Everyone’s Faster in Canada

Posted by BecomingBetty

I could hardly wait to get to the track last night. My husband bought me an early birthday gift – a “real” (purple) running watch. I spent a few minutes selecting the functions that I wanted to display on the watch face, then I put on my bright coral and red shoes, a wild orange shirt and my black headband emblazoned in bright yellow with “Suck it Up Buttercup.” I was ready to tear up the pavement.

My husband was heading that direction anyway, so he dropped me off at the high school track a half mile from my house. I carefully propped my neon blue water bottle where I could get to it, then I adjusted my teal and black headphones, started my music, and adjusted my hot pink phone band (yes, I was a very colorful sight).

I did my warm-up lap around the track, and then I pushed the RUN button on my new toy. As I began my first “fast” interval, I was amazed – my colorful watch and new shoes had enabled me to shave a lot of time off of my previous record. I was puzzled. Was the Nike app that inaccurate? Was MapMyRun telling me I was a turtle when I am really a (very fluffy) cheetah?

The laps and miles flew by. I got faster and faster. Woo Hoo! I’m flying, I’m flyyyyying. My hour ended and I ran home, feeling victorious. I downed a big glass of water and plugged my watch into the computer cradle, ready to review the full set of stats for my miraculous run.

I synced the watch with the app and pulled up the session, only to see that I had run it at my typical pace, after all. It only felt fast. I scratched my head – why did it tell me that I could run like the wind while I was on the track, only to tell me that I’m still only slightly faster than a turtle wading through peanut butter at home.

I looked at my shiny toy again, and realized that my results were displayed in metric. Maybe I should move to Canada. I like the way my stats read in metric. I’m “faster” in metric. My weight is a smaller number in metric. Oh – and there’s that free healthcare thing.

I’d miss my dog, though. He’d be faster in Canada too, though, eh?

That Kind of Friend

Posted by BecomingBetty

I consider myself extremely fortunate. I have a large body of friends, some of whom I see in real life only a handful of times in a year, some I see twice in a decade, and some of whom I have met only in online forums. Friends from all of these categories have cheered me on as I discovered running, shed some pounds, and approached life with a renewed joy. Others aren’t part of my online universe at all.

Recently I had a meeting with one such friend. The last time I saw him, 4-5 months ago, he said, “there’s something different about you…oh, you cut off your long hair. I like it short. It looks good!” I didn’t tell him that it went beyond that – that I had shed 50+ pounds and trained for a half marathon. I simply thanked him for the compliment and we continued our meeting.

Several weeks ago business took me back to his office. This time he said, “there’s STILL something different about you. What did you do?” When I told him that I had lost nearly 100 pounds, he asked how I did it. We commiserated about growing older and expanding waistlines, elevated blood pressure and climbing blood sugar levels. The next week when I returned, his wife dropped by to see my changes for myself and to give me a huge hug.

Yesterday I saw a friend who had been missing from my real life world for five years. I was delighted that I could keep up with this young, fit woman. We climbed stairs at a museum and strolled the halls as we chatted as if we’d seen each other only the day before. At one point in the day, I mentioned how wonderful it was to be able to climb stairs without pain and without being out of breath. I mentioned that when we last saw each other, my weight had climbed to nearly 350 pounds. She said she had no idea. To her, I was just “Betty.” I was just her friend.

I’m extremely grateful for the encouragement that I receive from my online community. Some days, a comment or a like can make the difference between giving myself an excuse to have an extra snack or skipping a workout or holding myself accountable. Those friendly interactions are extremely valuable to me. Some people discovered me because I have made changes. Those people are valuable. Some people follow me because they want to make changes themselves, and I value that opportunity.

However, I know that I have a special person in my life when I can pick up after 5 years and have an afternoon where conversation flows freely. In those rare friendships, differences in age, differences in size, differences in experience don’t change the core of the bond. I was always just “Betty.” I remain just “Betty.”

