Amy Wight Chapman's Blog, page 2

It’s all about the heart: Living with intention

I was asked to give a five-minute talk about “living with intention” as part of today’s service at the UU church I attend in West Paris. I recorded it, transcribed it, and boom—easiest blog post I’ve ever written.

I was supposed to give this talk a couple of weeks ago, when we didn’t have church because it snowed, but this is a way better time, because my talk is, pretty much, about hearts. February is American Heart Month, and today is the day before Valentine’s Day.

Also, today would be my mom’s 102nd birthday. My mom suffered through a lopsided, heart-shaped birthday cake pretty much every year of my life until she passed away; we always thought of our mom as our Valentine.

My mom used to go out every February when I was a little kid and collect for the American Heart Association. She would get this kit in the mail, and every February she would walk around the neighborhood collecting money for the American Heart Association, and sometimes she would take me with her. I never really knew why she did it; I never thought about why she did it; she just did it.

I knew that my dad had passed away suddenly, eight months before I was born, so I had never had the opportunity to know him, but everyone would say about my dad, “Oh, everyone loved your father! He was so good-hearted! He was the most good-hearted, the most generous man!”

Well, come to find out, my dad was really good-hearted…but he didn’t have a good heart. And six days before his 46th birthday, when they had four kids, and my mom, unbeknownst to her, was pregnant with me, he had a heart attack, and he died.

For my mom, I think the American Heart Association was her way of trying to give back, to help keep that from happening to other people.

So I grew up knowing, eventually, that my dad, as good-hearted as he was, had a bad heart. I like to think that I inherited his good-heartedness, but I might have also inherited his bad heart.

But I didn’t pay too much attention to that, because when you’re young, you think you’re going to live forever.

By the time I was the age that my dad was when he passed away—and my four older siblings had long since outlived that age—by the time I was about to turn 46, I was, oh, I’d say, about 50 pounds overweight and I’d been on a statin for high cholesterol for a few years. Things probably weren’t going in a good direction.

By the time I was about 50, or a little older than that, I was 70 pounds overweight. I was working for Community Concepts, and they decided to do a workplace health challenge, an exercise challenge. I realized they were just doing it because if a certain percentage of their employees participated, their insurance rates would probably go down, but on April 6, 2012, which happened to be my parents’ 70th anniversary, they passed out these calendars.

The information with the calendars said, “Try to get 30 minutes of exercise on each day for the next six weeks. If you just do it five days a week, that’s good enough. Thirty minutes, that’s good enough. It can be anything—it can be walking, it can be swimming, it can be yoga; you can do whatever you want.”

And I looked at that, and I thought, I think I’m gonna try to do it every single day for six weeks.

Now, this is someone who’s spent half a century avoiding exercise, at all costs. I was the last kid picked in gym class for my entire school career. My best friend and I discovered how to hide in the outfield and not have to come in between innings when we were playing baseball and softball, because we weren’t into exercise.

But I started this thing on April 7, 2012, the day after my parents’ 70th anniversary, and I got 30 minutes of exercise, one way or another, every day of the six-week challenge.

So that was good. I got a pat on the back for that. And I said, “I think I’ll keep this going, because I’m starting to feel a little better.”

So, long story short, when I get to my parents’ anniversary this year, it will be their 80th anniversary, and, fingers crossed, I will have completed ten years without missing a day of getting at least 30 minutes of exercise, and most days I get 50 minutes or more.

I like hiking the best, but the thing that keeps me on track is knowing that I can do anything. I haven’t really been sick in ten years, but if I were sick, I could probably get through 30 minutes of yoga, and if I’m feeling good, I can get through a five-mile hike.

I wear this pendant, which is either the sun rising, or the sun setting, over the mountains, which my kids gave me a couple of years ago, to remind me that you just have to keep climbing. And you can change your life.

Thank you.

2021 in Adversity and Adventures: Keeping it “low and local”—and conserving special places

 

Happy New Year! Last year at about this time, I blogged about the dumpster fire from hell that was 2020 and wrapped up my hiking year in the post, “2020, Oxford County, and hiking ‘low and local’.”

2021 started off with lots of hope—vaccinations were nearly within reach for most of us, the prospect of gathering again with friends and family was real and exciting, and we actually dared to imagine an end to the scourge that is COVID-19.

