Ageless Passions by Karen Putz

Category: People Living Passionately

  • Getting Into a Wetsuit

    karen in wetsuit

    From:

    Your SENIOR Magazine:

    Overheard at the doctor’s office:  “I feel like my body has gotten totally out of shape, so I got my doctor’s permission to join a fitness club and start exercising.  I decided to take an aerobics class for seniors.  I bent, twisted, gyrated, jumped up and down, and perspired for an hour. But, by the time I got my leotards on, the class was over.”

    This cracked me up!  Then I thought back to the second time that I went to the World Barefoot Center back in April.  I had to buy a wetsuit and I went into the pro shop to buy one.   Judy Myers took a women’s size 14 off the rack.  “Here, try this on,” she said.

    I looked at the wetsuit and shook my head. “I haven’t been in a size 14 since I had kids,” I told her.

    “Try it on,” she insisted.  “Wetsuits are always very tight when you try them on dry.  When you get in the water, they stretch out.”

    I tried on the wetsuit and couldn’t get it over my shoulders.  It went back on the rack.  “I’ll need a men’s size,” I said.

    Judy pulled off a men’s size medium.   I looked at it and shook my head again.  “That’s not going to fit.  I know my body and I can’t get in that one!”

    “You gotta try it on,” Judy said.  And hey, when Judy tells you to do something, you do it.  She’s a former gym teacher –and I was afraid she would make me drop down and give her ten pushups if I didn’t obey.  I dutifully stepped into the wetsuit and slipped one arm in.  I had to “bend, twist, gyrate and jump up and down” to get the other arm in.  Judy remained positive throughout the ordeal.  “We can zip this up!”   Keith St.Onge was standing in the corner, trying not to laugh.

    I looked at the half-donned wetsuit.  The zipper was a long way down and the two halves of the wetsuit were parked near my shoulders.  I didn’t see how it was possible to get the female parts of me into a too-small, men’s wetsuit.

    “This ain’t going to happen,” I told Judy.  “Let’s go up a size.”  She pulled a bigger size off the rack.

    “We can zip this up!  I promise you, once you get this in the water it will loosen up!”

    So there we were– Judy trying to zip up the wetsuit while I tried to minimize my upper chest.   The zipper only went up a few inches.  “Here, you zip it up while I pull the suit together,” Judy suggested.   We wrestled with the suit for a few more minutes, inching the zipper up a bit more.  Finally, out of desperation– or perhaps it was the eagerness to get on the water–Judy stuffed the puppies in while I managed to zip it up.

    “Um, I can’t breathe,” I said.

    When I look back at my year of getting back to barefooting again, I realize that the hardest part wasn’t learning to put my feet back on the water– the hardest part was getting into the wetsuit.

  • Driving a 1952 John Deere Tractor

    I was winterizing the jet ski when Dad came out of the garage.  “What happened to your trailer?” he asked, pointing to the wheel crank. The handle was bent.

    “I jackknifed two years ago when I backed it up for the first time,” I sheepishly explained.  “I left the back door up on the truck and I couldn’t see the end of the trailer when I was backing up.”

    He threw his head back and laughed. Because you see, I have a history of “accidents” with motorized toys.   I once broke off the handle in the back of the snowmobile while whipping Joe on a sled in the middle of the lake.  A couple of years ago, I backed the ATV out of the shed and forgot about the snow plow attached in front.  The plow caught the door frame and I pulled the entire front of the shed off the foundation.  Fortunately, Dad didn’t lecture me too much as we pounded the shed frame back into place.  Another time, I was pulling the pontoon out of the barn with the ATV and forgot to put it in four-wheel drive and I snapped off the hitch.

    “Let me go get some wrenches and I’ll fix the crank for you.”

    In two minutes, he had the handle straightened out and the crank working again.  He went back in the house as I continued to winterize the jet ski.  I ran the anti-freeze through, fogged the engine and shut it off.  I went in the garage to look for a socket wrench and after a few minutes, I found the size I needed to remove the battery cables.  I went back in for an adjustable wrench to remove the battery from the housing.  If there’s one thing you should know about my Dad, he has every tool imaginable.  However, finding what you need when you need it is a challenge:

    I went through every drawer, but I couldn’t find the adjustable wrench in the size that I needed.  So off I went into the house.  “Where’s the small, adjustable wrench?”  I asked.

    Without missing a beat, he said, “Second drawer.”

