When I opened a letter from my sister last week, I wasn't expecting to find a postcard from my mother inside. It was postmarked Oct. 16, 1970, carried a 10-cent air mail stamp and was addressed to my sister in Pirmasens, Germany, where she lived at the time.
The note reads…
"Mary Ann, so glad to hear from you and that all is well. Will write a letter later. Here’s the recipe for spaghetti sauce.
Spaghetti sauce: 1 large can tomato juice, 1 small can tom. paste, 2 cups water, 1 tbs. sweet basil, 1 tsp. salt, ½ tsp. garlic salt, 1 tsp. black pepper, ¼ tsp. oregano, 1 tablespoon dried onion soup mix, 1 teaspoon sloppy joe mix, 2 bay leaves, 3 tbsp. sugar, ¼ teaspoon baking soda. Bring to a boil. Simmer for about an hour.
Lots of luck. Secret to good cooking: put all your meals in the hands of the Blessed Mother.
Keep happy and well.
Love,
Mommy
P.S. You may skip the sloppy joe mix and onion soup mix.
Mommy? At the time my mother typed this, all six of her children were older and had stopped referring to her as such. I wonder if she was resolving that feeling mothers get when it is no longer cool for kids to use the term "Mommy." Sometimes I catch myself wanting to sign emails and cards to my kids that way but quickly sensor myself and settle for plain old "Mom."
My mother's Sicilian spaghetti sauce was famous throughout the neighborhood, the school, the church, the entire town. I didn’t know she put black pepper in it! The sloppy joe and soup mixes were news to me, too. It makes me wonder. Mom cooked from memory and this recipe doesn't sound at all like the one she gave me. I guess she was doing her best to recall the mysterious flurry of ingredients she used.
I should have studied her more closely and taken copious notes on how much basil and oregano she poured into her palm and then sprinkled in the sauce.
I notice that her typewriter ribbon was wearing out by they way she filled in the "a" in "all," the "o," "r" and "g" in "oregano." My mother was a perfectionist, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that she tried to make her note just so.
She really was a talented cook and typist. I remember watching her do both and hoping that some day my fingers and hands would maneuver magically like hers.
Mom had the focus of a bull snake coiled and ready to pounce on its prey. Nothing could distract her from the impenetrable bubble of concentration she maintained in our noisy and often chaotic household.
In her empty nest, my sister's request for her sauce recipe surely must have lifted her spirits.
I took for granted watching her cook and receiving her letters. Mom is gone now and on April 8 she would have been 90 years old.
My husband asked me, "How many more times will you write about your mother?"
For a moment, I was taken back by his question, which really was a statement, and then said, "As many times as I need to."
Even though I am 58 and all my children are grown and gone, I always will miss my mommy.
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. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Really? Really!
I don’t know about you, but I spend a lot of time thinking about God’s will. Sometimes it consumes me.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
The other day, when I heard Harold Kushner, author of a dozen or so books, being interviewed on National Public Radio, I turned up the volume. The topic was God’s will.
Rabbi Kushner, who wrote "When Bad Things Happen to Good People," lost a teenage son to illness some years ago.
He believes God made a decision a long time ago not to interfere with acts of nature, like the death of his son, or acts of evil, like 9-11. According to Kushner, even though God doesn't interfere, He promises to be with us no matter what happens.
I was raised to believe that God is everywhere, God does intervene and miracles do happen. My theological upbringing had a clearly suffering servant slant to it. The notion of the harder the times, the greater the heavenly rewards was embraced.
A few years ago during my training as a hospital chaplain, I became a student of discerning God’s will through the book "The Will of God" by Pastor Leslie D. Weatherhead.
Weatherhead’s perspective tends to align with Kushner. In short, he believes "not everything that happens is God’s will, but that nothing can defeat God’s will." In other words, when bad things happen, God will work around, through and over whatever comes our way in order to accomplish his ultimate will.
I want to believe in a benevolent God, but I struggle when a young woman is killed at the hands of a rapist or when a child runs into the path of an oncoming car and dies. When tragedies like these occur, I look heavenward in disbelief and cry out, "Why?"
Equally hard for me to accept are my own unfortunate missteps. My theological sensibilities tell me that God has forgiven and maybe even forgotten my wrong turns.
Regrettably, I want to press "replay" and do over what I didn’t get right at first.
Maybe all I really need to do is follow the advice I gave an ailing woman I visited when making my chaplain rounds.
She asked with a worried look, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I replied.
"Does He really exit? When we die, will He really be there?"
"Yes," I reassured.
"Does He really forgive?"
"Yes." I said.
"Really?" She asked in disbelief.