I got to hug my granddaughter, my siblings, my college friends; I went to Connecticut with my best friend to visit her parents for Mother’s Day; I went to the movies and ate in a restaurant or two—all in the first half of the year, before things went seriously off-track again, before variants started popping up like a game of Whack-a-Mole, before we put our masks back on and went back to Zoom meetings and FaceTime family gatherings.

If 2021 was an improvement over 2020—and I guess that’s a matter of personal opinion—it was in part because we were more accustomed to our new reality, less blind-sided by the adjustments we had to make to stay safe, and perhaps more adapted to solitary pursuits and small-group activities, far enough removed from large parties and indoor concerts and crowded festivals to miss them less. (I’m speaking here for those who actually enjoy those things; as a confirmed introvert, my own adjustment to solitude was, from the beginning, pretty swift and painless.)

One way in which 2021 was a measurably better year, for me, is that I did 128 hikes, besting my 2020 total by one. Whoo-hoo!

A deep dive into my obsessively-tracked data for the year reveals that I hiked about 28 miles further than the year before (457.8) and my average hike was a bit longer (3.58 miles in 2021 vs. 3.4 miles in 2020).

Although my total mileage for the year (hiking, walking, running, and snowshoeing combined) was 1,235.1, which was about 38 miles less than in 2020, I’m giving myself a pass for that, because in addition to some kayaking, canoeing, paddleboarding, and yoga (none of which give me mileage credit), I’m pretty sure I swam more often last year than the year before, and I definitely increased the length of my summer morning swims.

By combining all of these forms of exercise, I managed not to break my Obsessive Exercise Streak (consecutive days with at least 30 minutes of exercise), which—if my good luck in avoiding illness and injury continues—will reach a ten-year milestone on April 6, 2022.

Not too bad for a perpetual last-kid-picked-in-gym-class who spent most of my first half-century avoiding exercise whenever possible.

As in the past few years, Eli the Wonder Pup was my most reliable hiking partner, accompanying me on more than 80 of my hikes in 2021. He’s the only one I ever invite to hike with me who is never too busy, too tired, or just not in the mood.

Eli brought Will along on 47 of our hikes. Will is exactly half my age as of right now, and I consider myself very fortunate that he doesn’t mind being slowed down by his aging mom, especially on the downhill stretches, where his built-in shock absorbers let him charge full-speed down the steepest slopes, while I pick my way along with my trusty hiking poles and wonder how long it’s going to be before I need to consider knee replacement.

Once again, I stayed close to home for nearly all of my hikes last year. In fact, by pure coincidence, the exact same number—124—were within Oxford County in 2021 as in 2020. (The other four were in New Hampshire.)

Not only that, but 101 out of 128 hikes were either right here in Greenwood, my hometown—46 hikes, on ten different trails—or in neighboring Woodstock (my second hometown), where I hiked by far the most often, 55 times—yes, you read that right—on the remarkable trail system in the proposed Buck’s Ledge Community Forest.

Why on earth would I choose to hike the same trails over and over, when there are so many trails to choose from?

For one thing, in the summertime when we’re at camp on North Pond in Woodstock, Buck’s Ledge is quite literally right in my own backyard, so a morning hike before work entails simply walking out the back door and heading uphill.

The trail to Buck’s Ledge from our camp is very short (about six tenths of a mile) and very steep, perfect for a quick workout when I don’t have time to drive to a more distant trail. I don’t think there’s been a summer of my life when I haven’t been up there at least once, although I expect I probably made my first few trips on the shoulders of one of my three big brothers.

The view from Buck’s Ledge is inarguably one of the best “bang-for-the-buck” views in western Maine. It overlooks North Pond, faces Mt. Abram, and provides stunning sunsets from the west-facing ledges. On a clear winter day, you can see beyond the Carter-Moriah Range in the White Mountain National Forest, all the way to the Presidentials—Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison are all visible, especially when capped with snow.

Buck’s Ledge (1,180’) is just one of three scenic peaks of Moody Mountain, which is relatively low (1,424’ at its highest point) but sprawling, with a wide footprint and a nearly mile-long ridge between Buck’s Ledge and the true summit. The third peak is Lapham Ledge (1,180’), which faces southeast and offers sunrises that rival Buck’s sunsets.

