Striking gold where you least expect it

Is that a twinkle in his eyes? Is that my heart racing? Are we both giggling for the first time in a long while?

Recently, I have learned from an Indian Proverb that "To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak." Since my husband and I started ballroom dancing lessons, our hearts have been a chattering.

In the few short weeks since our first lesson, we know one thing: ballroom dancing outwardly expresses the language that our hearts have spoken fluently all along. A metaphor for our marriage, through dancing our hearts are shouting, "I promise to be there!"

We are one of 12 couples in our class. Even though we appear to be very different, we all have two things in common: we step on our partner’s toes and we trip over our own feet. In other words, we bring no natural talent to the dance floor. However, we are encouraged by our instructor, who believes that anyone can learn.

"Now remember, dancing is just like walking. And, be sure to practice when you go home," he reminds us.

When my husband and I do practice, we are like a new love, arm in arm, lightly stepping back and forth. We wrack our brains to recall the instructor’s words, "Each slow step takes two beats of music and every quick step takes one..."

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, we softly whisper.

With the furniture pushed back on the living room floor, we sweetly sway to the beat of Sugarland and Rascal Flats. Twenty minutes go by in a flash as we move about with an innocent trust in one another’s ability to remember.

The shades are not drawn. Our Dachshunds are looking on with amazement, possibly detecting a new spark, as we take slow, slow, quick, quick steps to the Foxtrot and rock forward, backward and then sideways while doing the Swing.

While ballroom dancing does expose our vulnerabilities, we are rediscovering our couple hood to the beat of 4-4 time.

After 38 years of relentlessly mining ways to be romantic, our hope of rekindling had withered; but now, we have struck gold on the dance floor.

The rhythmic heel, toe, heel toe reintroduced us to a finesse and tenderness that usually escapes our daily routine.

A new soft gift in our lives is transporting us back to an old familiar place where we first met, a time when we would gaze into each other’s eyes, coordinating every move and holding hands until they were hot and sweaty.

The slow gentle leaning into one another and the sudden pulling away represents the best parts of our love.

As we dance, we are in a happy, silly place. We are romantically giddy when we get it right and lovingly chuckle if we get it wrong.

Ballroom dancing brightly teases us into believing that we are young again. It is a fountain quenching our thirst. I like it here. I don't only want to visit this place; I want to stay.

When our lessons are over, we are talking about signing up for some more of this tonic that summons our hearts. Heel, toe, heel toe...one, two, three, four....

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
　

　

Is that you in front of me?

The other day, when I heard SD Public Broadcasting reporter Charles Michael Ray on location just west of Custer in the southern Black Hills of South Dakota, I got the shivers.

Ray spent the day with cavers who were charting the 150-mile mark of explored passageways in Jewel Cave, the second largest known cave in the world.

I have no desire to sliver my way through underground rock tunnels, but I sure don't mind it when others go caving and live to tell about it.

While listening to reporter Ray as he tagged along with cavers, I wondered what it would be like. I can picture myself looking cool in a pair of Dickies overalls with knee and elbow pads underneath, a bandanna wrapped around my forehead with a fluorescent hard hat on and a halogen lamp in hand.

Nevertheless, I think I would miss too many of my creature comforts on a day trip, let alone an overnight. How do you know when it is nighttime down there, anyway?

And, where does someone sleep when they're 300 feet or more underground? A hard surface for a resting place makes me ache just thinking about it. What about a pillow? I doubt I'd be able to bring my favorite feather pillow. Plus, I can't sleep without my down-filled comforter.

Can you picture me hauling my pillow and blanket through tight crawl ways and down chutes? Maybe I could pack them in my travel tote on wheels. Maybe not. With such cramped quarters, I'd probably have to leave them behind or, scarier yet, be left behind.

What if my co-spelunkers snore? I suppose I could wear earplugs, but then how would I hear the bats swooping down to get me? I don't think I could sleep with the snoring and the bats. After all of that, I can't bear the thought of the bathroom issue.

