Still reeling from the death of Elke Vossen

More than a year later, I am still stunned by the death of YMCA fitness instructor Elke Vossen. This wild, red-haired German ball of energy entered into my life in early 2001, shortly after the birth of my second child, when my husband encouraged me to take early morning fitness classes. This strategy was going to help me fit exercise into the early part my day, so that I would have the rest of the day to get work done. I arrived at the club, bleary eyed, at 6 a.m., and the check-in person informed me that the class was on the sixth floor, near the basketball court. After trudging upstairs to 6th floor, I saw that my classroom was at the far corner of the basketball court. I set up my exercise bike and had no idea about how wild the ride was to be. With her husky German voice almost at a scream, I felt like I had entered the realm of a crazy person who was not going to ever end the class, and would never let me escape the room. How Elke differed from other spin instructors I'd had in the two years since I had started the sport was how totally she threw herself into the workout. She herself worked out with such total abandon that it was infectious for the rest of us admiring souls who wanted to be just like her. For nearly eight years I attended her Wednesday and Friday morning spin classes, as well as her yoga class after the Friday spin. I often would show up a few minutes after class started, and that unmistakeable "ho-ho-ho" or "use the body" would greet me at long distance through the microphone as I approached the classroom.

Over the years she grew from being just a fitness instructor to a role model. She traveled back to Germany twice per year, and all of her students would lament how much we missed her. We were happy -- almost relieved -- when she would return, rewarding our wait with sackfuls of German chocolate bars. She would distribute these during class, walking around and setting a small pile on the floor in front of each biker, like a sweaty Easter bunny.

I never met her socially outside of class, but a few memories stand out about things she said to me at the Y. Once she approached me while I was stretching after class in another area of the Y. She said, "You have such beautiful, strong legs." I was touched and flattered at this spontaneous compliment from someone I so admired. In 2008 I began to bring family members to the Y, so that they could also meet her. I sent my husband to work out in my place one morning, while I took care of the kids. I also brought in my son Tiernan, age 13, a few times. On one of those occasions Elke advised him to "kick your mom's butt!" (he took her advice). I had planned to bring my daughter Tacy, age 7, to meet her one evening after I picked her up from the Y child care downstairs, timing the meeting to occur before Elke's step class. Tacy attends a German immersion school, and for years I had been telling Elke about it. I thought she would be proud that my child was learning her native language. The day before this meeting was to occur, I attended Elke's early morning spin class, which began as usual, with loud exciting music and Ron, a regular in class, ribbing Elke that she ought to quit walking around and work as hard as the rest of us. I was on "my" bike in the front row. A few minutes into class, Elke was standing up and biking hard, when she sat down on the bike and I thought I heard her say, "My foot." The next thing I knew, she was lying on the floor next to her bike, and several people had rushed to her side to see how they could help. She lay motionless, unable to speak. An ambulance showed up and she was carted off on a stretcher. None of us had any idea at the time how serious her accident had been. A major stroke kept her in the hospital for a week, with doctors frantically working to save her. A Caringbridge website was set up to allow friends and family to follow her progress. The posts, maintained by friend and fellow fitness instructor Tammy Jacobson, said she was not improving. A week later, our beloved Elke, aged 53, was dead.

Its been over a year, and although other instructors have resumed Elke's classes, the Y is not the same place without her. Her force-of-nature personality brought so many diverse people together, working towards the common goal of peak fitness, that the loss was tremendous. I think being in the front row of class and witnessing Elke's final words and actions added to the impact on me. We still miss you, Elke. RIP.

Why do I take ballet class?