Until recently, there were just a couple of miles of trails, plus a logging road/snowmobile trail, on the 634-acre parcel that the Woodstock Conservation Commission, in partnership with the Mahoosuc Land Trust, hopes to purchase and conserve in perpetuity as a community forest.

Over the past couple of years, volunteer trailbuilder and Woodstock neighbor Jurgen Marks has located, flagged, and cut, first, a new trail from Buck’s Ledge to the Moody summit, then a steep connector up to the summit from the logging road, then a trail from the summit of Lapham Ledge down to the logging road, and, finally, a trail leading from the Lapham trail to the Woodstock Elementary School.

As a result, WES students have direct access to the trail system, and hikers now have about six miles of trails on a wide variety of terrain to explore year-round.

Last year, I watched the sun set from Buck’s Ledge four times, and I watched the sun rise from Lapham Ledge 17 times. I hiked to the summit of Moody Mountain 22 times; on 12 of those hikes, including ones on the very first and very last days of 2021, I made a 4.5-mile loop, hitting all three peaks.

Every single one of these hikes was different. Even when I retraced my steps at the same time of day, two or three days in a row, there was something new to see each time. Was the horizon more pink, or tangerine, on this morning? Had a quick change in temperature left intricate ice sculptures for me to find along the trail? Would I catch a glimpse of the deer who had been bedding down in the plentiful oak leaves behind Buck’s Ledge?

And despite the hundreds of hikes over six decades that I’ve taken on these trails, becoming part of the effort to ensure that they will be kept open and available for future generations has made me see them in a whole new way.

At the beginning of the year, the idea of purchasing the 634-acre Buck’s Ledge parcel to conserve it forever as a community forest was just beginning to take shape, and as the year ended, the project was well on its way to achieving its local fundraising goal of $175,000, with the balance of the $850,000 cost expected to be met through state grants and foundations.

Next year at this time, when I reflect on the events of the past year, I hope I’ll able to say that the pandemic is truly behind us, and that life is finally “back to normal,” whatever that looks like to both the extroverts and introverts among us.

And I hope that I’ll be able to report that the dream of creating the Buck’s Ledge Community Forest has become a reality.

Here’s how you can help: A volunteer Planning Committee meets on the third Wednesday of each month at 5 PM at the Woodstock Town Office, and all are welcome. Donations can be made at www.mahoosuc.org/bucks-ledge or by mail to the Town of Woodstock, PO Box 317, Bryant Pond, ME 04219. Thank you!

“The salt of the earth”: Happy 50th Anniversary!

Today is my sister and brother-in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary!

Les and Bob are the kind of people I would describe, without hesitation, as “the salt of the earth”—a phrase that pops into my head when I think of people who are sincere, honest, hard-working, and kind.

They met at the University of Maine. It was the late 1960s, and the country was caught up in social and political movements—pro-civil rights, anti-war, pro-feminism, anti-establishment—but Les and Bob were not hippies or protesters or, as far as I know, even affected much by “The Sixties.”

They were both pretty busy pursuing practical degrees (him: electrical engineering; her: elementary education) and preparing for practical career paths.

I was about ten years old the first time Les brought Bob home to meet the family.

Like the rest of us siblings, Les was a wannabe Mainer, born and raised in exile in Connecticut, but identifying far more closely with our parents’ state of birth than our own.

Bob, on the other hand, was a Maine native, having grown up in Waterville, and this fact gave him automatic prestige in my eyes.

I don’t know how long they had been dating at the time, but they weren’t yet engaged. I also don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to conduct a sort of hazing ritual, or why I thought an actual, real Maine native would be alarmed to find the taxidermied head of a black bear on the pillow of the bed he had been assigned in the bedroom my three brothers had shared when they all lived at home.

(Don’t ask me why we even had the taxidermied head of a black bear around the house. It seemed perfectly normal to me when I was growing up, and the only thing I remember being told about it was that it was all that was left of a bearskin rug that had been destroyed by moths. I had no idea of the original rug’s provenance and probably assumed most families had that sort of thing hanging around in their storage closets.)