I can’t imagine ever being 300+ pounds again and struggling with life the way that I did. It’s a beautiful gift to know that I had and still have so many people in my life who saw beyond the “insulation” and valued me for who I have always been inside. That kind of friend cared about me before I learned to love myself. I hope that you all have that kind of friend. I strive to be that kind of friend, as well.

Love,

Growing Up Gilliom – Memories of an Idyllic Childhood

Posted by BecomingBetty

This blog post was begun in 2011 or 2012 and sat, unfinished, on my PC for years. I would come back to it from time to time to try to finish it, but it just wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, I posted it in its original form on my Facebook page last week. My cousins told me, “keep writing,” so I did.

I’ve always said that I wanted to write a book. Between my adventures with my cousins and my many childhood neighbors, I truly have enough memories to fill a volume. I’m not sure they would interest anyone who wasn’t involved, but they would truly be a joy to write.

*******************************************

Growing up Gilliom

Once upon a time, a lawyer sat on the living couch, still in her pajamas at a time when all respectable people are hard at work, sipping her 4th cup of coffee. Avoiding the land of “grown-up people,” she posted on Facebook, “I feel like writing a story.” It seemed like a good idea at the time.

She’d had in mind a short narrative of a wooden box that held nothing but dreams, and the magical places that the box took its owner – but fate had another idea. From a thousand miles away, an online voice invoked memories of real magic – and a childhood that few children in today’s busy world will ever enjoy.

A few lines of memories slipped out onto the internet, and an instruction to “write that story, cousin,” turned the task on its head.

The cold, gloomy morning slipped away, and the writer was transported to the countryside outside of the little town of Ontario, Ohio – near Mansfield – where sunshine lit up a hot Saturday afternoon in late June somewhere in the early 1970s.

My mother was one of seven children. Roy and Esther Gilliom were blessed, during the Great Depression with six daughters…followed at long last by a son. My mother was the third daughter, and the only one to have moved more than two miles away from the homestead.

It was always a happy thing on an early Saturday morning to hear, “We’re going to Grandma’s.” We would start the hour-long journey in the family station wagon, anxiously anticipating the adventures ahead. From the back seat, my brother and I would identify landmarks, such as the “hot pants station,” (a gas-station where the attendant in hot pants sold us ice cream sandwiches), or the narrow bridge/tunnel where the car horn would echo when Dad tooted it when we begged.

Summer or Winter, we would sing, “over the river and through the woods,” because, you see, to get to Grandmother’s house, we would cross over rivers and through woods in our trusty car, which, if it had only been a Pinto, would have been a perfect fit to the lyrics.

When we reached our destination, we were in little kid “heaven.” Grandma and Aunt Betty lived in the first house. Next door were Uncle John and Aunt Miriam and four cousins. In the third house were Aunt Helen and Uncle Jim and their three daughters. Not far away were more Aunts and Uncles, and more cousins… and we would often all end up together.

After running in to give Grandma a quick hug and kiss, we would be set free to run and play. There were dogs and cats to play with. For a while, there was even a horse. We would play with Laddie or Dutchess, Reb or Tobie. Behind the three houses ran a creek with a stone bottom where we would find crawfish, and build dams of stones that would wash away after an hour or two. When our feet were blue from the cold, clear water, we would run to the top of the hill, where we would get a drink from the hose attached to the artesian well that ran day and night – and sometimes hose down an unsuspecting cousin or two with icy water.

If we were really lucky, we would all get to cross the creek and walk back the lane surrounded by woods and wildflowers. Not far down the way, the trees would subside into a giant clearing where we had a whole lake to ourselves. Mom and the Aunts would take a picnic lunch to the pavilion by the water’s edge.

Piles of black innertubes from car, truck and tractor tires sat waiting for us to float the day away. My favorite had a bulge where the rubber had grown thin. One could never rest too comfortably, though, as a cousin or three was always waiting for the right moment to swim up under a tube and flip the unsuspecting occupant into the cool water.

