Wall sits

Discipline and doctrine in my Dad

Photo of my family, circa 1980 courtesy of Raven Hawk Press (front row, L-R; Wendy, Amy, Will (Glen Jr.); back row, Glen, me, Cheri (and James in utero).

Truth

My dad did ninety-degree wall sits in public.

For the uninitiated, a wall sit is a mildly masochistic form of core, hips, glutes and thigh exercise. One sits against a wall unsupported by a chair or stool. It involves placing your erect spine against a wall, positioning feet - flat to the ground - and engaging your torso and leg muscles to keep your body upright.

It is easier if you keep your stance at an angle less than ninety degrees, using much more of your hamstrings and quadriceps to support your stance. A purist, seeking the full benefit of the effort, hits a ninety.

Known as the Samson’s Chair, or static wall sit, the Guiness Book of World Records notes the longest at 11 hours, 51 minutes. The female doctor conducted her record setting in a fitness gym in San Francisco, CA, USA. My dad held his sessions at family gatherings, church pot lucks, and wherever he felt the need.

Glen (dad), also jogged to his parents home, roughly two miles away from our double wide trailer, and lifted free weights. He’d converted part of their basement into an exercise area where he bench pressed, curled, military pressed, squatted, and did incline sit-ups. Then he jogged back to our trailer, and prepped for his shift at the coal mines.

Mix

Part of his prep was finding as many ways to incorporate protein into his daily diet. He packed his work lunch in a fluorescent yellow ammo can that smelled like anthracite; multiple sandwiches, a jar of pickled jalapeños (used as a pre-lunch coal dust pallet cleanse), chips, figs or dates, and two cans of sardines or anchovies.

He’d mix a vanilla shaklee protein shake, complete with two raw eggs, a tablespoon of bee pollen or raw honey; downing the liquid before he gobbled up a couple of servings of oatmeal.

Glen would then don his jeans, t-shirt, hiking boots, and a reflective rain jacket. Often we would pray together before he left, always this followed personal study of the King James Bible, Book of Mormon, and an article from a fitness book/magazine.

I’d watch from our front window as he saddled his electric blue Schwinn 10-speed and rode to the mine’s bus stop, approximately 6 miles away in Carbondale. Our one vehicle was reserved for mom’s errands, hauling four kids, or her visits to sisters in Glenwood Springs.

Discipline

Glen was fastidious about his mental, physical, and spiritual well being. One of his friends, Steve A. was our congregational leader to about twenty faithful Mormons scattered throughout the Aspen & Roaring Fork Valleys. They would often go running or hiking together, chatting about doctrinal issues and ways they could improve their roles as fathers and husbands.

Doug P., a fellow coal miner, served as my dad’s lifting partner. When Glen moved his weights into the tin shed adjacent our trailer, Doug would often join in the lifting. Dad set a goal to bench press three hundred (300) pounds. For a man of 5’7”, weighing one hundred sixty five pounds (165), this was a massive target. I was there, standing just outside the double doors of that little tin shed, when Dad took the bench, Doug standing behind him spotting, and grunted that loaded barbell to its position above his chest, arms locked, re-racking the bar, sitting up and screaming in triumph.

Part of his daily lunch pack in that battered coal stained ammo can, was a novel. Many times he would read the book to and from the mine, using his green miner’s helmet lamp, to provide the proper lume. He read on the bus, and on the man-trip, a sort of crude roller coaster that carried the men into the face mining at Redstone Coal & Coke where he was employed.

If Glen deemed the novel appropriate in content, he would passed the coal-stained tome to me, holding the expectation that I read it. And, report back about my discoveries. At an early age, I was exposed to the writings of Frank Herbert, James Michener, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Louis L’Amour and Ray Bradbury. The books stunk, holding tell tale signs of Dad’s adventures as a coal miner; jalapeño patina, smeared fingerprints, small tears in pages, bent corner markers - all signs that he’d held that book with his powerful hands.

