choice, until the DMV clerk offered a solution. “The numeral one is often used when the letter “I” is not available, and it’s an acceptable substitution,” she stated. Her tone said she didn’t care nearly as much about making my license plate dreams come true as she did moving me the heck out of the way of the next person in line.)

Before that, I’d been a Subaru girl for years. The first brand new car that was really mine  was a cute little mallard green 1997 Impreza. I called her the Hovercraft because, unlike our Jeep and Tom’s horrible little commuter sh**box, she seemed to hover over the road. Thanks to her high MPG rating and all-weather dependability, she made traveling to my job assignments along the Massachusetts tech corridor feasible. Eventually, my resolve and sense of adventure for Route 128 started to wear out long before that first Subaru.

So how did a practical, all-wheel-drive girl end up joy riding in a Mustang? Well, like most other flights of fancy not rooted in Rangeley, it began in the tropics. For our silver anniversary trip to the Keys, I splurged beyond our usual sh**box car rental and surprised Tom with a silver Mustang convertible. Somehow during that vacation week my dream shifted from allowing myself to enjoy a recreational splurge to seeing myself in the driver’s seat and my name on the bumper.

About a year later, the Joyride was in my garage. Actually, she came to me in NH by way of Wiscasset. Although every salesman in this half of the universe tried to sell me a green, blue or black Mustang, it turned out that the only Ford franchise with my specific car on the lot was Downeast. When I finally got her, it took me at least six months for her bright, fire engine red newness to stop scaring me enough to chill out and just drive. Even then, I was in a perpetual state of awe and disbelief each time I got behind the wheel. In my head, I still felt like I should be driving my little Subaru. But then a cop or a high school kid would look at me differently, or I’d catch my reflection in a store window and realize this was not your average Mom bus. “Now that’s a midlife crisis car!” people would say. “No, it isn’t.” I’d insist from under my matching red visor. “It’s a midlife celebration car.”

She was the boldest, raciest, biggest show of status symbolism I’d ever allowed myself to acquire. She made me beam with pride and sing my gratitude to the open air every chance I got. But, at the same time, she made me want to justify, to somehow explain that I wasn’t just spoiled or shallow, that this wild pony exterior was actually cloaking a utility vehicle soul. I needed a new car, after all. Tom had traded his latest commuter heap in for an Outback and Becky would be taking the Impreza off to college soon. Plus, the time was right for me to let myself live outside the box a bit, to run unbridled by my inner critic. “Who would have ever thought?” I’d marvel when I’d climb in and see the galloping pony stamped on her steering wheel. She had ponies all over—one on the grill I polished compulsively, one on each door, on the glove compartment and even on the rubber door casings. My favorite embellishment, though, was something I added aftermarket: A tiny angel with blond hair, a festive red gown, and a playful smile hung on my visor, always watching. She was my Prudy angel, a pin my step-mom wore on her johnny during her too frequent stays at Maine Medical battling leukemia. Prudy smiled nearly nonstop. To her, everything was wonderful, the sun rising and setting, my job, my vacation plans, even my cooking on a bad day. When she lost her battle, she left me with her angel pin, a fierce desire to seize all the wonder in life, and enough of a nest egg to go out and grab it with the wind in my hair.

“How do you get that thing through the snow?”folks would want to know out in the parking lot each winter. I’d tell them about my Blizzak rear tires and the 50 pounds of dog food in my trunk which, in theory, got me around town without fish tailing. No putting the Joyride up on blocks, she was a practical, four-season sports car, I’d explain as I scraped ice off her vinyl roof. “After all, I didn’t name her FearRide,” I’d remind myself as I clenched my jaw and spun away. Luckily, for five years, I was blessed by more than enough smooth cruising to balance out our few treacherous excursions. Then, slowly but steadily, I found myself noticing how pinkish my pretty car looked covered with road salt, how impossibly heavy those low-slung doors were, and how the backseat was sort of a joke. I started to see my prize Mustang as just a work horse. Another dream—of a new house and a new beginning on a rough, lakeshore road—had captured my attention. Sure, there’d be some rare Rangeley days when we could pop the top and take her for a spin. But one trip down our road would have left the Joyride battered and bruised.