We would swim to the little bridge that crossed over to the island (but I dared not go to the island – because my cousins had convinced me that it was full of snakes!) Cattails grew by the water, and we would pluck them and tear apart the fuzzy heads. Dandelions grew by the thousands, and we would dig the leaves so the adults could have their salads with hot bacon dressing.

From the beach, off to the left you could see the steep stairs going up the hillside. Above them, a thick rope, anchored high in the trees tempted young and not so young alike to yell like Tarzan and plunge into the center of the lake. On the opposite shore sat the diving bell (or as I called it, the submarine) that my cousins built to explore the depths of the lake. My cousins could build anything. I sat in awe of John, Rob and Rick.

When we had burned off our energy running, swimming and climbing, lunch would be waiting in the picnic shelter. There was no shortage of food. All of the Gilliom ladies were (and are) excellent cooks.

Between the houses and the lake was the creek lined with rocks of all sizes. My cousins taught me to skip flat stones across the surface of the creek. My record was 12 bounces. I’m looking forward to teaching that trick to my grandchildren, but they’ll have to settle for Lake Erie on a calm day.

On rainy days, we might change locations to Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Jim’s barn, where we would build tunnels out of hay bales and try to catch the half-wild barn cats. Only the bravest of the brave would attempt the feat of crossing from one side of the barn to the other by climbing on the metal rafters twenty feet or so above the barn floor.

We had the luxury of a large family. My cousins were my first friends. We didn’t have technology. There were no text messages or snap chats to distract us from our games of statue tag or hide and seek. Our imaginations were well-exercised.

Nick, Carolyn, Rick, Ted, Andrew, Joe, Shawna, Dawna, Melody, Jim, John, Bill, John, Rob, Kristi and Lori, I love you. Collectively we have travelled the world, raised beautiful families of our own, and had experiences we could never have dreamed of while we were eating slices of watermelon that had chilled in the springhouse forty-odd years ago.

How blessed we were. How blessed I am, now, to spend a rainy Saturday morning recalling those times.

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Author’s Note: Dad, too, was one of seven. The Fulk cousins and I had other wonderful times. That part of my family, too, is cherished. The memories are no less fond – but deserve their own post.

The Maple Egg

Posted by BecomingBetty

Before I can tell the story of the maple egg, I must give you some background. For many years, my mom made hand-dipped chocolates at Easter and Christmas. For weeks before either holiday, our kitchen would be filled with boiling pots of fondant and warm pots of melted chocolate. The house smelled like the oil of peppermint, cocoa powder, or vanilla extract she was using to flavor the current batch. One flavor, however, provided a particular, cloyingly sweet aroma that filled the house for days. Maple. Maple overpowered anything that came before it.

For Easter, Mom would carefully mold bunnies and crosses, and she would dip egg-shaped wads of flavored fondant in milk chocolate and decorate them with royal icing flowers. These would be sold to Dad’s co-workers and others who had placed orders. She did a booming business.

My favorites were the chocolate covered cherries. You simply can’t find cherries like the ones that Mom used to make. Hers would explode with sweet liquid as soon as you took a bite. She didn’t make those at Easter. It was dipped eggs or molded chocolate.

I loved the buttercream eggs, and the chocolate cream eggs. The peppermint was good, too, but the buttercream was my favorite.

Having explained this, I still can’t understand what I did on Saturday. A dear lady I helped recently sent me a lovely thank you note with a $30.00 gift certificate to a local candy store where they still hand-craft chocolates just like my mom did. The weather was beautiful on Saturday. I put on my running shoes (and my bunny ears) and ran the mile or so to the candy store to spend my loot.

As I approached the store, the Easter Bunny himself asked to take his picture with me. I was happy to oblige, and then I walked into the crowded shop. There, before me, were shelf upon shelf of molded chocolates that looked like they came from the same molds that Mom used to make. Alongside them were the creamy eggs dipped in chocolate, decorated with the same dainty lavender royal icing flowers that Mom used to make. I was in heaven.