    It took a bit of digging, but sure enough, I found the wrench buried deep in the second drawer.  I finished up with the jet ski and drove it up to the barn to put it away.  The neighbors had put their boats away earlier and I slid the jet ski in the empty slot in the back.  I noticed that Dad’s tractor was sitting outside.  The neighbors had dragged it out of the barn but there was no way to put it back without starting it.

    “Hey Dad, the tractor is sitting outside,” I explained when I arrived back at the house.  “I think it’s time for you to teach me how to drive it.”  Dad raised one eyebrow, but he agreed to teach me the next day.

    Dad received this 1952 tractor as a gift from Tom Pursley, a local builder who built my parent’s house.  The tractor was one of the first two-cycle diesel engines with a gas pulling motor. The pulling motor stopped working, so the only way to get the tractor started was to tow it until it kicked into gear.  I hooked the strap up to the hitch and hopped into the truck.  “Put it in low,” Dad reminded me. “Tow me toward the road and when it kicks in, you can take the strap off.”

    I moved the truck forward and tightened the strap and then gave it some gas.  Nothing.  I tried again, and the wheels spun.  The tractor stayed in place.  I backed up a bit, gave it some more gas.  The strap tugged the truck back.

    Turns out, Dad left the brake engaged on the tractor.  Score one for me!  At least it wasn’t me messing up this time!  I pulled ahead and the tractor rolled forward.  We hit the road and the tractor started. But I celebrated too soon.  I had moved the truck to the side and put it in park and jumped out to release the strap just as Dad let the clutch out too fast.  The wheel ran over the strap.  The strap was too tight to remove.  Dad ended up putting the tractor in reverse to release the tension and I unhooked the strap.

    I parked the truck and hopped on to the tractor for my lesson.  It turned out to be pretty simple to run a tractor.  Put it in gear, release the clutch and off you go.  Pull the clutch along with the brakes and you can stop the thing.  I had fun driving it around with Dad hanging on. I think I’m ready to chop some corn down in a field.

    Well, kind of ready.  I let Dad put it back in the barn.

  • The Kronewitters– A Blast from the Past

    I drove to Huzzy lake last week with great anticipation.  I had connected with the Kronewitter family via Facebook and for the first time in about 25 years, I was going to see them again.  The family was celebrating Andy’s birthday and I brought along a super soaker pump as his gift.  Not only was it a tribute to the fourth of July boat parades of the past when we would go around and soak the other boaters, but it was also a gift for traumatizing him as a kid.

    In my teen years, I hung out with Andy’s sisters, Tammy and Tracy.  The three of us spent entire summers together on the water, sometimes skiing up to eight times a day.   In a previous post, The Older I Get, The More Adventure I Want, I wrote about them here:

    Then there were the ATV toys that the Kronewitters brought into the picture.  They had two ATVs and a Dune Buggy.  The very first day that we unloaded the brand-new ATV off the truck, the youngest Kronewitter rode it into a tree and bent the foot rest.  That didn’t stop us. Tammy, Tracy and I would pack a lunch and hit the roads around the lake.  We explored abandoned houses and got lost a couple of times.  We built a dirt ramp in a field and borrowed Tim Brown’s dirt bike to add to the mix.  At one point, I had to go to the bathroom, so I rode the dirt bike home and headed inside.  Mom stopped me at the door.  “Whose motorcycle is that and why are you riding it?”  She was not pleased.

    Fun was the operative word of my childhood.  Tammy, Tracy and I often came up with crazy ideas to pass the time.  We did an all-girl pyramid with me at the top.  We did three of us on two pairs of skis, with me riding in the back binder of each.  We tied ropes around black truck inner tubes which folded practically in half when pulled, but we hung on.  We boat jumped (don’t even ask).  We attempted to jump over each other with kneeboards–which ended right after I knocked Tammy in the head.  We settled for pulling up on the rope and jumping over the rope instead.  And one day, we had a competition with another boat on the lake, to see which boat could pull the most skiers.  We won, with eight.

    (Tracy and Tammy on bottom, me on top)

    One day, I drove up to the lake by myself for the week.  I invited a bunch of friends over that night and we sat around playing cards.  Suddenly, they all jumped.  “What’s going on?” I asked.

    “There’s a noise coming from the bedroom,” one of them explained.  They all jumped again and some of them started to scream.

    “Ok,” I said.  “Follow me into the bedroom and we’ll see what’s going on!”

    I grabbed a monkey wrench and Tammy grabbed a broom and we all crept into the bedroom.  I flipped on the light.