His personal scriptures were rife with his notes in red or blue pencil, underlines, question marks, and cross references to pages in other religious books. Glen even wrote his own personal testimony on blank pages in-between the Old and New Testament he kept on his night stand. Before his death, he’d engaged me in a Book of Mormon reading contest. Six months to read as much as we could, winner gets a hamburger and shake at the local Charcoal Burger in Glenwood Springs - somewhere I didn’t visit until summer of 2019 with my wife and children.

Side note: Dad broke with Mormon tradition and took a deep dive into the Apocrypha. This deeply upset his mother, Martha, since by all accounts reading a book left out of the King James was in direct opposition to the Christian books approved by leadership. Still, he read it, and wondered why it was abandoned.

Dreams

Dad didn’t want to mine coal. It was dangerous. We’d lost an uncle, Glen’s brother in law, to a subterranean flood. That crew mined into an underground lake that washed into the face mining and swept my uncle away. Dad would tell stories of men being buried in coal dust after the mountain bounced (sudden and violent releases of kinetic energy inside a mountain that cause pillar failures). The coal dust is like powdered sugar and quickly filled the mouth and nostrils of the men, making a rescue unlikely. Other stories featured men, under fatigue, who would accidentally bolt their hands to timbers, encounters with gas pockets, equipment failures, and pranks the miners would play on one another.

What dad wanted to do was art. A prolific pencil/graphite artist, he took correspondence courses aligned to an eventual associates degree in graphic design. Over a bowl of oatmeal one morning, doused with a helping of protein powder, he shared with me that he wanted to take the family to Oregon. He was exploring enlistment in the United States Coast Guard, capturing a GI Bill, leveraging it towards more schooling, possibly a home for our family - a life, by design, that he wanted to create for us. Absent the grueling coal mine, he gave himself one more year to save up enough to make the move and start our new life.

He’d read somewhere that geothermal energy and underground homes were the way of the future. Glen introduced me to the idea of building a geodesic home and green houses, fully self-sustainable, in the woods, where we could live and he could draw all day and make a living. His face glowed like hammered copper as he shared his dreams with me.

I knew, even at twelve years old, that he harbored guilt - white knuckling it - over some past decisions. Pursuing football over grades while in high school, getting my mom pregnant, maybe even having me as a reminder-son, living in a trailer park, knee surgeries from snowmobile accidents…and so on.

To me our trailer was our home and he was my hero, my friend. Dad understood me, for the most part. Often, his Irish temper would erupt into holes in doors, red marks on my butt and shoulder, or a deep scolding that emptied my guts. Still, I wanted so desperately to be just like him.

Wall sits

So it was, at a church party or potluck, I watched him take a heaping plate of home made food, sidle up to the glossy cinder block wall, and post a ninety degree static position, and begin eating.

His lap held his plate as he forked the enchiladas and lasagna into his mouth, staring ahead while others took seats at folding tables in neat rows. I heard the whispers of people around me, wondering what Glen was in to now, or why he chose to do this in public. Mom even gave him an alley cat glance, in complete disapproval of his public display.

Dad kept eating, holding that ninety, until he was finished. Standing, he walked to the trash, dumped an empty plate, went back to the line and collected some desserts and resumed his position.

He didn’t care what others thought. Ignoring his wife as he took mouthfuls of pie and ice cream, a slight grin crept onto his face - he loved ice cream. Once my plate was clean, as is required, I went for some German chocolate cake and a scoop of Meadow Gold vanilla. Bowl and spoon in hand, I joined my Dad on the wall…for about thirty seconds.

Standing next to him, in reverent awe, I felt him pat my back and gently he stood, guiding me to the table where the rest of our clan was seated. An easy out.

Years later, as I took coaching responsibilities in wrestling, football and the like; I never had my athletes do wall sits. Not even for discipline or mistakes. Try one, you’ll see what I mean. I don’t live in an underground home, I have seen a geodesic green house, I joined the Army, I’ve never been an underground miner.

I do dream of putting down my tool belt. I dream of picking up a pen to publish a great American novel while living in a cabin, next to a wood fired stove, nestled in a creekside cabin in the mountains of Colorado.

Maybe I should start doing wall sits.