The flavors, though, weren’t familiar. I found coconut and raspberry, but no buttercream or chocolate cream. Then, I saw it. The MAPLE egg. As I approached it, the sticky-sweet scent reached my brain. I filled my arms with other treats to eat and share, but I HAD to have an egg with the royal icing flower. I went back and forth between the flavors, and almost bought raspberry… but then the wave of maple hit my brain again, and I knew I had to have the maple egg.

I finished my run and put my purchases on the dresser. My husband lovingly saved me from most of the molded raspberry bunnies and the small raspberry and coconut eggs that I bought. I savored the little dark-chocolate covered marshmallow-caramel candies. Everything was delicious. The maple egg made it through Easter without being touched. The smell filled the bedroom. Monday, I thought I smelled the maple scent clinging to my clothes. When I finally arrived home from work around 8 p.m., I knew I HAD to try that maple egg. My mouth was watering.

I carried the fragrant package downstairs and got a cutting board out of the cupboard. Gently, I cut a thin slice. The fragrance filled the air. I took a small bite. The texture was wonderful. Then, as the flavor hit my taste buds, I remembered that I never cared for the maple eggs. I LOVE real maple syrup. I could drink it straight (if it wasn’t so bad for me), but I don’t like the artificial maple “flavor” that is used in confections.

Don’t get me wrong, this was a great maple egg – even better than Mom’s (don’t tell Mom I said that)… but it was still a maple egg. I went back throughout the evening for another slice, and another, thinking all the while, “I don’t even like maple eggs.” My husband had a slice too. He agreed that “it was a great maple egg, for a maple egg…”

This morning when I awoke and went to make my pot of coffee, about half the egg was still there, taunting me with it’s sticky-sweet aroma. I sat down at the computer to check my email, and the remaining chocolate-covered caramel marshmallow mini-eggs stared at me (much more to my liking than the maple egg, but still not my favorite confection from the candy store). My belly felt lousy. “No more sweets,” it begged.

I went off to work. I called my husband part way through the day and asked him to either take the remains of the egg to his study or to throw it out. He thought about it for a moment and said that he thought he would throw it out because if he was going to “spend” that many calories on something, he preferred to really enjoy it.

I asked him to stick the rest of the chocolate-covered caramel marshmallow mini-eggs in the freezer for me so they wouldn’t tempt me tonight. “Why?,” he asked. “So I can have one if I really want one sometime,” I replied. He responded, “If you really want chocolate sometime, put on your running shoes and go get your very favorite.” My husband is a very smart man.

I learned several valuable lessons from the maple egg:

1) Don’t spend your energy on things you really don’t want. When you indulge, make it worthwhile.

2) Childhood memories are powerful motivators. We will willingly endure even things we don’t enjoy to re-experience fond moments from our past.

I’m not sad that I bought the maple egg. It brought back some very precious memories. I haven’t thought about Mom’s Easter chocolates in a long time. Next time, though, I will go to the candy store to smell the maple, and I’ll bring home just a piece or two of my very favorite.

The Destructive Power of Anger

Posted by BecomingBetty

I try very hard not to hold a grudge. I know how much energy it wastes. Worse yet, while I’m wasting energy and feeling miserable, the person on the other end of the grudge is blissfully unaware of it. Someone dear to me once told me, “don’t let someone take up space in your head without paying the rent.” I’ve remembered that and try to live by it.

Last year, someone who I had to deal with on a regular basis did some things that made me angry, then they said some things that hurt my feelings. The result wasn’t pretty. To his great credit, he has extended an olive branch and tried to mend fences on several occasions. Although I said the words, “I accept your apology,” the truth is that I never really let go of the incident.

I went to the gym this morning to run a couple of miles on the indoor track. I set my app to remind me to run for two minutes then walk for 60 seconds. My favorite playlist was playing, I felt “fast” (for me), and I was having a great run. The first half of the 2 mile run was great. I thought about what I would do when I finished my workout. I thought about the fun I had over the weekend. I could feel the grin on my face. People were smiling and waving.