Worse yet, what if I got lost like I did in Itasca State Park and that was in broad daylight? I must admit, I am afraid of the dark. With no sun, moon or stars to light the way, I'd be hanging onto the pantleg of the person in front of me. Now that would make me really popular among the other spelunkers!

When cave diving, which is like deep-sea diving except in a cave, you’re supposed to have at least three dependable light sources. I don't think a flimsy headlamp or glow sticks would give me solace – not even a laser distance finder or a compass that lights up would calm my nerves.

Maybe the thought of sparkling calcite crystals, delicate strands of gypsum and other spectacular formations would be enough to distract me. Nah, I don't think so.

I heard it's wet down there. Cavers get wet and may stay wet the whole time. I hate having wet feet, wet clothes or wet anything. I don't like getting dirty either and caving is a dirty sport.

When I think of a day of spelunking, let alone an overnight, questions overcome me. How will I know which way is up? How will I find my way back? What if the cave caves? If cavers don't return when expected, is a caver team sent out to rescue them?

The whole idea is too overwhelming for me. Besides, what if my leader gets lost? Then what would I do?

It took a century to chart the first 150 miles of Jewel Cave and some believe there are hundreds more miles to explore. I'll leave that to the next generation of cavers.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Falling into place by shaking it off...

"On your knees, you look up…you get strong...wipe your hands, shake it off...then you stand...every time you get up, one more small piece of you starts to fall into place..." Stand by Rascal Flats

I have a soft spot in my heart for the Winter Olympic Games, especially for women's figure skating. When I was 12 years, I taught myself how to ice skate by watching the 1964 Games on TV.

It was the year Dutch figure-skating champion Kjoukje Kijkstra of the Netherlands struck gold in Innsbruck, Austria.

I remember being perched way too close to the black and white picture tube, taking copious mental notes of her twists, her turns, her solid drives forward and her curvy strides backward.

Wanting to dance on ice just like Kijkstra, I studied her every move as she leveraged her body and glided around the glassy rink - the way she bent her knees, lowered her head and maneuvered her heels, toes and arms all in one glorious flow of athleticism.

The end of her performances signaled the beginning of mine. I wasted no time heading for the ice to mimic her, hurrying a bit, thinking I may forget the images I carried with me.

With a pair of skates slung over my shoulder, I stomped through winter’s long snowy shadows to Chautauqua Lake, one block straight down the hill from my childhood home in Lakewood, N.Y.

Arriving at the encrusted shoreline, I situated myself on a large rock smoothed by lapping waves now rendered still by cold air.

After wrestling ice skates onto my feet, I stood and steadied myself on dull silver blades. Ever so slowly and with abundant awkwardness, I inched myself onto the frozen plane. With no one else around, I was free to live out my skating fantasy. Ankles bending, knees aching, I clumsily forced my feet to move, tittering right, then left, right, left, right, left....

During many wobbly practices, my dream of one day gliding across the ice with some semblance of style and grace held me captive.

Spending hours stomping, skidding and marching across that bumpy rink, I carried a mantle of Kijkstra’s greatness. She was my supply. Her victory dwelt inside me. Nothing could discourage me.

With relentless hope and unchanging images of Kijkstra, I learned how to skate forward, backward and eventually progressed to half-turns and then full twirls.

And now watching the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, as I approach the age of 60, I am 12 again. I am perched too close to the television. My heart is in my throat. I see Yu Na Kim of South Korea win gold. I observe the courage of Joannie Rochette of Canada win bronze. I am taken up once again by a most powerful force that makes me believe I can do anything.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Life lessons in going for the gold

"Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt."
- Special Olympic Motto

Why is it that Olympic athletes teach us so much about life? I could write a book titled "All I really need to know I learned from watching the Olympic Games."

No matter which event is being televised, Olympic athletes offer so many pearls of wisdom, such golden advice that only many years of intense training, sacrifice, victory or failure could produce.