    Nothing.  We all relaxed a bit and then suddenly, the screaming began again.  The girls rushed back into the kitchen with me following behind.

    “It’s coming from outside!” one of them said.

    Another one screamed.  “It’s coming from that window!”

    “Ok, we’re going outside,” I said.  “Jenny, flip on the floodlights and let’s head out.  If we all go together, whatever it is, we can handle it together.”

    As soon as Jenny hit the lights, we saw them.  It was Andy and his friend, Billy.  We chased after them but they took off into the darkness.

    So what do six scared girls do?  They plan revenge.

    The next night, we removed a screen in Tammy’s house and crept inside the window.  We were armed with duct tape and ropes.  We tiptoed over to where Andy and Billy were sleeping and we pounced on them.  Duct tape went over their mouth and rope on their hands and feet.  We hauled them outside and tossed them into the rowboat and set them loose, minus the oars.  We sat on the bank and watched them wriggle loose as the sun came up.   As soon as they started paddling to shore, we took off.

    Later that day, we held a meeting and declared a truce.  They never messed with us gals again.

    So when I saw Andy again, I promised to reimburse him for any therapy that he needed as a result of that kidnapping.

    “I sure hope you weren’t traumatized by that,” I chuckled as we reminisced.

    “I’ve got some duct tape and rope around here to return the favor!” he said.

    Tammy and me

    Tammy and me on bottom, Tracy on top

  • The Honor of Attending a Water Birth

    I was sitting on the couch up in Michigan when the phone rang. It was 10:30 p.m.

    “It’s your friend,” said my Dad.  “She’s in labor and wants you to come now.”

    I grabbed my bag and jumped in the car.  It was a two hour drive to Mary Kate’s house, but I shaved off some time with a heavy foot and no traffic to deal with.  I didn’t want to miss the birth.  Mary Kate and I had met on a homebirth forum online and became friends.  We both had birthed our first two kids via cesarean and I had homebirthed my third kiddo.  Mary Kate asked me to be a doula for her home water birth and I was looking forward to supporting her during the birth.

    When I arrived, Mary Kate’s labor had slowed down.  “I’m going to head to the food store and get a few things,” I said.  I figured we might be in for a long night and I decided to make some dinners for after the birth.  I started a pot of soup and a roast.  Mary Kate’s surges would come and go and she did a beautiful job of breathing through them.  “Get as much sleep as you can,” I said.  I settled in on the couch for a few hours of sleep.

    Kyle, Mary Kate’s husband woke me up early in the morning.  Mary Kate’s parents arrived to pick up the boys and take them to their house.  Once the boys left, labor started to kick in.  Kyle started filling up the water birth tub so that Mary Kate could labor in it.   Before she stepped in, she was holding on to Kyle and she said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

    Instantly, my instincts kicked in and I knew that labor was progressing.  “Do you want to call the midwife now?” I asked.

    “No, not yet,” Mary Kate said.  “I don’t want her to come too early.”

    Mary Kate sank into the tub and Kyle and I took turns supporting her.  The labor picked up more intensely and I told Kyle that I thought it was time to call the midwife.  He went off to call her and I continued to support Mary Kate.  When Kyle returned, we switched places and I noticed that the baby had moved down.

    “Mary Kate, your baby is moving down,” I said.

    She was in denial.  It was hard for her to believe that after two cesareans, she was going to be able to birth her baby.  I looked at Kyle.  “Do you want to catch or do you want me to catch?”

    “I’ll catch,” he said.

    A few minutes later, the midwife walked in.  She assessed Mary Kate and said that she was ready to push.  I went to grab the camera and videocamera.

    Ten years ago on this day, Maeve slipped into the water and Mary Kate brought her up to snuggle on her chest.  It was a moment that I’ll always remember– the dawn of a new day and a new soul arriving in this world.  Happy Birthday, Maeve!

  • Barefooting, I Mean, Butt Riding

    I spent most of the July 4th weekend on my butt instead of my feet.  It was frustrating challenging.

    Andy, my nephew, brought his boat up Saturday so I decided to try some deep water starts behind his boat.  Andy had never pulled before so I knew I was gambling with inexperience, but I figured he would get the hang of it quickly.  During the first start, he went s.l.o.w.  I kept hanging on, thinking he would pick up the speed.  He kept it going, figuring he’d up the speed when I sat up.

    I finally let go.

