Breaking Through

by Nancy King

Paul, the young landscaper I had hired to redo my irrigation system asked, “Would you mind if we dug up a small area of the flagstones? It would make laying the new irrigation lines a lot easier.”

“Yes, I mind,” I responded, enjoying the surprised look on his face. “I want you to get rid of that whole flagstone and concrete path. For years I’ve hated looking at it.” He nodded. “And,” I added, “while you’re at it, I’d like you to take out all the concrete between the house and the garage and in front of the garage.”

 

He was laughing too hard to say anything but I was on a roll and not about to stop. “And, please get rid of the trellis—it’s a heavy pressure-treated wood eyesore that’s overbuilt and expensive to maintain.” For years I’d been resenting the money it cost to keep the outside of my house looking moderately appealing and the timing was perfect. I was heading off to hike in the Grand Canyon and Paul could work his magic in my absence. 

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Dancing With Martha Graham

by Nancy King

Martha Graham 1948 via Wikipedia Commons LicenseThe Martha Graham School of Dance was in an old mansion on East 63^rd street between 2^nd and 3^rd avenues in New York City. Walking into the building was like entering the temple of a high priestess whose devotees all looked alike—the men, gorgeous, tall, well built, strutting around in tights so revealing I blushed each time I tried not to look. The women, tall, thin, yet muscular, their long dark hair pulled into buns or twists, not a hair daring to disturb the sleek coiffures. 

Although the bus ride to the school was long, the distance I traveled meant leaving a world I sort of knew how to manage for one filled with unexpected challenges, where I could be unceremoniously discarded, not fit for living, dumped onto a pile of rejects. When I found the courage to speak, it felt like a shout but was probably barely a whisper. “I’m here to register for the Beginning Graham Technique Class,” I said to the young woman, whose jet black hair was pulled into a painfully tight chignon, her cheekbones jutting out from her sculptured face, her dark eyes rimmed with black, the red of her lipstick looking like a bloody wound. She was too busy flexing her arches to pay attention to me, but I wasn’t about to let anyone keep me from the class. “I’m here to register for Beginning Graham.”

“Name, please.” I told her. She deigned to look it up on a clipboard on her desk. “Right. Advanced class—meets at 5:30. Be here no later than 5:15, dressed, warmed up, ready to begin promptly. Martha doesn’t tolerate latecomers. 

“Martha? Me? Advanced class? There’s been a mistake!

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Leaving Cancer in Paris

by Nancy King

author Nancy King in Paris. @Suzan Hall.The voice on the other end of the phone was exultant. “I’ve found a house exchange on Craig’s list. I’m going to Paris for two weeks. I leave in ten days.”

Envy, like a mass of kudzu, took up every bit of space inside me. It was all I could do to congratulate her. I wanted to go to Paris. I wanted to eat croissants and drink wine, see great art, walk along the Seine. Instead, I was waiting to learn the results of the bone marrow biopsy, pretty sure I was facing a third bout of leukemia, having a port put into my chest, chemotherapy . . .

“Want to come with me?” she asked.

I wanted to say yes. Yes. Yes.Yes. Instead, I felt like a five-year old. “I can’t tell you. I have an appointment with Dr. L. tomorrow. He’ll give me the test results. Could I call you after I talk with him?”

“Sure. Good luck tomorrow.” I hung up feeling depressed, deprived, and despondent.

He didn’t waste any time. “There are hairy cells (cancer cells) in your bone marrow and peripheral blood. I think we should start treatment right away. I’ll give you the number to schedule the port implantation, and when the incision is healed, we’ll start chemo. Any questions?”

“Yes. A friend invited me to go to Paris for two weeks. Do you think I’m well enough to go with her?”

“If it were me? I’d go in a heartbeat.”

Feelings of exultation almost overwhelmed me but I managed to say. “Treatment postponed. I’m going to Paris.” We hugged. I skipped out of the Cancer Center, too joyful to take one step at a time. In the car, I called my friend. “Yes. Yes. Yes! I’m coming.”

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BikerBabe: Celebrating Three-Quarters of a Century

by Nancy King

Recently, researchers wanted to test the effects of aging. So what did they do? They put young people in body suits that restricted their eyesight, hobbled their movement, and diminished their hearing. The measurements for the suit were based on the supposed physicality of a 74 year old. When I read this I was 74 and it made me so mad I decided I would celebrate my upcoming 75th birthday in an age-affirming way.I wanted to raise my proverbial finger at the media and people who worship wrinkleless faces and taut bodies. I arranged to take a five-day bicycle tour with a friend to the Sonoma wine country in California, north of San Francisco. Since I wasn t sure I could ride 45 miles in a day, or five days in a row, we trained, riding up and down hills in Santa Fe. Every time I huffed and puffed up a hill I thought of that suit and found energy I didn t know I had. Besides, I figured if I could ride 35 miles at 7,000 in New Mexico, maybe riding at sea level would be easier.

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Airport Therapy: Overcoming Shyness in Buenos Aires

by Nancy King

I am a shy person. I spend most of my days alone. Although it was daunting to figure out how to pack my 21-inch carry on with clothes for hot weather in Rapa Nui and Buenos Aires and freezing weather in Patagonia, dealing with more than a dozen strangers for three weeks was even more of a challenge. During the first few days of the trip I quietly mingled and occasionally exchanged stories, but it wasn’t until the group and I were in the Buenos Aires airport that I discovered there were limits to my shyness.

© Eyeidea®/istockphotoWhen I say that we were in the airport in Buenos Aires I do not mean that we were passing through, although that was our plan. We spent a full day there because no flights were leaving. Instead of canceling our flight so we could leave and make the best of the day, the airline simply said our flight was delayed, which meant we couldn’t leave the airport.

For breakfast, the airline offered free ham and cheese on white bread sandwiches and a bottle of water or soda. For a mid-morning snack, it offered free ham and cheese on white bread sandwiches. For lunch, even the most diehard among us couldn’t bear the thought of another jamon y queso sandwich and settled for water and a fried pastry. It was a long, long day.

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A HIKING TALE

by Nancy King

The Sierra Club hike was advertised as: Strenuous Hike along the streams and meadows of the Grass Mountain area of the Pecos Wilderness, ~10 mile one-way hike with car shuttle, possible 2000 ft. cumulative climb.

It sounded doable to Nancy King on the trailme although I usually hike only seven or eight miles. The preceding weeks had been stressful and my system felt full of grunge. Maybe the sight of wildflowers and panoramic mountain vistas would act as emotional system cleanser and make me feel better. So, I signed up.

By seven o’clock, on the morning of the hike, I didn’t feel well and was on the verge of canceling. But I made a decision, that I would be okay, and with many deep breaths, set out to meet the group at 7:30. There were eight hikers; I was clearly the oldest, and the leader, a cheerful, upbeat guy in his early forties, was so welcoming that he carved a space in my worries and filled it with optimism. But I was unnerved when I heard people ask him, “So how long is this hike, really?” Funny question. The blurb said ten miles. Hadn’t they read it?

I’ve learned that if I’m able to walk behind the leader, I get charged with his or her energy, but if I’m at the end of the group, it’s a slog all the way, an energy sink. As we started up the mountain, with me just behind the leader, the relentless uphill climb made me wonder if it was going to go on ad infinitum. I huffed and puffed up the first four miles, hoping I’d make it to the top, wherever that was.

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