The strong woman

One of the things that sealed the deal for my wife when she met me was the fact that I have five sisters. I didn’t realize the importance of this until I happened to overhear her describing me as being “pre-trained.”

Her point was valid. Growing up among all those girls taught me to fear and respect the female species. Fear arose from the fact that several of them were older than me and could beat me at almost anything. Respect came from the fact that all my sisters could perform any task on our dairy farm with as much — if not more — skill and aplomb as I.

My sister Diann is closest to me in birth order, which might be why we launched several businesses together. By the time we had reached sixth grade, Di and I had started a poultry enterprise (with a baby chick our parents had gotten at the hatchery) and a pocket gopher trapping service, and we had raided our family garden in an effort to become sweet corn barons.

There was one common factor in each of these entrepreneurial endeavors: Di was always Management and I was always Labor. And Management unfailingly doled out profits based on the amount of mental strain each person endured while running the operation.

When I told my wife about this business arrangement, her response was, “That’s the way it should be.” She then informed me that I had caused her an awful lot of mental strain lately and that she needed the checkbook.

Di’s precocious industriousness was a sign of things to come. Not only had she always held down at least two jobs but had also remained athletically active. Di is one of those rare people who can still fit into the jeans she wore in high school. She certainly has me beat in that regard.

When Di turned 50 some years ago, she decided to compete in the National Senior Games. She did quite well in the 5K race in her first senior Olympic competition but injured her knee during the final sprint. Doctors later advised Di to give up her four-mile-per-day running habit.

Looking for another exercise outlet, Di turned her attention to weightlifting. She had always done a bit of weightlifting but now trained her full focus on this weighty activity.

We didn’t think anything of it, and Di didn’t look any different. We also didn’t think it at all strange when Di casually mentioned she was thinking about participating in some sort of weightlifting competition.

Di got our undivided attention, though, when she went to Denver and broke a national record for her weight class at the national bench press championship.

At 5’ 2” and 110 pounds, Di can bench press nearly twice her body weight. If I were to attempt a similar feat, I would have to bench press ... Holy cow. Forget that.

But Di wasn’t finished with astonishing us. She next informed the family that she would be competing at the world powerlifting championships, which were being held that year in Bratislava, Slovakia.

A local TV station ran a nice story about Di. As I watched her push up a big honking steel bar festooned with a set of big honking weights, I recalled how she and I used to stack bales together in the haymow. I’m glad we don’t do that anymore as she could probably throw the bales so hard that they would topple me like a domino.

At the competition in Slovakia — having heeded my sage advice about avoiding bad Czechs — Di won the silver medal. Whoa. This meant I could rightfully boast that I’m related to the world’s second-strongest open class 110-pound female bench presser.

Family and friends gathered at the airport to show our pride and give Di a hero’s welcome when she returned from Slovakia. She was wearing her silver medal, which was quite thick and heavy and strung with a long ribbon. I’m surprised the authorities allowed her to keep that medal with her during the flight. What if she became bored and started twirling it? The combination of Di’s strength and the medal’s mass could have easily punched a hole in the fuselage.

That all gave me a terrific idea for a new business venture for Di and me. We could travel across this great land of ours and, everywhere we go, I could proclaim I’m willing to wager that my sister can beat anyone’s 110-pound sister at bench pressing.

It will be my job to work the crowd and keep track of the bets. But, somehow, I think that Di would still be Management.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at jerry.n@dairystar.com.