My aching back . . . .

Normally, I would think it was one more sign of seniordum, which I discussed in a posting last week. But my achin' back has actually dogged me for several years. Here's the scenario.

I went to the museum Saturday afternoon to do some research on the Heath family for the possible story in Sandpoint Magazine. The curator, Ann Ferguson, had already found an obituary for each of Chuck's parents. Marie was a Hope Elementary school teacher, educated at UCLA, and Charles was a Hollywood celebrity photographer, turned Hope-area bus driver.

I also skimmed through some other museum sources and found paydirt: a little-known, fascinating fact that has not appeared in this weeklong swirl of media Sarah Palinomania. I haven't decided what to do with the information (updated: which is NOT negative in any way), but am weighing options.

After some more research, I decided enough time spent at the museum; the gorgeous fall weather was calling me home. Always one to clean up after myself, I started putting items away. Ann insisted that she could do that. I insisted that I could.

Picking up two rather large-scale sources, I carried them to the room where they belong. Ann said things were out of order in the stack so to put them wherever they fit, and she would organize them later. I found a lower shelf with some room, slid them in and then stood up. A jolt of all-too-familiar sharp pain nearly paralyzed me in my tracks.

I read in this morning's paper that New England quarterback Tom Brady screamed after being injured in yesterday's game. Well, on Saturday I wanted to do the same. Never wanting to make a public scene, though, I restrained my reaction as much as possible but couldn't help but announce to Ann while holding my lower back that this was gonna last for several days.

The pain continued to pierce as we yakked our way through the research room. I recounted to Ann the first time this ever happened. It was 30 years ago---almost. Just months after Annie was born, probably mid-January. My yearbook staff had come out to the house to go on a Sunday afternoon cross country ski outing to Grouse Creek.

We took along our Russian tea and had a great time sliding down the snow-covered road about 12 miles northeast of Sandpoint. As the afternoon wore on, the snow began to fall at a pretty good rate. We drove back to our home on Great Northern Road, where drifting snow was always the rule rather than the exception. That meant pushing a few kids' cars from the spots where they had been parked all afternoon.

That was also the first really physical exertion I'd had since Annie's birth. I was out of shape but happy to play in the snow and push cars anyway. Big mistake.

The kids went home. Two days passed. On the following Tuesday night I was putting clean sheets on our bed. I bent over to tuck one in and then tried to stand up. For a few seconds, I remained stuck in neutral. Nothing would move. Finally, I eased my upper body to an upright position but not without the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt.

That first time back in early 1979, the sore back lasted a couple of weeks. Over the years, similar events have occurred, always when I least suspect them, and rarely when I'm lugging a 70-pound bale of hay from the pile and hoisting it to the back of a vehicle or dragging miles of hose across the yard.

Seems like there must be a necessary combination of movements for this little monster within my loin to rear its painful reminders.

Before leaving the museum Saturday afternoon, I predicted to Ann a few sore days ahead and headed out the door, walking carefully and trying to stand up straight. Reaching the car and hiding behind the driver's open door, I bent over and touched the pavement, trying to buy some relief.

On one occasion, a few year ago, this chronic back attack struck at Coolin near Priest Lake when Mother and I were there selling her art and my books at the community's annual Memorial Day craft sale. I had put down a box of books, only to rise up in the horror of another siege of discomfort. That day, a lady named Vicki, three or four booths away, talked me into buying one of her wraps, which, heated in the microwave and applied to the pain area, would bring relief.

I have used that wrap many times over, and Saturday afternoon it went into action as did the Advil. Yesterday morning was painful, but as the day went on and I continued to walk as much as possible, the discomfort subsided, even enough to go for a nice long ride on Lily. In fact, when I returned, it seemed that the motion from that saddle being carried down the road with Lily going at a brisk walk actually had a therapeutic effect.

During the times when the pain would hardly allow me to walk upright this weekend, I thought about my good health and how fortunate I am at my age to be able to ride horses, take bike rides, go on hikes, lug heavy bales of hay, to walk without assistance----and I do not take that for granted. As I get older, every day spent with the ability to move about how ever I wish is sacred.

These times also remind me that when the pain is gone not to waste the good times and the opportunities that our good health affords us. Today the pain is all but gone, so I'm going to enjoy the freedom my body is allowing me.

Nonetheless, next time I go to the museum I'll let Ann put away the sources. Heavy hay bales seem to be a safer bet.