Then, at 1.27 miles in (I happened to look at my running app), last year’s “incident” popped into my head. As soon as I thought about that person and what had happened, I got frustrated. I mentally told myself, “you must forgive him.” I tried to just say the words, “I forgive,” and I couldn’t do it. I felt I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I somehow NEEDED to continue to be angry with this person. I felt my mood continue to darken, and realized that I had begun to scowl instead of smiling.

I continued to argue mentally with myself for a few more minutes, and grudgingly thought, “I forgive you.” I continued to run/walk and soon I began to think of possible ways to not mend fences with this person (fences keep people out), but instead to build bridges. I felt the bounce return to my step and the smile come back to my face.

I finished my run, got back home, and I got curious. I pulled up the chart of today’s run and scrolled the bar to 1.27 miles. While I was filled with anger, I was slower. You can see it clearly. I went from “green” peaks to only “yellow” peaks as soon as I began harboring resentment. Stewing on old hurts slowed me down. I was 37 second slower on mile 2 than on mile 1.

I couldn’t ask for a clearer demonstration of the power that negativity / anger has over me. It kills our joy, saps our strength and robs us what we are working to achieve.

Thankfully, I feel much better. It’s my turn to extend the olive branch. I will never again underestimate the destructive power of internalized anger.

A Subtle Sunrise

Posted by BecomingBetty

Easters were special growing up. We colored dozens of eggs. Mom made homemade candies and molded bunnies. I wore a new dress every year. Some years Mom made the dress for me. The white shoes came out of storage (forget Memorial Day!) and we posed for pictures in the back yard in our finest.

My Aunt would buy bags and bags of the left-over Easter candy and a week or so after Easter, we would have a big candy hunt with all of the cousins. Life was simple.

We didn’t always attend sunrise service, but I remember being excited to go. Some years, it would be very cold, and I would insist on wearing my thin Spring dress (often sleeveless) no matter how loudly my teeth chattered. Although I can vividly remember some of those dresses (and the hand-crocheted shawls Mom made to go with them), I cannot remember the sunrises. In my imagination, they were vivid – as we sang hymns, the bright ball of the sun peeked over the horizon and the angels sang. In my imagination, it was quite a spectacle – worthy of motion picture awards.

This morning, My dear sister-in-law and I decided to go to sunrise service. It was cold (low 40s), and the service was being held on the shores of Lake Erie, where ice covered the water mere days ago. I had no Easter dress, and as an adult, common sense ruled and I wore my heaviest wool pants, two sweaters, a winter jacket and woolen socks under my winter boots. I carried a travel mug of steaming coffee. I was prepared.

The rest of the early morning worshipers dressed like me. Nary a light spring dress with bare arms was to be found. In the pitch black darkness, we sat on rough wooden benches, our backs to the frigid lake. As the service began at 6:45 a.m., the sky began to lighten just enough to read the prayer on the bulletins we were handed.

Our Pastor shared the scripture from Mark 16 – “…trembling and bewildered, the women found the empty tomb and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

This account lacks the drama from the Passion Play. Mark doesn’t tell us about Jesus’ appearance to his followers. There are no vivid beams of light streaming from the empty tomb. No heavenly chorus – no trumpets – only frightened women fleeing.

As we said the closing prayer and sang the remaining hymns, the sky continued to brighten. There was no startling contrast, no brilliant colors. The lake didn’t sparkle. It was quite dreary (and still very cold). Pastor told us how some evenings when vespers is held at the same location, the sunset is stunning. Other times, like this morning’s sunrise, it is just a subtle transition from one day to another.

I wish that I had more time this morning to sit and contemplate that subtle sunrise. Instead, I came home, downed a cup of coffee and cooked breakfast for seven. After breakfast, I boiled eggs to color with one of the grandchildren who had spent the night. As my daughter helped him dye the eggs, I began preparation for the family celebration as we came together to enjoy fellowship (and food!)

After lunch, the children scampered through the yard looking for brightly-colored plastic eggs filled with candy. While I was inside the house being busy, the day had transformed completely. The cold had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. It was too nice to go back into the house, so we visited on the front porch. It was a wonderful time.

