Running to/from sanity

There are five phases to winter running, which, coincidentally, could be applied to the South Dakota winter in a broader sense.
#1 — The Anticipation
By October, the idea of running in shorts and sports bra gets shelved for about seven months and we start digging into the cool weather gear. At this point, the change in weather is welcome.
For a brief moment in time, we are suspended between summer's unrelenting heat and winter's harsh, biting cold. We run giddy in the slight chill of the autumn air, ignoring what lies ahead.
#2 — The Start
In another four to six weeks, we begin the descent into winter hell. A delusional mindset keeps us from running for the southern border. We kid ourselves that the looming temperature drops, brutal winds and snowbound roads are not so bad.
This is where group running becomes essential. As long as someone else thinks like me, I can't be crazy.
#3 The Deep Freeze
The holidays boost the spirit, keep us festive and divert the focus from what is really going on — cold, cold and more cold. But, we soldier on and hang tough.
The mantras are plentiful and roll off the tongue with ease: We can do this. It's not so bad. The cold kills germs. This is why we don't get sick. Get the wind over with first. We'll feel good when we're done. Now we can eat.
#4 The Deep End
This morning, the thermometer reads -13. It's New Year's Eve and the holidays are effectively done. Nothing to look forward to except eight more weeks of damn, depressing, frigid cold.
Sure, it's -13, but options are slim picking. Either go run or go crazy.
We have been running on snow-packed roads for three weeks. Not a patch of dry pavement in sight. There is no traction. Strides shorten and evolve into a run/skate motion. Every muscle fiber contracts and refuses to loosen.
We report for the daily run whining about the weather, nursing aching joints and kneading tight hamstrings. So much for camaraderie. If there's an excuse, it's a ticket out of this hell.
#5 March
A slight hint of a barely visible light at the end of a very long, miserable, God-forsaken journey.

Home for the holidays

Given my age, number of children and life experiences, I assumed I was prepared to send our oldest child off to college.
Closing in on a half-century, I have suffered through labor and delivery four times, endured the death of my mother when I was 21, and run two marathons. And, those are just the highlights.
I figure, I know life. Or, at least, I thought I did.
Then, our oldest child left for college.
In her wake, she left an unsettled mix of relief, sadness and gaping hole.
Relief, from having gotten her this far. Sadness, in watching her walk out the door. And, gaping hole ... well, the empty space that replaced her in our daily life.
But then, she came home for Christmas break.
Within 30 seconds of her walking into the house, the chaos was back — laughter, screaming, tears.
And, the emptiness vanished. What had been her bedroom is now ground zero of a nuclear holocaust.
The three bags she hauled home from school exploded the instant she dropped them on her floor, blanketing every square inch of her 12-by-14-foot room with clothes, toiletries and other sundry items.
Two weeks and one lecture (from her father) later, nothing has changed. Except, the tidal wave of stuff seems, impossibly, to have grown larger.
It wasn't too long ago that a situation like this would have been all about drawing a line in the sand. Threats, warnings, a potential grounding — whatever it took to reestablish parental control and bring the room into compliance with the household code of cleanliness.
But now, along with the clutter, there is the dooming hint of departure. Another two weeks and she and her stuff will be packed up and gone.
So, might as well sit back and enjoy the mess.

Say what?

"I'm a hoe," announced our youngest child, slamming on the breaks to the card game in play.
Moving onto her third blueberry muffin, she had just been called a pig by her 13-year-old sister.
Of course, it doesn't take much of a leap to see that hoe to an 11-year-old is 'ho' to 16- and 18-year-old siblings.
The hoe claim hung in the air over the kitchen counter as the laughter erupted and swallowed us whole. The husband covered his face with his hands. The 13-year-old vanished in embarrassment.
"I think it would be fun to be a hoe on a farm. That way I could be in the dirt with all the animals."
More laughter. Much more laughter.
I don't know what was a greater source of hilarity ... her wildly random thought process or her thoroughly unaware, unintentional dual meaning of the comment. Whichever it was, this would be a keeper in the family lore.
The husband's eyes peeked over his hands, betraying an inner turmoil of humor and horror. He had to say something, but what to say?
I sunk behind my computer screen and tried not to breathe.
"Honey," he said, "just don't ever say that to anyone else."
Well done.

