Back to Fargo . . . Again

Arrived in Fargo late last night after a few days in Spokane where the snow had just melted. It was in the high 40s in Eastern Washington and spring had sprung. In contrast, this morning, it was 18 above in Fargo, and a light snow was beginning. It was like hitting rewind on the seasons. For me, returning to Fargo is always like hitting rewind on something.

I re-entered the complicated routine of a morning in a family with two active teenage boys and two busy working parents. Like a game of tetris, Enrico and I responded to the routine and less-routine demands of getting the day started. Alex got up and showered, Enrico got up and made coffee. I got up and drank said coffee. I drove Alex to meet the state swim team at a restaurant for breakfast while Max showered. Enrico had a Skype meeting while I drove Max to his middle school. Enrico showered while I cleaned up the kitchen. In between making sure Alex had money for his trip to state and Max had his homework done, I checked e-mails and watered plants.Then Enrico drove to work, while I went for a ski.

I brought both pairs of skis and poles--skate and classic--down to the river. The US geological survey team was setting up a device to monitor the river. I tried my skate skis first. The trail was in excellent shape, firm, no ruts, and the light dusting of new snow made the trail less slippery. Pole to the right, glide out on right ski, shift hips and transfer weight to left ski. Swivel torso to right. Quick pole plant, engaging core, pushing off, the fingers of my right hand pointing backward, getting the last bit of push off the pole, trailing along for a moment before shifting hips again to the left. Left knee over left ankle, nose leading a lovely glide. Somewhere between a dance and a workout, my brain wandered out of my body. I discovered it was still in Spokane, with John and Claire Keeble at their farm.

Yesterday, after a lovely breakfast of cream eggs, I went out  to the barn to admire a calf that had been born a few days ago. He was still getting used to his legs. John pointed out that the calf was only pretending to eat hay like his mother; he couldn't actually eat it yet. I watched how earnestly he engaged in this fake eating. Here he is taking a rest.

Next we went for a walk to the cliffs to see the flooded creek below. We noted the missing bark from several trees, the work of hungry porcupines.

On the way back, we saw the first buttercup. Claire said they used to bring the first buttercups to Olivia (John's mother). That got me thinking about Olivia and her husband Ray and the year Enrico and I lived here with them.

It was when John and Claire were on sabbatical to Alabama in the winter of 1995-96. We were supposed to take care of them--keep the wood box full, plow the mile-long driveway when it snowed--but, in reality, they took care of us. It was our first year of marriage, when we--like the calf--were still getting our legs under us. Being at the Keebles was a bit like playing house--it wasn't our home, yet we could live in it for awhile.   It was a sheltered year for us--we didn't have to face "real" life quite yet.  We had time to talk, to read, to walk around the beautiful 300 acres, to cook on the woodstove, to listen to each other. I finished my master's thesis in the fall, and flew to Alaska midwinter for my defense. Enrico was working on his MFA in fiction writing, and we both worked in the Writing Center as tutors. It was a good year.

I changed to my classic skis, but my wax was wrong, so it was mostly poling. The rhythm of poling lulled me back into my reflection on the trip to Spokane. 

After returning from the creek yesterday, I tagged along with John and Claire to feed and water the cows. It was warming up--nearly all the snow had melted. The calf was looking better. Clare said they would put the calf and mother out to pasture in the afternoon. It was ready. There was time for a quick lunch before I had to catch my plane. Clare, in that amazing way she has, magically prepared a Greek salad, and while we were eating lunch, we saw the first four robins of spring. Although it was good to see them and even better to feel the warmth outside, spring always makes me feel kind of sad. I like winter, when everything is frozen, waiting, and I can imagine so many possibilities.

I loved skiing around the Keeble's land in that year we lived here, knowing I would enjoy perfect solitude--there would be no one crossing my path. My mind was free to wander without interruption. I made my own trail, a loop around the property.

That spring, the Keebles returned from sabbatical, but Enrico and I were not quite ready to leave for Alaska.  We moved out into the back field, where we camped until it was a bit warmer, and then we were on our way, making our life for real, no more faking it. 

Back in the Bindings Again

Well, I was enjoying the cross-country skiing this year when something bad happened. It was the evening of Tuesday, December 17th. I was extremely stressed out, with end-of-semester duties & looming grading. It seemed like I would never get everything done, and I was scaling a wall of work that didn't seem like it would end until Christmas eve. Plus, I was trying to get ahead on household duties, knowing I would be having knee surgery the day after Christmas (torn meniscus). By 8pm, I was so wound up I knew I'd have trouble falling asleep, so I ditched everything to go for a moonlight ski. I even left Enrico behind--he offered to go with me--but I just felt I had to get out NOW. Alone.