Bob liked to ice skate, and he was a really good sport about taking his girlfriend’s little sister and a friend or two to a small skating pond in the nearby woods. I’m not sure why we thought it would be a good idea to steal and hide his boots once he had changed into his skates, but I remember that we did. I also remember that he was completely unperturbed about it. (We did eventually return them.)

Bob also didn’t bat an eye (or turn and run) when my mother declared that it would certainly be nice to have an electrician in the family (although she probably added that a plumber would have been even better) and started making a list of small electrical projects around the house and camp with which he could occupy his time whenever they came to visit.

I was twelve years old when Les and Bob got married in the chapel on the UMaine Orono campus on June 19, 1971, and I was a junior bridesmaid. What I remember most about the day was that it was very hot, and there was some sort of mix-up about the time with the organist, and she didn’t show up, so we all processed in silence. She was supposed to have played the song “If,” and I always think of that song when I remember their wedding day.

Despite the nearly ten-year difference in our ages, Les and I fought a lot when I was growing up. With the wise perspective of age, I can now state unequivocally that every single one of those fights (even the one on the train to Arizona in the summer of 1967 that caused her to dig her fingernails into my wrist so hard they left little red crescent marks that took weeks to fade) was my fault.

My sister is not, in any way, difficult or demanding, annoying or argumentative, and I doubt that she has ever, in her whole life, had so much as a mild spat, let alone an actual fight, with anyone else. I, on the other hand, am all of those things, so I know without a doubt that I was the instigator in all of our fights.

When she was in high school, I whined and annoyed her at every possible opportunity, went into her room without permission (and occasionally broke things, then denied it), and teased her unmercifully about a couple of geeky boys who had unrequited crushes on her. I’m pretty sure she was relieved to go off to college, knowing she’d probably never have to share a home with me again.

But Les and Bob had barely returned from their honeymoon to New Orleans and settled into Bob’s family camp on Parker Pond for the summer when my mother, who was taking graduate courses during the early part of that summer, drove me to Maine and deposited me in their care for, I think, three weeks.

My sister, who is pretty much a saint, never complained. In fact, the first day I was there, she suggested that the two of us make a serious effort at détente.

“How about if we try not to fight for the whole time you’re here, and then when Mom comes to get you, we can tell her we didn’t have one single fight?” she suggested.

I agreed, a bit doubtfully.

As it turned out, it was easy, and I remember those weeks as one of the best times of my childhood, filled with swimming, walking, talking, baking, and playing games together. Not only that, but, now, fifty years later, as far as I can recall, Les and I have never again had so much as a mild tiff between us.

Les and Bob spent the first decade of their marriage living fairly conventional lives, first in Massachusetts, then in Connecticut, where Bob worked for Stone & Webster and Les taught school. Then, forty years ago, they made the momentous decision to buy a cute little country store in a small town in Maine.

With their two sons in tow, they landed in Mt. Vernon, where they have made their living and their lives ever since.

Their friends and neighbors who know them don’t need to be reminded of all the ways in which Les and Bob have immersed themselves in their community, but, for anyone who doesn’t know, here are just a few of their contributions:

They ran Mt. Vernon Country Store and a second store, Flying Pond Variety, for nearly 30 years, always with an acute awareness of their central role in the community. It was never “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it”…it was always “Sure, we can get that for you!”

Les put her kindness, dedication, and patience to work as a reading specialist at Mt. Vernon Elementary School, while working a second (often full-time) job at the stores.

Bob serves as the town’s cemetery sexton, which has included taking classes to learn to clean and repair gravestones and painstakingly restoring hundreds of the town’s ancient stones.

Les has been a mainstay of Mt. Vernon Rescue for decades; because she was almost always in town—teaching, tending the store, or working in her huge garden—she was virtually always on call, and still is.

There’s so much more that they’ve done—coaching, babysitting, serving as town treasurer, caring for elderly residents (and feeding their cats). Bob has received the Spirit of America Award for outstanding service to the town, and they were both honored by the Vernon Valley Masons as Citizens of the Year.

Several years ago, Bob—a confirmed “truck guy”—bought himself an early birthday present: a Mazda Miata. I think my practical sister was a bit aghast, but today, they left their responsibilities behind for a few hours, and headed off in the convertible for an anniversary day trip to the coast.

Nobody deserves it more.

Happy 50th, you guys…love you!