How lovely are thy branches

Shelled out $40-something to the Lion's Club for this year's tree only to have it stand nearly naked in the dining room until the last few days before Christmas.
With the oldest daughter off in her first year of college, the second-born, our son, decreed that we would wait for her to return home to decorate.
This did not sit well with the youngest, who, every day since the tree came into the house after Thanksgiving, has been asking, "When can we decorate the tree?"
Being the wise mother of four that I am, I thought I struck a fair deal that would keep everyone happy — put up just a few. How smug, though, of me to actually think this would fly.
Walking by the tree when he got home that evening, the son stopped, whirled around, and demanded to know what was going on. Yanking the ornaments off the branches, he reprimanded me:
"We HAAAVE to wait. This IS a family tradition. The WHOLE family has to be here."
I mumbled something about compromise and skulked off to the kitchen, hoping no one else would notice the tree had been returned to its naked splendor.
Of course, when the daughter arrived home, the husband was gone on a business trip. By the time everyone reconvened and was in the house, together, at a reasonable hour, all holiday, school and work commitments satisfied, we were six days out from Christmas.
Considering that I like to have the tree out on the boulevard waiting for garbage pickup on the 26th, the tree price formula of dollar-per-day-of-enjoyment was rising at a steep rate.
The thought actually ran through my mind that maybe we could skip the tree part and let the ornaments lay in full display on the dining room table as they had for the past two weeks. No muss, no fuss and save 40 bucks.
Meanwhile, a battle started to rage.
"Hey, where's my ornament from last year?"
"That's mine!"
"No, you idiot, this is yours!"
"Nuh uh. It is not! It's mine. This one is yours."
"Shut up, you guys."
"No, you shut up."
"Mooooooom!"
Trip to the tree lot — $2
Tree — $40
Family tradition — priceless

Break out the bikinis

Stepped outside yesterday morning to start the cars and instantly sensed the warmer temperature. Amazing the difference between -15 and -4.
By 2 p.m., it was -2. This was as good as it was going to get.
Ann and I headed out for a run. It would be short. Nothing spectacular.
The soft, light snow that had been falling all day ceased. The clouds parted and let a hint of sun and pale blue sky peak through.
We chugged along, Ann with screws in her soles and me with trail shoes, trying to find traction on the snow-covered ice. We caught up after two days apart and settled into the rhythm of the run.
To me, the movement felt like a Herculean effort. Ann, though, was her usual bouncy self. We didn't cover much terrain, nor did we go very fast. Maybe 2.5 miles in 20 minutes.
Still, it was time and distance well spent, particularly after the blizzard on Sunday followed by no school on Monday.
The fresh air cleared out the mind and flushed a few toxins from the body.
A woman can take only so many days holed up in the house, hours on end, with her kids and husband.

My three bubbes (grandmas)

"If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people."
Thich Nhat Hanh
Vietnamese Buddhist monk

