Paddlefest is an annual event in Cincinnati. On the first Saturday in August, the filthy Ohio River is closed to commercial traffic from 6am to noon. Kayaks, canoes, and paddleboards take over the river.
This was my first year volunteering at Paddlefest. Starting at 7am, I stood on the bank in knee-deep water and launched boats onto the course.
After an hour, I turned to the tall, fit man to my left. (He launched a boat with each arm while I used two arms for each boat.) I hollered, “My glutes are going to feel this tomorrow!” He grabbed his butt and agreed.
For ninety minutes, my legs moved in a sideways lunge while my arms and shoulders grabbed boats and pulled. The next morning, I could hardly walk.
After a week, I called to make an appointment for a therapeutic massage. My left hip didn’t feel good. The health center couldn’t see me until mid-October, but a few days later, they called. There’d been a cancellation and I grabbed it.
Typically, I want to be quiet on a massage table, leave the therapist to their work. But for some reason, I felt like talking to Becky.
She asked what I did and I told her I was a writer. She said she wanted to write a book because she thought it would help people, but didn’t know how.
I told her I had written a handbook to help people know how to tell a good story, and that I’d send it to her. We were both quiet after that.
Her massage was excellent, but it was the next one that gave me chills.
Chewing the Cud of Good
Thankful for crisp autumn mornings.