When 25-year-old Minnesota native Lindsay Vonn struck gold in the women's downhill, she noted with confident resolve, "I'm just going to attack every day with no regrets and no fear."

This was after flying down the mountain at 65 mph on two thin long boards called skis. Wow!

From kindergarten on, we are told to believe in ourselves, an adage we strive to internalize. Prior to the Quarter Finals in the 1,000-meter race, Apolo Ohno, with a razor-sharp gleam in his eyes and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile, said, "I'm very confident in my preparations. I know what I have inside of me."

And the other night, I heard one athlete bolt, "No matter how insecure you are, go for it!"

These Olympians have the corner on conquering any fears or doubts that stand between them and the gold, silver or bronze medals they are pursuing.

Perhaps the most profound lesson this year came from the U.S. men's figure-skating gold-medal champion, Evan Lysacek. He had his chance to put down rival Evgeni Plushenko, who offered a valuable lesson on what not to do when you lose.

Admittedly disappointed in the silver medalist's behavior, Lysacek responded by pointing out that we all want to win and that we sometimes get emotional when we lose.

Even with all the mudslinging from the Russian skater, Lysacek said he likes and admires the guy.

The lesson here is that, although Plushenko was questioning Lysacek's gold-medal standing because he did not have a quad in his program, Lysacek did not go there, but rather took the high road.

All of this made me wonder how many parents have required their youngsters to watch the Olympic Games for more than the sport.

Just think how much kids would learn in one Olympic broadcast compared to all other sports broadcasts combined. Valuable lessons on how to win, how to lose, how not to give up, how to be strong and how to practice, practice and practice some more.

Most Olympians battle adversity of one kind or another. Whether they win or lose, they are champions because they faced their fears, they believed in themselves and they did not give up.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

The making of St. Joseph's Day Bread - a liturgy

Growing up, there was only one day every year my mother allowed me to indulge in eating bread and that was Fat Tuesday. This wasn’t any old bread; it was Saint Joseph’s Day Bread - fried, not baked.

Looking back, my mother may have had her holidays mixed up, since Saint Joseph’s Day is celebrated annually on March 19, and she made her bread on the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday.

My mother usually prepared Saint Joseph’s Day Bread in the late afternoon hours, after my three brothers, two sisters and I arrived home from school.

When Mother baked, I detected sunshine in the way she moved about the kitchen. Her eyes were no longer overcast and she wore an unrecognizable cheer that I wanted to wrap my arms around and bury my face in forever.

If only this mother would have stayed with that sparkle in her eyes. The one who playfully patted and prodded the dough until it was smooth and round. The mother who hummed Moon River while patiently waiting for the dough to rise.

This mother, her chin held high, pinched small clumps of dough to form a roll between soft palms; she then dropped it into hot grease and turned the roll bronze.

I would stand beside her as she lifted the fried bread and plopped it into a mountain of confectionery sugar, turning it until it was completely white, forming a mouthwatering new skin.

Saint Joseph’s Day Bread called us together in that kitchen of long ago as a sweet incense filled our childhood home. The making and eating of Saint Joseph’s Day Bread was a liturgy - a holy practice of collaboration, companionship and a mother's high spirits.

When Fat Tuesday rolled around this past week, I cheerfully went to that place in the kitchen of my childhood, near my mother and once again took in the aroma of Saint Joseph's Day Bread.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Bone to pick with a groundhog

Groundhog Day was February 2, and I've watched one too many celebrations of six more weeks of winter.

I have a bone to pick with this mythical German custom turned enterprise. An industry in and of itself, this pagan holiday is a racket for which we all seem to be suckers.

Every year, we peer into our TVs, watching and waiting for Punxsutawney Phil's weather prediction.

If he sees his shadow, we'll have the dreaded six more weeks of winter. Oh, ple-e-e-ease! This is the hoax of all hoaxes and we fall for it every time.

Why is it for the past 50 years that I've paid attention to Phil, I never once heard him say spring is on its way? It's always six more weeks of winter. I could have told you that! Who needs Punxsutawney Phil, anyway?

