Speed Walking

I wasn't paying any attention, just focusing on getting in and out of the store as quickly as I could. Given my distaste for shopping, I try my best to zip in and out as fast as I can. I guess it was the zipping part. I dart around people who are dawdling and gawking, moving at the pace of melting ice on a winter's day. I have no time for standing still.

I also had no idea I was moving so quickly until Kiel said something to Drew. "Mom's on a mission. Look out." What? I looked back over my shoulder to discover that the two of them were far behind me, not crawling along at a leisure pace, but certainly not keeping up with me. "Mom, why are you going so fast?" Am I? I had no idea. I'm just walking. I know sometimes I don't walk fast when I am feeling ill, but this seems a normal pace for me.

It wasn't until Drew ran to catch up with me as I kept trudging forward, making a beeline for the frozen food section, that I became aware of how fast I must be walking along. Mind you, I am not out of breath or pushing my feet off the floor in a run. Just walking along. But poor Drew - all 6 foot of him including his long, long legs - was practically running to keep up - and complaining.

"What are you in such a rush for? Not today. Please. I just got done playing a soccer game and I've been sitting outside watching another soccer game and I'm cold." He finally gave up, slowed to a reasonable pace for him, and slid out of sight in the cereal aisle. I shook my head. This is the second time Kiel has accused me of walking too fast. I must be getting some of my childhood vim back. I clearly remember running everywhere when I was a kid. I don't think 'walk' was part of my vocabulary.

I giggled as I remembered visiting my grandparents one summer when I was about twenty. They must have been in their seventies at least, ancient by my reckoning at the time, and retired. They owned a rental property and decided to go bust up a concrete foundation where a shed once stood. They rose at their usual 8am, took breakfast, then started out. I thought I would go along and help out. After all, a young college student was better fit for such work than an elderly and fragile grandparent! I felt sorry that they were having to take care of this difficult task all alone.

The day started off well enough. Grampa swung the sledge hammer and broke the slab into pieces, and Gram and I picked up the chunks, put them in a wheelbarrow, and carted them around front for the trash pick up. It was kind of fun at first. You got into a rhythm of stooping, scooping, tossing, taking delight in watching the barrow fill up. Right about the time your legs were complaining, the barrow was full and you got to hoist the handles and push the heavy load through the short grass, down a small hill to the driveway.

Then the sun came out from behind the clouds, and sweat began to pour. Stooping and scooping became more arduous. The heavy leather gloves stuck to your hands, twisted and pulled by the rough chunks. But Grampa just kept breaking it up, so I pushed myself to keep up. While I was wheeling the barrow out front, Gram 'commenced' to weeding the flower beds and raking and other assorted tasks. At ten I stopped for a long drink of water from the thermos we had brought. Gramp eyed me with impatience, then warned me to save some for later when it got hot. What was he thinking? I was roasting.

This was getting to be real work! I must have taken twenty loads out front at least. Less a game and more a chore, I plowed on, stooping down, bending over, hoisting the gray rocks into the wheelbarrow. Gramp seemed tireless. I glanced at my watch. It was 11:30. Surely we would stop for lunch soon. I thought hungrily of the sandwiches and apples in the cab of the red truck. About ten minutes before noon, I started watching Gramp for signs of lunchbreak. He seemed oblivious to my aching arms and legs, my stinging hands. He just kept swinging that hammer. The noon whistle blew, and I stood tall, assuming we would take a break. Imagine my chagrin when Gramp kept right on swinging!

Suddenly aware that I had stopped, he looked up with a question on his face. Gram gently said, "Lunch, Hub." "Lunch? Already? We aren't even half done! Keep going a bit more before we eat." I almost cried at the thought, but I was determined that no old man was going to get the better of me. My back and legs protested, and I got a crazy idea. Let Gramp bend and pick up those rocks. I'LL swing the hammer. After all, he rests a good bit between each blow.

When I suggested it, Gramp laughed right out loud. He offered me the wooden handle and said, "Be my guest." I picked up that hammer with a grin, lifted it high over my head, and with a mighty force, brought it down 'Whack' right on that concrete slab. Nothing. Not even a crack. Huh. I lifted the hammer again and brought it down even harder. Still nothing. I glanced at Gramp. He just stood there watching. Determined not to be outdone, I thought maybe if I aimed at the edge where it was already broken, I might have more success. I tried that. A tiny piece broke off. Gramp pointed to a spot and I hefted that thing again and brought it down. Whack! It felt like every bone in my arm vibrated from the force of the blow. My hands were tingling. This time a decent sized piece slid off. Gramp grinned and picked it up.

This was not as easy as it looked. After whacking that hammer for all I was worth for about half an hour, Gramp finally called lunch. I think he just felt sorry for me. I fell into the lawn chair while the two of them sat demurely on the edge of the stone wall as if they had just taken a leisurely stroll. Sandwiches did not interest me. I took a long draught from the water jug and let the weight of my body sink into the plastic ribs of the chair, staring into the blue sky and thankful for the shade of the tall tree overhead. It felt like two minutes had passed when Gramp cleared his throat and nodded for us to get back to work. I tried to get up, but every muscle in my body was tight and stiff.

Still, THEY weren't quitting. And neither would I. And so we dug in again. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. You would have sworn we were tearing up an entire city of concrete. The tiny little shed floor seemed monumental in size. After eons had passed, Gram and I finally hoisted the last few pieces into the wheelbarrow. I just didn't have it in me to push that heavy cart all the way to the road. I caught Gram's nod to Gramp, heard her whispered comment "She's just a little girl. You ought to be ashamed making her work so hard." I didn't know whether to kiss her or be mad. But I was too tired to do either. I just wanted to go home.

That, however, would have to wait. After we cleared away the last of the concrete, I sat in a dejected heap in the grass and watched the two of them rake and tidy and clear away every last vestige of that floor, then sweep off the patio and tend to a few other repairs on their list. Even after sitting there for nearly an hour waiting for them to finish, I could barely move. My hands were red and puffy, my legs covered with gray dust. At long long last we piled into Gramp's red truck and headed home. All I could think of was resting in the hammock, recovering from the brutal labor.

Gram and Gramp, on the other hand, went right back to their chores at home as if they had not just spent an entire day at hard labor. How embarrassing not to be able to keep up with old, retired people! Worse yet that they felt sorry for me! Yikes!

I wonder. Perhaps there is a magic time when energy and strength return, and you can easily outdo the young. Wouldn't that be a kicker? (And explain a lot about that concrete floor day!). For now, I'll simply have to humor Drew and slow down enough for him to keep up.