"Omigosh. They look so Jewish."
That was the son's immediate reaction the other night when I dug out pictures of my grandparents for his geneology paper.
"Well, honey," I told him. "That's what we are."
Here in Little Norway — a.k.a. South Dakota — you just don't see people like my people.
Above, Exhibit A, from left: Grandma Molly, Grandma Esther, and Great-Grandma Frieda. You're not going to find ladies like these on the prairie.
Esther, my mom's mom, was in a league of her own ... a quality I would not come to appreciate until too many years too late.
She'd burst into the house after running errands, drop her bags on the floor and dash for the bathroom in full grandma sprint.
"Oy vey!" she'd yell over her shoulder. "I gotta pish."
Contemplating the wisdom of this Buddhist monk, I can't quite wrap my brain around the concept. I fully get the connection to my past, but I'm not sure where I'm supposed to go with it. I am so far removed, from both the people and the place, that some days it seems as though my grasp is slipping.
In February, it will be 26 years since my mom died. For nearly three years, I have been alive longer without her than with her. Why I can't fully process this thought and put it to rest escapes me.
At once, it was a lifetime ago and it was yesterday. The kids pull me forward. The pictures pull me back.
If Esther was around, she'd probably just shrug her shoulders and wave me off, and say it was a bunch of mishegas, which in Yiddish means craziness or insanity.
Then again, this is the woman, who with cigarette dangling from her mouth, told me that putting artificial sweetner in my iced tea was going to kill me.
But, maybe that's exactly the point. The memories, the laughter, the tears. The good times and the sadness. The presence and the loss. What makes sense and what is senseless.
Life is what it is. Mishegas.

-11, feels like -34

Or, in dog speak, what the heck are we doing out here? Please, can't we go inside?
Seriously. This is cold. So cold, it hurts to breathe.
The air draws in through the nose, freezing everything in its reach. Tears well up in the eyes.
Then, the cold punches its way into the chest, grabs the lungs and squeezes — hard — with every breath.
Certainly makes the household temp of 60 degrees seem perfectly balmy.
Speaking of heat, last month's bill dropped to $100. Just like winter running ... it's all about the layers.

Little house on the prairie

Well, Pa, looks like the weather forecasters got this one right. Temp is -8, feels like -36. Wind is blowing from the northwest at 30 mph, gusting to 37 mph.
Although, with the huge mass of precipitation stomping across the state, calling this storm was not brain surgery. Hmm, let me see ... dropping temps, moisture, wind ... could it be? A blizzard?
I stopped by HyVee yesterday afternoon, not thinking at all about the pending weather. The morning run was done. Life was good. All I needed to do was grab a couple of items.
Instead, I walked into a food frenzy. Aisle traffic was at a standstill with shopping carts and checkout lines were stacked five and six deep . It doesn't get this bad the day before Thanksgiving.
Blizzard's coming, remarked a passing friend.
Stocking up on foodstuffs. Of course! That is what South Dakotans do when bad weather is bearing down on the state.
The runners, however, were more focused on the ten-day forecast. Storm coming. Temperature supposed to bottom out well below zero. Gotta get out while the getting is good.
That is why we head out every day we can, so that when the roads become impassable, the winds fly and the mercury plunges to life-threatening degrees, we can sit inside, sip coffee and wait for the first clearing.
In the meantime, better tie a rope from house to barn.

Running against the wind and snow and cold

"Hey Amy ... saw you running the other morning when it was really cold, down around 8th and Main."
(This is code for: Are you freakin' nuts?")
Is it odd that people around town approach me this way?
I mean, first of all, in a small town, you go for a run and people see you. Second, winter running is not as bad as it sounds. And third, what seems crazy on the surface actually is the best way to counter months of being cooped up inside.
Oh sure, www.weather.com greets me first thing every morning. And, I cringe like everyone else when the forecast says 3 degrees, feels like -11.
But, if you dress right, most days are perfectly suitable for running. It's not craziness. It's just a matter of translating degrees and wind mph into layers — a fairly accurate and personal formula that improves every season.
The initial plunge out on the frozen tundra can be daunting and send the mind racing for excuses. Somehow, though, you put one foot in front of the other and within a half a mile, you're thinking to yourself or saying to your running buddy, "Not so bad, huh?"
Of course, wrapped in layers of fleece, it sounds more like, "Nn uh bld, uh?"
In this outdoor world of muffled silence, the trees spread their branches in icy glory and the snow reflects the sun's sparkle in a brilliance unmatched by any other season.
Soon, the negative thoughts and discomfort dissipate. You feel all-powerful and conquering.
Or, maybe not.
You spend the entire run cursing the cold, feeling your extremities grow increasingly numb and your shoes turn into frozen boards. Every little hair on your face frosts over and ice forms on your eyelashes.
In the end, though, it doesn't matter. The best part about winter running is being done.

