My Sixties Movement

 

In the 1960’s, long before our 6-child family gained its 7^th 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.