    Round two was better, I sat up and moved over the wake and Andy picked up speed.  I had Judy Myer’s, Keith St. Onge’s and Joann O’Conner’s advice running through my head as I placed my feet on the water.

    Three point!

    Heels toward your butt!

    Feet on the water like you’re dropping an egg!

    This is how I spent the rest of the evening:

    On one start, it was the perfect storm.  I sat up and hit the stern roller just as Andy added more speed.  I popped up and lost the handle.  It snapped into my foot.  Can you say, “Ouch?”

    I took a break and pulled Andy water skiing back to shore and I decided that it was time to hit the kneeboard so that I could actually get some footin in:

    Being the stubborn gal I am, I decided to try the deep start a couple more times while the sun was setting.  Bad move.  As soon as I put my feet on the water and attempted to stand up, I felt my hamstring go “Pop!” and then:

    The next day, my old footin buddy, Marty and his sister Michele picked me up.  Marty purchased a new, 100-foot Barefoot International rope and I decided to take Joann’s advice to stay behind the boat and plant my feet there.  After another gazillion tries, I knew I had to embrace the kneeboard again if I was going to see any barefooting time.

    After that run, I gave Michele the kneeboard and said, “I gotta try one more time with the deep start to see if I can end this on a successful run.”

    Let’s just say that if there was a butt-riding contest– I’d win.

  • On Being Deaf

    On Being Deaf

    Someone asked me recently, “Do you wish you could hear?”

    I had to stop and ponder that one.

    If you asked me that question when I was nineteen, shortly after I became deaf from a fall while barefooting, I would have said, “Hell, yes.”  No pause.  No reflection there.  The answer would have been simple: give me full-fledged hearing and I will dance a jig until the end of time.

    I was born with hearing in the normal range.  I can remember my Dad telling me stories about a dog named Scamp.  My Dad worked double shifts, so I would crawl into bed when he arrived home and lie there while he told me stories.  I was about five or six when the warning signs began showing– I’d misunderstand a sentence or would ask him to repeat the words.  I grew up hard of hearing and had developed lipreading skills since I was young — I was firmly entrenched in the “hearing” world and knew no sign language.

    I was miserable being hard of hearing. The struggle to lipread and understand people in group conversations was next to impossible at times. So I found my solace in books and in my small circles of friends who knew me inside out. Those friends accepted me so well and knew what to do to make communication happen.

    The last shred of what I could hear without hearing aids was gone the moment I climbed into the boat after cartwheeling on the water.  I didn’t realize it that day– I just figured I had water in my ears and it would subside.  It wasn’t until the day that I left for college that I realized that “being deaf” was here to stay.   I spent my college nights lying there in the dark and…  crying.  Grief was a heavy cloak that wrapped around me in the darkness.  I cursed the piece of electronic equipment that I stuffed into my ear each day which did nothing more than bring environmental sounds to life and made lipreading a tad easier.  I had already spent most of my life lipreading, but I could at least hear the sounds around me and turn when spoken to without the hearing aid.  After that fall, there was nothing but silence without hearing aids.  A blessing at night, indeed, when the roar of tinnitus eventually stopped.  But it wasn’t a real blessing until I was deep into the journey.

    College life was filled with deaf and hard of hearing friends; some who had arrived into the Deaf Community like me– with no knowledge of American Sign Language.  I spent my days learning to lipread the interpreters and match their lip movements to their rapid hand movements.  I took several ASL classes and slowly incorporated the language into everyday life.  Before I knew it, life had become a happy journey down this new road. I met Joe–also deaf–who later became my husband. We spent twelve years traveling with a deaf volleyball team and playing in tournaments.

    And then one day, I realized that I no longer grieved. Instead, I celebrated.  There was much to enjoy from this new life path– an amazing language, a wonderful community and a blessed acceptance that a deaf life was indeed full and beautiful. And…three deaf and hard of hearing kids.

    So, you can see why today, I pause and ponder the answer to the question, “Do you wish you could hear?”

    The answer is a complicated one.  On one hand, yes.  I close my eyes and imagine being able to hear what others are saying when I hang out in groups.  I imagine the sweet bliss of being able to go anywhere, anytime and have access to the audio jungle out there.  But there is the sweet bliss of being content with how my life has unfolded on this journey; because you see, becoming deaf didn’t rob me of life, instead, it gave me a whole, new, beautiful life.

     

    Karen Putz is known as The Passion Mentor.  Want to learn how you can live a PASSIONATE life? Schedule your 30-minute Passion Consult here:

    Schedule Your Passion Session