We do not stop exercising because we grow old — we grow old because we stop exercising.
~Kenneth Cooper
I looked up at the steeply pitched knotty-pine ceiling and thought of the danger faced by the workers during its construction. The organist played “To God Be the Glory” as I checked out my nearest unfamiliar neighbors. Directly in front of me, an older lady with perfectly styled gray curls sat at rigid attention. She wore an impeccable baby-blue suit. An older gentleman, whom I surmised to be her husband, sat beside her. His head leaned forward slightly, and I thought he might be dozing.
The music stopped, and Pastor Scarlett rose to his position behind the lectern. Even in preacher attire, he looked as friendly as when he had knocked on our door earlier in the week and invited us to church. We had moved to Florida to be near my husband’s brother. Howard and his wife sat beside us on the slippery pew.
The hour-long service passed quickly, and soon we found ourselves in the foyer surrounded by friendly, inquisitive faces. The lady with the gray curls and blue suit was the first to greet us. Appearing to be in her sixties, she was slender like her husband and towered over my five feet, two inches.
“I see you’ve met Aunt Fanny,” Pastor Scarlett said. He extended a warm hand and seemed genuinely happy we had responded to his invitation. “She’s our go-to person whenever we need something done. And if you come to our church suppers, her lemon pound cake and homemade peach ice cream will make you wonder how she stays so trim.” He winked and moved on to greet others.
That first day in a new church, many in the congregation encouraged us to come back, and soon we became regulars. I spoke often with Aunt Fanny and found she really was always helping out in some way.
It wasn’t long before I discovered how Aunt Fanny kept herself in such good shape. She walked. Every day. And as chance would have it, she always passed by the front of our development. So after a few weeks of getting friendly, it was natural for me to mention how I would enjoy walking with her sometime. She was delighted to hear that, and we arranged to meet out front the next morning at 9:00.
That evening, I confided my big plans for the next day to my husband.
“You’re going walking with Aunt Fanny?” He had an astonished look on his face and a twinkle in his eye that soon metamorphosed into an all-knowing grin.
“What? You think I can’t keep up with a woman twice my age? I’m no slouch, you know. I walk sometimes, too.”
“I didn’t say a thing. Go. Have fun.”
Well, I’ll show him a thing or two, I thought. That night, I laid out my almost brand-new jogging suit and my very brand-new Nikes. I heard a niggling little voice of self-doubt about my questionable athletic ability, but I ignored it. After all, Aunt Fanny was in her late sixties — 69, I heard someone say — and she certainly was not Wonder Woman!
Later that evening, I measured our route in the car. It was one-quarter mile to the front and two-and-one-quarter miles to our destination — a card shop where Aunt Fanny wanted to buy a variety of greeting cards. That would make my round trip a total of five miles. I had never actually walked five miles, but it didn’t seem that far in the car.
The next morning, I stepped outside into an unusually warm November day. I was too proud of my jogging outfit to consider changing. I did a couple of stretches and took off at a slight jog toward the front of the development.
When I reached the main road, I could see Aunt Fanny coming around the bend on the sidewalk. As she neared me, I gave her a big smile and prepared to chat about my morning. She breezed right past me, not missing a beat. With the smile frozen on my face, I ran to catch up. I noticed her flowing cotton shirt and comfortable-looking slacks. An old Braves baseball cap shaded her face, and a water bottle bounced on her hip.
“Wow, you must be in a hurry,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
“Just my normal pace. Do you need me to slow down, honey?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine.” What could I say? She was twice my age.
For every step she took, I had to take one-and-a-half or two to keep up. Supposedly, Florida is a flat state. That is not true. Several creeks run through our town, and each one has a valley and then a hill. It seemed like all the creeks converged on our route. And going downhill is no easier than going uphill. I began to feel burning pain on the backs of my heels inside those new Nikes, but there was no way I was going to mention it. Aunt Fanny took her walking seriously, and luckily for me, she did not believe in much chitchat. Whenever she did ask me something, I tried to answer in as few syllables as possible to hide my breathless condition.
When we reached the card shop, I thought we would take a break and recoup. Aunt Fanny went through that store like a bat out of you-know-where.
“Have to keep moving. Keep our blood flowing for our walk to do the most good.” Those words were thrown back at me as she headed toward the checkout.
The cashier looked at me a little funny as I passed through. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. Aunt Fanny was already out the door and didn’t hear.
The walk back was no easier than the first half had been, plus my heels were really stinging now, but I would not give in to my pain. Inside my warm jogging suit, I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. I practiced some slow, deep breathing I had learned from yoga. Finally, I reached the entrance to my development with Aunt Fanny none the wiser. I waved goodbye as she continued walking another mile to her home.
I slowed down but did not stop because I knew if I did, I probably would not be able to get started again. The first order of business when I got home was to remove those brand-new Nikes and peel off my socks. Thin strips of skin hung from the backs of my heels. Some stuck to the socks, and the separation brought tears to my eyes.
Resting, I thought about what had happened and what a ninny I had been to think that age alone could slow down a person. Granted, Aunt Fanny may not have been a normal 69-year-old, but maybe she was. I would not be making those kinds of assumptions ever again, especially about a regular walker.
— Connie Biddle Morrison —