With the last of the family guests gone, I took my opportunity for that quite contemplation that I missed earlier. I donned my running tights and shoes and headed for the high school track. I reflected on the cross, and the excruciating pain that would be involved in crucifixion. I remembered Christ’s pleas for forgiveness for the people who were torturing and killing him. I imagined the empty tomb, and this time my mental movie included this morning’s subtle sunrise, as the black night gave way to the soft gray of a cloudy morning.

My own life has changed a lot in the past year or so. It’s been a slow process. Some days I am disappointed that the changes aren’t mind-blowingly vibrant. Other times, like today, I am grateful for the calm that fills me when I’m alone with the only sounds being those of nature around me and my feet striking the pavement. As I took my final lap around the track, the sun began it’s gentle descent toward evening. The bright ball in the sky was too bright for me to capture with my iPhone camera. It was the kind of light that chases away any kind of sadness left in the corners of your mind.

I sat in the car and watched the light. It was the kind of brightness that would be perfectly accompanied by angels’ voices and trumpets. It filled me with awe, and calm.

Last week was difficult. My mind was occupied with current events and political thoughts. I spent energy uselessly pondering issues that are beyond my control and problems that aren’t even mine to solve. While I was alone, in that moment, none of it mattered.

My subtle sunrise brought me calm. The light that ensued brought me joy – and peace.

The emotions today brought with it may be lost in translation, but the message for me came loud and clear – even a dreary, subtle sunrise can become a breathtaking day.

As the Easter hymns of my childhood echo in my mind, I am filled with joy.

He is risen [He is risen indeed!]

Thanks for the Memories

Posted by BecomingBetty

Sorting through a box of things that once occupied a drawer in my late father’s desk, I stumbled upon a non-descript white business-size envelope. It had some stains, but didn’t look particularly old. There was no writing on it, but it was stuffed full. From it, I pulled an odd assortment of papers.

The envelope contained a letter from an attorney to my Maternal grandfather. Written in 1939, the letter concerned settlement of a complaint regarding vehicle that a neighbor borrowed without consent and returned with damage.

The envelope also contained a postcard that I mailed from a Junior Achievement event in Bloomington, Indiana in 1984, a drawing I did at age 17 (in the style of a small child) of “My Family” in magic marked on notebook paper, and a handful of photographs of my brother and myself, my grandparents, and my own children.

There were a couple more letters — one from a missionary in Mali, and one from my grandmother to Dad about a run of the mill Sunday in July 1952.

These photographs and documents seem to have little in common to warrant their inclusion in a single white envelope. The unifying feature is only that Dad found them significant in some way. These documents, spanning some 70 years or more, somehow belonged together in my dad’s mind (and filing system).

Why do we include this one, and not that one? I find myself asking that questinoa lot these days as I sort through boxes from multiple years spanning multiple marriages and multiple homes — differnt worlds, differnt lives, it seems.

Today I went through a large carton of notebooks and research/theme papers from my undergrad years (1999–2006). When I finished with “when in doubt, throw it out,” a large garbage can was full, and my “keep” stack measured approximately 1.5″ thick. Why, exactly, my paper on one subject needed to be kept, while another went into the trash is hard to put into words. Looking back, I kept the ones that contained personal stories — my written history. Some day these might mean something to someone. Even 10 years later, they bruoght to mind things I had forgotten — once-treasured memories buried by new experiences.

I can’t bear to discard Dad’s white envelope. It doesn’t take up much space. Perhaps it was just a holding spot for things that meant something to him — memories that resisted classification. The envelope is now in my own desk drawer, where it will likely stay until someone is clearing it out because I’m no longer able to use the desk myself. I think, perhaps, I will add to it my own memories that resist classification – a time capsule of unrelated things that hold a secret meaning, waiting to be rediscovered.

All Stuffed Up [Learning to Let Go]

Posted by BecomingBetty

I have a huge job ahead of me. I’m loving and hating every minute of it. I have too much stuff. Some of the “stuff” I have hasn’t seen the light of day in years.