This holiday makes me so crazy that I find myself arguing with a darn groundhog.

I was born in Pennsylvania. My mother was born in Punxsutawney, and I'm here to tell you that the Keystone State has more than 300 cloudy or overcast days annually.

The chances of Phil seeing his shadow anywhere in the state are slim to none. Yet, every year it's the same old story. Blah, blah, blah.

Come on! Doesn't February 2 occur between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Of course, it does, which means we have SIX MORE WEEKS OF WINTER!

It doesn't take a furry over-sized rat and a bunch of smiling men standing around dressed in tuxedos and top hats to tell me that.

I don't like to admit it but those Punxsutawnians are smart. Not only is the town all about Groundhog Day, the Punxsutawney "Inner Circle" has created a year-round business with festivals, special gatherings, recipes and even lesson plans for schoolteachers!

And just when I thought Groundhog Day was a goofy Pennsylvania tradition, I found 52 Groundhog Day chapters in the U.S. and Canada with names like "5 O'clock Shadows" in Columbia, S.C; "Bug Eaters Groundhog Club" of Lincoln, Neb.; and "Can't Find Our Own Shadow" in Frankfort, Ky.

The most alliterative chapter is "Punxsy Phil's Party Pretties, Political Pundits and Pontificating Old Poops" of Annandale, Va. I want to be a member of that chapter.

My favorite, if I can call it that, is "Hollywood Beach Bums" in Hollywood, Fla. I think I could handle Groundhog Day in Florida, where the average temperature is 60 degrees. Ah-h-h...just another sunny day in paradise. Six more weeks of winter? No problem.

If all the hoopla over a whole lot of nothing isn't enough, there's even poetry written about this annual prognostication...

"If Candlemas day be sunny and bright,
Winter again will show its might,
If Candlemas Day be cloudy and gray,
Winter soon will pass away." [Author unknown]

To channel my inner frustration over Groundhog Day and the monopoly Punxsutawney has over it, I wrote a poem.

"If Punxsutawney Phil already knows,
That winter will send additional snows
Then why in the world do we celebrate
A prediction that we all really do hate."

I rest my case.

2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.

Pile in. We're going for a ride

While I was sitting at a stoplight on my way home from work last Thursday night, I noticed a sedan with the right of way pull through the intersection and turn into the oncoming lane.

The car was teeming with what looked like an entire family: two adults in the front seat and tall gangly looking teenagers in the back.

As they passed, I turned my head and stared. Gawking from the inside out at this family "picture," I was hit smack dab in the middle of my 2010 consciousness with a new awareness.

We really don’t have family cars anymore. Mom has her car, Dad has his, Junior and Sister have their cars and so on. Even Grandma and Gramps have their own sets of wheels.

And for better or worse, we don’t really pile into the car as a family the way families did years ago.Why don’t we travel together, all in one vehicle across town, across state or across the country?

I understand that for some families this may not be a very good idea, since all members would not get along.

Even so, when I saw this family barreling along on their way to whereever, I came to the realization that we really do live much of our lives in isolation.

Coexisting in our homes, schools, offices and stores, we travel separately – often arriving alone at the same place: a school play, the wrestling match, a basketball game, Sunday morning church, Wal-Mart, Suzie’s house, Aunt Mabel’s or Papa John’s.

It has long been a status symbol of modern families, some more than others, for each member to have his or her own vehicle. And for most teenagers, it is not even an option to have their parents drive them anywhere. Heaven forbid! They would rather walk than to be seen riding with Mom or Dad.

Seeing that family car loaded down with a real family inside all going to the same place, I was refreshed.

Watching that family car with all of its passengers sitting side-by-side, heads bobbing to the beat of the potholes beneath sagging tires, I was rejuvenated.

Noticing that family car loaded down with a real family inside, all seeing the same dull night lit by the Dairy Queen on the corner, street lights up and down the lane and headlights from oncoming cars, I was renewed.

When I look back on that family scene, I feel reborn.
　
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.