"Really!" I responded with conviction.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Whistling carrots, fairies and fools
"April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four." Mark Twain
I sort of like April Fools Day. It brings out the kid in us and there’s that special element of surprise.
I’m not one to play practical jokes. It scares me too much to think someone could die of a heart attack or keel over from a stroke. And I don’t like it when the joke is on me; maybe that's why people tell me I'm too serious.
However, I don’t mind it when people pull pranks on others. The length they will go to spring jokes on unsuspecting friends, office workers and even family members intrigues me. I’m amazed how gullible people can be.
Out of curiosity, I looked up the "Top 10 Best April Fools Jokes" of all time on Business.com.
Take for example Tesco's whistling carrots. On April 1, 2002, Tesco ran a fake newspaper ad announcing a whistling carrot had been genetically modified with air holes that caused the carrot to whistle when it was cooked. Can you believe it? Well, apparently a whole lot of people did.
George Orwell once said, "The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded."
That reminds me of a prank played by Lebanon Circle Magik, a company that specializes in sculptures. In 2007, the company posted on its website a picture of a mummified fairy. According to the story, someone found a fairy in Derbyshire, England, or so the story went, and people continued to think the fairy was real even after the hoax was revealed. Go figure.
"If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings." Welsh Proverb
A whole lot of people were wearing crowns back in '96, when Taco Bell pulled a wild hair prank. On April 1 of that year, Taco Bell announced it was renaming the Liberty Bell the Taco Liberty Bell. No one in their right mind would believe such a thing, but millions did and protestors clogged the phone lines at Philadelphia’s National Historic Park, where the bell is located.
"Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Chinese Proverb
Dick Smith had fun fooling Australians for quite awhile back in '78. Smith supposedly contracted a barge to tow an iceberg from Antarctica to Sydney Harbor. He said he'd cut the iceberg into icecubes and sell them for 10 cents each. The public was gung-ho over the "iceberg" until rain washed off the shaving cream and fire retardant, revealing that the "iceberg" was plastic. Some iceberg that was.
Clifton Paul Fadiman once said, "A sense of humor is the ability to understand a joke and that the joke is oneself."
My favorite April Fools joke happened in 1962, when Sweden’s only TV channel broadcast that viewers could make their black-and-white TVs display full color by pulling nylon stockings over them. Thousands of people actually tried it. I really cannot picture people stretching nylons over their picture tubes. Well, on second thought, maybe I can.
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.
I sort of like April Fools Day. It brings out the kid in us and there’s that special element of surprise.
I’m not one to play practical jokes. It scares me too much to think someone could die of a heart attack or keel over from a stroke. And I don’t like it when the joke is on me; maybe that's why people tell me I'm too serious.
However, I don’t mind it when people pull pranks on others. The length they will go to spring jokes on unsuspecting friends, office workers and even family members intrigues me. I’m amazed how gullible people can be.
Out of curiosity, I looked up the "Top 10 Best April Fools Jokes" of all time on Business.com.
Take for example Tesco's whistling carrots. On April 1, 2002, Tesco ran a fake newspaper ad announcing a whistling carrot had been genetically modified with air holes that caused the carrot to whistle when it was cooked. Can you believe it? Well, apparently a whole lot of people did.
George Orwell once said, "The aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being, but to remind him that he is already degraded."
That reminds me of a prank played by Lebanon Circle Magik, a company that specializes in sculptures. In 2007, the company posted on its website a picture of a mummified fairy. According to the story, someone found a fairy in Derbyshire, England, or so the story went, and people continued to think the fairy was real even after the hoax was revealed. Go figure.
"If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings." Welsh Proverb
A whole lot of people were wearing crowns back in '96, when Taco Bell pulled a wild hair prank. On April 1 of that year, Taco Bell announced it was renaming the Liberty Bell the Taco Liberty Bell. No one in their right mind would believe such a thing, but millions did and protestors clogged the phone lines at Philadelphia’s National Historic Park, where the bell is located.
"Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Chinese Proverb
Dick Smith had fun fooling Australians for quite awhile back in '78. Smith supposedly contracted a barge to tow an iceberg from Antarctica to Sydney Harbor. He said he'd cut the iceberg into icecubes and sell them for 10 cents each. The public was gung-ho over the "iceberg" until rain washed off the shaving cream and fire retardant, revealing that the "iceberg" was plastic. Some iceberg that was.
Clifton Paul Fadiman once said, "A sense of humor is the ability to understand a joke and that the joke is oneself."
My favorite April Fools joke happened in 1962, when Sweden’s only TV channel broadcast that viewers could make their black-and-white TVs display full color by pulling nylon stockings over them. Thousands of people actually tried it. I really cannot picture people stretching nylons over their picture tubes. Well, on second thought, maybe I can.
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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
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.
- 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)