In the 1960’s, long before our 6-child family gained its 7th
member, my siblings and I spent our time
playing, plotting, and occasionally trying to kill each other. Since our HBM&S local mining company sponsored dance
classes for a low fee, ballet lessons became
the first tool in my parent’s desperate game of Survivor: Too Many Kids—too
Little Time.
At age seven, skinny and short, I was the only child in ballet
capable of leaping upward in a sauté and landing like an elephant with a broken
leg. Despite the mirrors on the wall and Mrs. O'Neil’s occasional smacks with a
yardstick to correct my swaybacked stance, I remained enthusiastic. The
ballerina in my head looked nothing like me, but I didn’t know that. None of my
siblings were much good at ballet, either, but only my brother escaped the
lessons. Life was tough enough for a boy with six sisters.
Soon my parents added
jazz and highland dancing, the latter involving wooden swords. 'You just lost a
toe!' Mrs. O’Neil cried whenever I sent one flying. The low point in my dance
career arrived when I fell off the stage during the spring recital. My mother took
a get back on the horse attitude. ‘You can do this!”
she said. What she really meant was, ‘I need that hour of peace and
quiet, so, no. You can't quit.’
Folk
and country dancing came next…a strange blend of Irish jigging and western reels.
With few mapping skills, I often found
myself do-se-do-ing in the wrong direction or accidentally joining a hoe-down circle.
Mostly, I longed to wear a dirndl dress and sashay with George, a kind boy who
never made fun of my mistakes. I failed to win a spot in competitions, but if
earnestness counted for anything, I was a contender.
Next,
my parents’ longing for peace led to the purchase of ski equipment for their
oldest four. Our ski club had groomed hills, towropes,
and a small chalet. At thirty below, the hills were often bare of other skiers,
but my parents had invested heavily in our away time. They considered the cold to be character
building.
After skiing,
we’d huddle by the wood stove while the lady behind the lunch counter dried our
socks and mittens on a clothesline strung overhead. Ma Crerar was everyone’s
substitute mother. She insisted we eat our bag lunches before spending our
treat money, a single dime, on junk food. I ignored the shenanigans of the
other kids and watched the grownups instead. Unlike my harried parents, these
sophisticates not only had time to ski, but they did it in style. With their pleated stirrup pants and colorful jackets, they
looked like they’d stepped out of a movie. I couldn’t get over the idea that parents
could be attractive.
My sisters and I found the towing rope quite difficult to navigate. As our mittens
iced up, our small hands couldn’t grip the rope tightly enough to get us all the
way up the hill. It slid through our palms, leaving us locked in place while a
lineup of impatient people waited below. 'They’re stuck!' someone would holler.
The skiers repeated the message in loud, echoing voices like they were spelling
out our names. Someone, usually one of Ma Crerar’s boys, would jump in behind us,
grip the rope in front and push us up the hill. It was mortifying. Eventually,
my brother showed us how to grab hold with one fist behind our backs so we
could propel ourselves upward.
Some years ago, after a lengthy skiing hiatus,
I hit the slopes in Kananaskis, Alberta. I hoped to keep up with the kids but quickly
realized that slowing down was the real problem. Every run felt Olympic sized.
I’d either medal in the broken legs category, fall off the mountain, or impale
myself with my skis. As I careened maskless through blinding snow, my ski
caught my pole and I almost somersaulted. A woman yelled after me, ‘Awesome
recovery!’ I felt a moment’s pride before hurtling onward. No one was more
surprised than me by my survival. My husband fell a few times, and I feigned
empathy while inwardly crowing triumphantly. And now I can never ski again
because of karma.
Along with skiing, I was encouraged to join the
high school curling club. At barely five feet tall, I carried my dad’s straw
broom proudly but never managed the foot slide. I’d scurry
down the ice using short mincing steps like a prisoner with chained feet. During
my throws, my skip would shout, ‘An outturn! Your elbow goes out!’ It felt a
bit like a public spanking. Bizarrely, I never stopped dancing, skiing, or
curling, even after I left home. There wasn’t much on television in those days,
and the internet was years away. That probably accounts for some of it. The
rest came down to my parents.
In
adulthood, my liveliest workout happened at Zumba. Our women-only classes took
place in the St. Anne’s church hall, close to the room where the Knights of
Columbus met. We’d shake our booties, waving our hands in the air like
strippers searching for their poles, and dancing wildly to a Latin beat. Every
week without fail, an elderly Knight would push his walker across the floor on
his way to the bathroom, eyes averted like he was skirting the ninth circle of
hell.
Soon
I began weight training three mornings a week in a place I nicknamed the
Handmaid’s Gymnasium. Our instructor, Aunt Tracy,’(Salamandra) led us through
soul crushing routines that had me checking my Fitbit for signs of life. After
an hour of hoisting kettlebells, we looked like a pack of sweaty bikers after a
bar fight. When that gym closed, I joined a smaller one
with mostly older members who lift weights with the grim expression of slaves
building the pyramids. No one really wants to be there, but we can’t help
ourselves. We’re locked in this dance against decrepitude, passionately hating
leg day while appreciating the strength that allows us to stay upright on our way
to the coffee shop.
These days I enjoy snowshoeing, kayaking, and taking long walks around
the lakes in our amazing northern home. I no longer mourn my lack of
athleticism or regret those humiliating
moments from the past. Years of active living taught me that I’d rather play in the snow
than lie on the couch. My late parents’ need for peace kept me fit throughout
my life. And it turns out that mom and dad were right…I can do it. Now,
if only my
folk dancing group would start up again. Oh, George.