“Thank you, Prudy. It’s been a wonderful ride,” I said when I gathered up my CDs and unpinned my angel from the visor. We’d traded in the Joyride for a new Forester—a nice Rangeley mountain top blue model—and I was saying my goodbyes in the Subaru lot. She didn’t sit there for more than a day before she was whisked away on her next adventure. Her new owner, I’m told, calls her Kitten (or maybe K1TTEN) now. 

I did expect to miss my Mustang. Those one or two days I would have taken her up over the Height of Land or to the Pine Tree Frosty would’ve been sweet, for sure. But, these days, nothing compares to the joy of getting there and back with the dogs and the groceries and the building supplies in all-wheel drive dependability. We haven’t given this car a name. She’s simply The Subaru. And, I can’t for the life of me remember what my license plate says anymore. What I do remember, though, each time I see my Prudy angel hanging from its visor, is how grateful I am to have arrived here—safe and sound, and just this side of practical—with fond memories of my little red party car.

Snowshoe redemption

Not long ago, snow + shoe was an oxymoron for me. Once snow fell, shoes stayed by the back door until absolutely necessary for getting back and forth to the car. For all other activities inside the house and around the yard, I relied on slippers (with emphasis on slip). The fact that I now keep a pair of snowshoes leaned up against my porch and put them on because I want to, not because I need to, is nothing short of an evolutionary miracle.

I’m in good company these days, I know. Used to be that only game wardens, trappers or other seriously snowbound folks wore them. Everyday business shoes, they were, the wing tips of the Great North Woods. But now it seems all manner of people are strapping on a set and trekking across the deep drifts for fun. And, for staying in shape and blowing off the cabin dust once in a while, you can’t beat snowshoeing for a cheap, easy alternative to skiing. No lift tickets,  gas money, or fancy cross-country technique required, just pop ’em on and get out there! Fortunately, snowshoes’ widespread evolution from necessary footwear to desirable athletic gear has paralleled my own personal journey out of the Dark Ages of winter exercise.

As I pointed out in Ice Road Tracker, I’m not the most graceful girl in the bunch. I went downhill skiing once (as in one run) on the bunny slope at Gunstock back in the mid-70s. I did it so my then-boyfriend/private ski tutor, Tom, would be impressed. He wasn’t. Later, as my husband, he soon accepted that he wasn’t getting a snow bunny as any part of the deal. He did help me graduate to cross-country for a while. One Christmas, he gave me my very own pair—waxless, new-age jobs with the latest step-in bindings and, in theory, nothing to stop me from gliding away toward new horizons. He even gave me countless lessons on cadence, stance, and how to, basically, not fracture my tail bone. But, not being particularly ambidextrous with my lower limbs, what should have been “step-glide, step-glide, step-glide” was, for me, more like “step-drag, step-mini-glide, step-drag.” I was OK on vast, open, flat surfaces with relatively light snow, which I found twice in about five years before giving up skis for ice fishing cleats and a seat by the hot dog fire.

The first time I tried snowshoes, I was hopeful. They looked like a way to elevate me from a wintertime waste of skin to passable year-round New England wife material. Old “modified bear paws” they were, with rawhide-laced bindings. Compared to Tom’s huge tear drop models they were streamlined, but I still managed to drag snow, rocks, dog poop and an occasional squirrel nest on the back of mine till the laces loosened up and I had to stop and re-calibrate. I soon realized why old-fashioned snowshoes made such good wall decorations. They deserved to be hung way up high in the peak above the fireplace, out of reach.