It was a beautiful night, not too cold, clear, and the full moon was shining brightly. I could see the trail perfectly well, or so I thought. All the stress seemed to flow out through my skis, and soon I was flying along the trail. "Wow," I thought, "I feel great." I decided to go all the way to the I-94 bridge. Once I got into the trees in Lindenwood Park, it was a bit darker, but I kept pushing myself as hard as I could go. I just needed to. Then, suddenly, I hit a leaf with my right ski. That ski came to a stop, but my body kept going, stretching over my skis. I knew I was going to fall and made an effort to roll, but I only got so far as to swing my right hand across my chest, when I hit the ground. Hard. The impact knocked the air out of me, and I rolled to my side in agony. I could not get up right away. Basically, it felt like someone had just punched me as hard as they could on the left part of my chest, right where you would put your hand to say the pledge. I writhed around for a moment, took stock of my body, decided nothing was broken and then laughed at myself.

What a stupid clumsy fall!

Despite the impact, my intent to make it to the bridge prevailed, and I skied on, ignoring the pain. After I turned around, I saw some cars driving along the road, the passengers enjoying the Christmas lights up in Lindenwood Park. I decided I had to catch and pass the cars (insane, I know--I think I become a dog when I ski, no thought beyond "must chase"), so even though I had been skiing very hard (for me), I skied even harder. I chased down four cars, passed them, and stayed ahead until after I reached the section where the lights end, and they sped up, caught me, and passed me. It was only then that I slowed down a bit. I knew I was hurt, but nothing was broken, so I thought it best to just maintain a steady pace and get back home.

It was only after I got home and relaxed a bit that I realized I had really hurt my ribs. I had hurt them years ago in a fall during a mountain bike race, but I convinced myself that this was not really as bad as that. I slept all right and continued on my frenetic work pace the next day. It was only after 5pm, that I realized how very wiped out I felt. One of my grad students said, "You look really tired." Indeed, I did. In the following days, I was in constant pain. It hurt to breathe, and I dreaded having to sneeze. I realized that I probably had broken my ribs or damaged the cartilage. When I went in for my pre-surgery check-up, I mentioned it to my doctor, and he said, "Yes, they could be broken, but there is no treatment for that."
"I know," I said.
Somehow, I graded all those papers, working long, long days, through the weekend and right up until 5pm on Christmas Eve. I wryly thought, "Well, at least the pain keeps me alert to get this work done."
Honestly, I was looking forward to surgery just so that I could rest (and get some pain medication!)

The day after Christmas, I had knee surgery. It went well, and I got to stay awake and watch on the video monitor. I could see all these rough surfaces and watch as the doctor trimmed it all up. I went home and rested intensively for several days, gradually increasing my activity. At my one-week check-up, I felt great. The doctor took out my stitches and said I could return to my normal activities.
"So, I can go skiing?" I asked.
"Yes, but don't go too far the first time," he said.

I went home and got into all my ski gear and headed out. It was pretty cold, and I felt a bit awkward, but I didn't have any pain (except still a bit in my ribs), so I skied for half an hour and came home. The next day I biked for about 45 minutes. Still good.

Today, I skied all the way to I-94 again. I wanted to see if I could do it. Obviously, I didn't ski as fast as I did on that moonlit night, but I felt good. My ribs still hurt afterward, and it hurt to spit, but my knee was fine! Maybe I will be able to race after all this winter . . . We'll see.

So, in the end, I'm still a bit annoyed with myself for that stupid fall, but grateful to my doctor for a successful knee surgery. It was great to be on the trail, and it wasn't even that cold--one degree above zero, and a bit of wind. I was thoroughly warm after the first 5-10 minutes. The sun was out, but getting low in the sky, the orange color deepening against the snow, the trees dark and beautiful in the patterns they made against the sky. I love to be outside in winter. Although I enjoyed the much needed rest, a week indoors made me kind of sad. I love to breathe in the crisp winter air and feel the sun on my face. The joy it brings me makes me exclaim odd statements of gratitude as  I ski: "Beautiful!" and "Thank you" and "Pure Joy." Thankfully, there was not a single soul besides myself on the trail today to wonder if I'd lost my mind.