My husband lived in this house when he met me. He had stuff already when I moved here, and when I added my stuff to his “stuff,” the house was stuffed and we both had to give things up. The years passed, and we each tossed some stuff and bought some more stuff to take its place. Before long, he lamented to me, “we have too much stuff.”

I did my best to pare down the stuff. I went through the boxes and tossed some stuff, but there were things that held too many memories. I couldn’t bear to give up some stuff, so I stuffed it back into (fewer) boxes.

Some years later, my mom and dad moved from their four bedroom home into a two bedroom apartment. They had to get rid of stuff, but they let me go through their stuff before they sold their stuff at auction. I loaded up a car or four with more stuff. I was opening my professional office, so some of the stuff went there, which made room for more stuff at the house.

More years passed, and the ‘rents moved into an even smaller place with less room for stuff. Once again, I carted boxes of stuff to my house. I couldn’t bear to let them get rid of the stuff that I had grown up with. The stuff has sat, stuffed into boxes and untouched since I stuffed it into the garage, basement and attic.

Mom got sick, then Dad got sick and died, and Mom got sick again. I was so stuffed full of feelings that I couldn’t bear to go through the boxes that stuffed the corners of my life.

I [re]discovered thrift shopping (thank you, Macklemore!) and brought home even more stuff. Recently I needed to get something from the basement, but the floor was so stuffed full of boxes stuffed full of stuff that I couldn’t find the stuff I wanted. I realized I had a stuff problem.

My darling, patient husband understands. The stuff is stuffed full of memories.

When I hold my grandma’s old root beer mug, it ceases to be just stuff. It takes me back to Grandma’s kitchen. I can see the Hires root beer bottle (the glass kind that you have to open with a bottle opener). I can taste the vanilla ice cream that has crystallized root beer on the edges. I feel the long-handled spoon she gave me with my root beer float.

The caddy of red-striped glasses stuffed with newspaper take me to the dinner parties my parents would host. Mom’s fancy glasses would come out only on special occasions. I felt like a grown up when I could drink my iced tea or lemonade from those glasses instead of the jelly jar glasses or the plastic cups we used for every day.

There is the birch bark tee pee and the Indian chief doll that my Dad bought on a trip out west before I was born. I hold them and hear Dad tell about the steak dinner he bought in Texas for 10 cents with a steak that was bigger than the plate that held it.

It’s all stuff. The real value is in the memories that are stuffed in this head of mine. The older I get, the more my house looks like my parents’ home circa 1975. I have my parents’ coffee table, my Dad’s desk lamp, and the piano that Dad taught dozens of kids to play on. I almost brought home the church organ that he had… but there was no room. The place was stuffed.

My head is stuffed full of memories. They are sweet and bitter. Each doo dad and knick knack triggers a mental movie. Dear husband brings the boxes for me one at a time. It’s like Christmas when I unwrap the stuff that was carefully stuffed in newspaper years ago.

I have to let go. There is so much old stuff – mine, my parents’ and my children’s that there is no room for new stuff to make new memories. I have to part with my stuff. I’ll keep the treasures that hold extra-special meaning. The other stuff stays only if I would buy it if I saw it in a store. As I send the other stuff on to other people who will appreciate it, I will savor the memories that I unwrap. Perhaps I will photograph the items that have the best stories. As I stuff boxes full of stuff that has no place to be displayed, I should save those memories somehow.

Perhaps one day my children will receive an album stuffed full of photographs and words from their mother recalling moments from the years she spent collecting the stuff.

So far, all but one item has been unpacked intact. The lone casualty is a painted cookie jar. I’ll admit I nearly cried when I saw it lying in piece. I asked my husband to glue it. He said he would… but I’m not sure it’s necessary. As “stuff,” it’s not worth much. There’s nothing special about it. I have the cream pitcher, tea pot and sugar bowl that match. Any one of those things would evoke the same memories. I’ll never use it as a cookie jar. Now that it’s broken, nobody else would want it. Instead of repairing it, I think it’s time to (reverently) stuff it in the trash.