Thank goodness I eventually got a pair of new, high tech Tubbs. Unlike my previous pair, which just felt like bathtubs strapped to my feet, these snowshoes are named for their simple oval shape.  Strapping these on and keeping them strapped on is a breeze! No more nearly useless rawhide one-size-doesn’t-fit-all lace-up bindings. Tubbs nifty rubber straps actually bind to my boots, cinching and uncinching efficiently without the need for cussing or contortion. Once on, the Tubbs actually gripped onto the ground. They had some serious snow traction—a vast improvement over my old bear paws, which had no claw-like properties whatsoever and left some terrain slippery like, you guessed it, walking across the bottom of a bathtub with shellacked wooden shoes. Thanks to the marvels of modern frozen footwear technology, I could get out there, on top of the snow, and stay out there! Finally, I could participate in a popular, self-propelled winter sport that was supposed to make me walk like Quasimodo!

Even so, for several years, I remained an infrequent weekend warrior. Snowshoeing was  something I did as an alternative to sitting around or sorting laundry. It let me watch the beagles romp and gave me occasional verification that, yup, it was still winter outside. My seasonal exercise of choice was indoors, on the elliptical at the gym, watching Dr. Oz. Last year at this time, it was a winning combination. I trimmed down and toned up. I learned  answers to all the medical questions women like me want to know but are too embarrassed to ask—so they tune in while acting like they’re exercising. When I moved to Rangeley last spring and switched to good, old-fashioned outdoor walking, I was ready for fresh air and pumped to outdo my “personal best” from previous summers. I still loved Dr. Oz, but I loved the balsam-lined terrains of my own backyard even more. By late fall, I’d met my goals without the gym and had moved into maintenance mode.

First snowfall came, it seemed, before the Thanksgiving meal was cleared from the table. Suddenly, maintaining my optimal body mass required more than just Nike’s and will power. My beloved Yaktrax were OK for most daily road trips, but what would I do when rum cake, cabin fever, and perhaps rum with no cake forced me to take my workouts to the next level?

Turns out, I only had to ponder that dilemma for a couple days back in January. With my Tubbs strapped on, my everyday routes put me in the cake burning cardio zone again. Add the ski poles necessary for me to maintain lateral stability, and I’m working my arms and pecs better than any elliptical. Or, I should say, better than any elliptical I ever programmed. I’d choose “moderate,” not the heart-throbbing, or Mt. Washington climbing settings. And the only thing that might have stopped me from powering down after an hour would have been Dr. Oz going to a 90 minute show. Compared to virtual gym walking, real Rangeley snowshoeing provides all I need to literally “kick it up a notch.” There’s no hopping off a machine when I’m an hour out on the trail and I’m ready to quit. There’s only me and my tracks leading home. And the scenery and sounds of nature are so much more sensational than Dr. Oz even on his best day! I am, however, still learning how to ease into my new routine safely, how to turn around even if I’m feeling “in the zone.” On a recent snowshoe across the Big Lake, for instance, with the windswept snow glistening for miles around and Bald Mountain’s blue dome beckoning me like the Hope Diamond, I was pretty far from home before I remembered I was alone and it was late afternoon. “Wouldn’t want to get stuck on Toothaker Island overnight and have to eat my shoe laces like the snowbound pioneers of long, long ago,” I said to myself as I turned around. “Oops…no more rawhide, anyways. That’s on the old snowshoes hanging on my cabin wall!”

Ice road tracker

I don’t know much about the guy who invented Yaktrax. But I do know one thing for sure: I love him more than life itself. And, since he has saved my life more than I can count, I’m pretty sure my husband would be OK with me confessing my devotion to this wonderful, genius of a man.

For those of you who winter somewhere warm, dry and predictable, Yaktrax are indispensable footwear on Rangeley-type terrain. Superior to cleats, which only help navigate across glare ice, Yaktrax are metal coil-encased rubber boot-bottom straps that provide better traction over the wider spectrum of frozen surfaces I might need to negotiate on any given day. Strip me of my long underwear, my thick socks or my Yaktrax this time of year, and I’d be moving back south faster than a Canadian goose with ice on her fanny feathers!