I've been taking ballet class at Zenon dance school for a few years now, and am wondering if anyone else feels like their purpose in the class it to make the other students look good. I have heard that ballet accesses the part of the brain that does math, and maybe that is why it is so frustrating for me to learn, and so rewarding on the occasions when I finally do "get it." It's not that the teacher is mean -- quite the contrary, Becky Stanchfield has got to be the sweetest teacher you could ask for. But maybe I have a block against becoming adept at this kinesthetic skill. Does part of my brain has a low opinion of becoming good at dancing (it was all those years as a tomboy)? Or maybe it is harder for me to learn because I started this form of dance as an adult. Ironically, I think it has helped my coordination in every day life, and I think it also keeps my brain flexible in every day life (those math skills again). After leaving dance class, I feel like other aspects of life are a breeze. It is flattering getting occasionally asked if I am a dancer. However, it is costly, often frustrating (I don't understand many basic steps and have trouble remembering combinations), and inconvenient getting to classes. I'm interested in hearing from other adult ballet students. Why do you take ballet, is it easy to pick up, and is it benefiting you in secondary ways?

Two deaths in two days

On Friday, I checked on poor Gus the Guinea pig and found him stiff, with his nose against the cage bars. Tacy sobbed when she found him; we gave him a memorial service later on that evening. Also on Friday, I made a visit to North Memorial Hospital, to visit my dying uncle Lyle. The family said he was expected to die any day, so I told him I love you and thank you for all the good memories, such as when he gave me away at my wedding. I admire my cousin, Paul, for maintaining a round-the-clock vigil at his bedside. That afternoon I took the kids out to Lyle after school. The girls just looked at Uncle Lyle, as I don't think they remembered him much, just as an old guy who smoked and had a hard time walking. However, Tiernan spent some time talking to him and holding his hand. Tiernan started crying at the bedside. After we left the hospital, I asked him what he thought, and he said that Lyle had been crying, moving his mouth and moving his hand up and down. I said that I thought Lyle's eyes had just been watering. Tiernan clearly felt like Lyle had been communicating with him through his tears and movements. I am proud of Tiernan for having the emotional sensitivity to pick up on that. Today my cousin, Gay, called me to let me know Lyle died at 4:00 p.m. RIP, Lyle. May you find peace in heaven.

Guinea Pig sickness

Today my 9-year-old daughter took her Guinea pig to school. He was quite popular at show-and-tell. Unfortunately, the little piggy is not acting well and we have to take him to vet tonight. Has anyone else with Guinea pigs had them suddenly quit eating, act lethargic and have weepy eyes. 'till text time...

Deadbeat employers

Last year I was hired to do some editing on a rush basis by a well-known editor, Biodun Iginla. He is a BBC correspondent, so I thought he would be responsible to a fellow editor. He wanted me to do the editing on a weekend, a time I normally reserve for family life. However, he was asking me to do this as a friend, so I buckled down and delivered the edited chapter, working frantically on a Sunday morning while my kids watched videos in the next room. It has been nearly 10 months now and he has not paid me for the five hours of work I did. In that time he has made multiple trips abroad, and even came over to our house for dinner, but has not paid up. I have tried phone calls, e-mail reminders, and even sending Paypal invoices. It amounts to just over $100. To add salt to the wound, the last time I met with Biodun, he asked me to buy him cigarettes and French fries. Does anyone have any advice on how to get someone who is posing as a friend to pay up?

Arguing about semantics with kids

Last night at the kids' bedtime I found myself in a screaming match with my nine-year-old, who was trying to enforce an instruction to my five-year-old to get into her bed. Without asking if I wanted her help, the nine-year-old pushed the five-year-old, causing her to bump her head. This caused the five-year-old to cry and me to accuse the nine-year-old of performing unasked-for enforcement. The nine-year-old responded by denying that she was enforcing. She thinks that she can call it by a different name she are not actually committing the crime! My 14-year-old was a master at this type of name-changing. Does anyone else out there struggle with their kids changing the term defining what they are doing in order to avoid being called on their behavior?

-- Hoarse parent in Minneapolis

Life In The 2010s

This is my first post, and I hope to post many more this year, and hope that at least some of them are interesting!