Confession of an Olympics Junkie and Medalling in Oil Painting

The Olympics and Other Addictions

I'm fairly smug about the fact that I have few addictions. I have weaned myself of a number of things and people that were bad for me. Sadly, salty snacks is not one of the bad things I have overcome. Nor have I beaten my compulsive following of the Olympics. But the later I'm clearly not that sad nor repentent about. In plain fact, I rather "live" for the biannual rituals and some of you will regard this as pathetic and disturbing behavior. If you are one of those, stop reading now. For this is the tale of the first Mt. Muchmore Olympics.

Mine is not the story of athletic prowess (although I watched a fair share of curling on the treadmill at the athletic club)—no it is the fable of a late middle-aged woman caught up in the pomp, circumstance, and inspiration of stories that never grow old—the underdog, the underestimated, the Davids, Goliaths . . . stories of redemption, sacrifice, and real national pride. All things that I can relate to in my past life and anticipate in the future lives of my people and myself.

Oh, But for Grenoble

My Mom will tell attest to the fact that I finished my 1968 4-H County Fair knitting project during the Grenoble games. The only way I was allowed marathon access was to be at work on something productive. And so I knit the intricate Norwegian cap in order to watch every mind numbing school figure that Peggy Fleming needed to win the figure skating gold medal. That's the first Olympics I really remember. I watched with equal fervor while Jean Claude Killy won a gold medal in the downhill slalom. Hey, I was 16 and he was, well — French. From that point on, I have been hooked. I look ahead and usually have the dates on my calendar for 6 months before the next opening ceremony. I socially drop off the face of the earth and defy the most daunting of deadlines in order to see every minute I can. The only reason I took a gig in Madison on Vancouver's opening weekend was because Time Warner let's me record programs a week ahead.

Not even I understand my behavior during the Olympics. I watch things you couldn't pay me to endure ordinarily. Case in point: curling, cross-country skiing, and the cross-country thing with a rifle. But somehow I get excited by the poetic musings of Bob Costas and the human interest stories (which nauseate my mother) of ski boarders with brain injuries and kids that were 90 lbs. childhood weaklings (with dyslexia) who rose to be their country's athletic representatives. The closest thing I have to compare to what these kids experience was my trip to National 4-H Club Congress when I was 18. I was one of a small number representing Wisconsin in a sea of kids from states that, at that time, seemed far enough away to be foreign countries. I was young and inexperienced enough to be caught up in the fact that the southern kids ate grits! It was wildly romantic and worldly and seemed very monumental—at the time. On some level, I think it is times like those that I remember every time the Olympics take place.

A Side Order of Inspiration, Please

The Olympics aren't quite as awe-inspiring as they were when I was a kid. I really detested the accomodation of professional athletes in basketball and hockey a number of years back. But that makes the 1980 hockey win all the more spectacular. It is something that will never happen again — a miracle and myth all rolled into one. I didn't watch as much of the overall coverage this time as I have in previous game. Eastern time had competitions running until midnight and I just couldn't do that night after "school night." But by the middle of week 2, something magical happened. I felt that old surge of Olympic can-do and between performances of the ice dancing pairs I picked up a paint brush and confidently, dare I say, boldly finished the last third of the oil painting I started last summer. Yes, I finally conquered the painting, paints, and brushes I've looked at night after night for five months.

So what? You ask. This was a big deal for several reasons. One, you will recall that I had a major life change last fall which had sucked all the creative energy out of me. Two, and more importantly, this is the first oil painting I've finished in probably 30 years. I began a portrait of the boys 15 years ago and then switched to 4"x5" or 8"x10" watercolors which is what I've been doing ever since. Like the Olympians who were measured for their metal, I persevered through a 30 year dry spell and, like, the 1500 meter skaters who dig down in that last lap when muscles burn—I went a distance I thought insurmountable—a 3'x3' canvas. The colors are a bit washed out in the photos here, but it actuality is a vibrant and energetic piece. It is the view to the north from the Paul Masson vineyard near San Jose. I painted it from a photo I took the night my sister, Laura, and I went to see Blues Traveler last summer.

Forever Young

The US/Canada hockey game was the Olympic swan song for me this time. It wasn't as much about the big Olympic rivalry as it was about hockey. And, it conjured fond memories of our Badger season tickets when the boys were still playing—all the games I watched Philip and Thomas scurry across the ice—and, that amazing experience of 10-year-old Philip competing in the General Mills hockey shoot out. I screamed Sunday when the US team slammed that goal in the last seconds of the 3rd period. Just like a gold medal mom, I remember screaming when Philip took the lead in the shoot out back in '97. In the end, he was a "silver" medalist--but, like I do when I watch all those young Olympic competitors, I marveled at the incredible focus on the ice of my 10-year-old and his poise in front of the network affiliate cameras after. Maybe what I remember every Olympics is that rush of emotions and optimism that comes with being young. No matter how many years have passed, each time a skater steps on the ice, a gymnast crawls on the balance beam, or a skier dives down the slope, I relive all the excitement—the thrill, hope and promise.

So, I'll be silent for another two years until the summer Olympics come to London in 2012. No, I'm not in withdrawal. I'm good through next weekend when my second favorite competitive event airs--the Academy Awards. Who can say after that...

For now, that's all from Mt. Muchmore where the deer jump to Olympic heights and giant slalom shoveling is our most noted winter event.