According to an article by a fellow devotee in The Seattle Times, Yaktrax were invented by a teacher/climber/entrepreneur named Tom Noy. The idea came to him during an Everest expedition when he became determined to design traction that wouldn’t shred his tent and sleeping bag when he wasn’t gripping on to a sheer precipice. I only rely on mine for good old-fashioned walking—my exercise of choice, my way of getting fresh air, natural vitamin D, and a chance to wave to my neighbors. Especially this time of year, my daily walking ritual maintains my fresh outlook and keeps me from (as my friend from Down East would say) needing to strap a “wide load” sign to my backside. While my expeditions are a bit more tame than scaling Everest, most days the foot gear it inspired is the difference between me getting outside and vertical, or staying sprawled by the wood stove.

Once I’m out there, keeping myself vertical is still my main challenge. My physical therapist once said I have “gravitational insecurity”—a kinder, more gentle way of explaining why my family calls me Queen of the Flying Trip. The various ways I’ve managed to keep that crown on my head while sailing parallel to the pavement from Manhattan to Grand Cayman will need to be covered in a separate post (maybe more). But, for right now, let’s just say that I could’ve been the poster child for those bright yellow “Watch Your Step” falling stick figure signs you see anywhere there’s the slightest possibility of mis-stepping. Been there. Done that. In all those places and then some!

My Outward Bound instructor daughter, who gets paid to help people buck up and figure out what they’re made of while outside their comfort zones, says my brain just needs more confidence in what my lower torso can actually manage. “Read it and run it,” she tells me. That’s whitewater lingo for studying what lies between you and where you want to go, and having faith that instinct, guts, and the good sense that God gave geese will get you there in one piece. Come wintertime, with the accumulation of white-on-whiteness that obliterates any obstacles on my path, I’m less about “reading it and running it” and more about peering at it and tippy-toeing nervously toward and around whatever it is I think might impede me. Thanks to my Yaktrax, my confidence, speed and performance have vastly improved. Even if I fail to read my terrain, at least they let me spend most of my time perpendicular to it instead of sailing spread eagle over it.

My next challenge is to figure out exactly what indoor surfaces will still keep me safe while wearing my Yaktrax. Technically easy to remove and put back on, the practicality of doing so is, however, not an exact science. Unlike cleats—which turned me from nimble ice fisherman into a floor shredding stumble bum when I’d forget to take them off outside—I can leave my Yaktrax on while “running” errands. In theory, I can even wear them out to dinner. Knowing this was especially handy on my recent anniversary trip to the Old Port. So romantic, it was, muckling onto my husband of 33 years—filled as much with love as I was with fear that those ancient sea-sprayed brick sidewalks slanting down to the waterfront were going to be too tricky for my Yaktrax. I did look really classy from the ankles up and, not wanting to spew salty, gritty slush on the other diners in our favorite posh restaurant, I opted to leave my Yaktrax on. My secret was safe under the table. But I think I turned some heads when, a couple Margaritas later, I decided to negotiate  intermittent tiled surfaces on my way to the ladies’ room and my trusty boot grippers became roller blades. When I wasn’t half slipping, I was making a clumsy clicking sound across the floor like a Sea World penguin on skates. So romantic.

All in all, though, Yaktrax give me the confidence to keep forging ahead that coordination and good eyesight didn’t. Soon, I’ll be forced to graduate to snow shoes. Meanwhile, I can’t help but imagine as I track up and down my private ice road that my Yaktrax have turned my boots into the Rangeley version of those toning sneakers advertised on TV. All I have to do is keep trudging along and, by March, my buns will be as chiseled and toned as the boulders along the Penobscot, right?

Plus, now that most of my fear of face planting is gone, I can relax, tune into the gentle clickety-clackety rhythm of my body in motion, and let my mind ponder life’s greater mysteries. For instance, part way home the other day I got to contemplating the age-old question: “If you could invite any three people to lunch, who would they be?” The first two never change. They’d have to be my mother, God bless her soul, and Bono. But the third guest changes from Oprah, to Obama, to Thich Nhat Hahn—depending on my mood, the state of world affairs, and how competent I feel to make meaningful lunchtime conversation. Lately, I’ve been thinking it’s got to be the Yaktrax guy, God bless him. I just hope they all pick a restaurant where I can leave mine on without killing myself!