The most wonderful time of year

Yes, it's true.
I cannot remember where I put the ornaments that I bought half price for the kids after last year's holiday season for this year's Christmas.
Last weekend, we weathered the winter's first stomach bug. Days after I disinfected the bathroom, the vomit stench remains lodged in the mucus lining of my nose.
My big toes are frozen senseless after the morning's run and round of errands.
The city's snow removal efforts are minimal and can best be described as pushing the snow around and waiting for it to melt. The van's tire wells are so caked with slush that the wheels barely turn.
Yesterday afternoon's temperature surge and subsequent plunge melted and then re-froze the back deck. The perfect combination of skating rink/negligence lawsuit.
And yet, I couldn't be happier ... well, maybe if it was mid-summer and 80 degrees.
For me, the best part of the holiday season arrives in the mail every day. Cards come from all corners of the country bearing photos and news of the past year.
In the midst of the 12 months, nothing seems to change or move much. But, look back with a full year's perspective, sum it all up, and oh my gosh, how life has gone on. Births, marriages, illness, death, travel, jobs, graduations, a new house, a new community — the news is vast and varied.
In many cases, I have not seen these people in years. We have not talked on the phone. We rarely, if ever, write or email. In an instant, as I pull the card out, all the time that has passed slips away and we are reconnected ... briefly, but completely.
Our sole moment of communication is captured in that one holiday letter. And, what a wonderful moment it is.

Cooped up and crazy

Paid a visit to the girls’ underwear department lately? I did and I’m still:
A) Shocked
B) Speechless
C) Disgusted
D) All of the above
Searching for Hannah Montana panties for my 11-year-old’s birthday, I came across padded bras for the grade school set.
A 30-A? Fully padded? Really?
Sure enough, the front of the tag featured a cartoon depiction of a cute, young thing, posing with hands on hips, and the words, “the padded bra.” On the back, the garment's features included “Graduated cups for added coverage and support.”
Judging by the size of the bra, it — literally — was made for my fifth grader, who is completely flat. Zero. Zip. Nothing to support. Nada. And, yet, here is an undergarment for her.
So, the question burning in my mind is: Why would we want to promote the concept of breasts in someone this young?
Or, even if she did have breasts, which can and does happen to girls this young, is there a good reason why we would want to enhance them, push them up and give the appearance of cleavage?

A Snowy Day

Couldn't help but notice the little real estate blurb on the N.Y. Times front web page today:
What You Get for ... $600,000. A two-bedroom house on Lopez Island, Wash., an apartment in Boston or a house in Sebastopol, Calif.
Or, perhaps, my home in Brookings, S.D., multiplied by three, plus $60,000 to $80,000 in cash.
This is what I am thinking as I'm shoveling out our corner lot from the 4-6 inches of snow that fell overnight.
Barreling down the second stretch of sidewalk, I see that the same person who swings by after every snowfall with a four-wheeler to clear the entire block has done so yet again.
We don't know who this kind soul is and we don't expect him to keep returning. But, after two years of steady snow removal, this blessed event is becoming a trend.
So, the question in my mind is, these $600,000 digs in other places, do they come with a friendly neighbor who plows you out after every storm?
Are they located in communities where people you may barely know hold fund-raisers to help cover your hospital bills? Drinking my morning coffee today, I counted four ads in the weekly shopper for such events.
Surely, I have cursed all that is bleak and unforgiving in this state ... the wind, the cold and the vast amounts of nothing. There is a lack of diversity in every realm — religion, culture, color of skin — that can lead to a lack of understanding of anyone or anything different.
There is no ocean view, no eclectic shops, no fine dining. The winters are too harsh and the summers too short. Some movies never make it to the local theater. We are still waiting for an organic food co-op.
Yet, in nearly 18 years of living in South Dakota, I have found, as I did shoveling this morning, an endearing quality about this place that trumps everything else: Here, help comes without asking.