When it comes right down to it, it is, after all, just stuff. The memories are inside me, waiting to be shared.

Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Posted by BecomingBetty

I took back my life a little over a year ago. I began exercising regularly, I improved my diet, I made a vow to try to focus on the positive instead of the negative, and my life has improved drastically as a result. Although I am still quite overweight, my health and fitness have improved to the point that most of my limitations are gone. It’s a great feeling.

As a part of the changes I joined a number of facebook groups filled with others who are facing or have faced similar challenges. As a result, I see a lot of articles about “fat shaming,” “fit shaming,” and “fat acceptance.”

I’m not sure why we need all of these labels. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all just get along? No amount of fat shaming could make me lose weight. It made me feel even worse about myself, which led to poor self esteem and misusing food as a comfort device. fat acceptance isn’t terribly helpful either. Someone telling me that they love me “just the way I am/was” still made me feel like a fat slob. We don’t tell slim people “I love you despite your fitness.”

I’m encountering a new phenomenon online (not in my personal life yet) in which a once unhealthy individual is being shunned by friends after adopting a healthy lifestyle. That’s “fit shaming.” I don’t know whether the shunning is due to the individuals’ unpreparedness to face their own health issues or whether it’s because the newly fit person talks a lot about her new lifestyle (I know I’m certainly guilty) and the old friends can’t relate.

We’re all people. We all have strengths and weaknesses. There are people in my life who are suffering from lifestyle-induced illnesses just as I was. I accept them as people – not “fat” people. There are people in my life who get tired of hearing about my runs and races and my new shoes, I’m sure. I’m fortunate that they still talk to me anyway.

I feel accepted. Most of the time I felt loved and accepted at 300+ pounds. I don’t think people like me more or less because I’ve lost weight. I’m not ashamed of where I am. I’m not ashamed of where I was. Every step of this journey teaches me more about myself and about others.

Fat or fit, gay or straight, black or white, we are worthy of love and acceptance. Meet people where they’re at. Leave the judgment for God. Let’s all get along.

~Be~

Dear “Mom” – Why are you in Havana and who is Terry?

Posted by BecomingBetty

I have had the same email address since just after Google introduced gmail. It’s my first initial and last name @ gmail.com. Pretty simple. Other people evidently employ the same simplistic strategy, but fail miserably somewhere in the execution.

I get lots of email intended for other people. Brianna, Bernice, Brian, Brittany, Blake and Barath receive a lot of mail in my inbox. Those emails, I suppose, make sense if they really do share my last name. I also receive email for Sherkeydra, though. She’s applying for student loans, and my email address makes no sense at all for her name.

Brittany orders a lot of stuff from Alibaba.com. Bernice is having problems paying her phone bill. Brian gets a payment from Wells Fargo every Thursday night, and Blake is looking for a roommate.

Brianna’s family is a real hoot. They travel a lot and seem to have a sense of humor. Her mom and dad (Terry) are in Cuba right now.

When I began receiving all of these emails for strangers, at first I responded to let the sender know that they had sent the email to the wrong address. I received a very nice email from one of Brittany’s high school teachers a year or two ago. I also had a heartwarming exchange with a woman who was trying to reach one of these strangers to participate with a group who was taking food to a family whose loved one was in her final days. She reached the wrong person, but I surely would have taken a casserole if we lived in the same state.

Another time I began receiving a lot of email from someone’s dad. I responded to let him know that his messages were reaching the wrong person. He didn’t believe me. He asked what I was doing. I answered honestly – I was looking for a nursing home who could take my father. Since he believed I was his daughter, he didn’t take kindly to that one. I replied with a photo of my tear-stained face next to the headline of that day’s newspaper. I never heard from him again. Most often my replies are usually ignored.

I tried to get AT&T to stop sending me Bernice’s messages, but after 20 minutes on hold, I gave up on that cause. Now, when I receive messages for the other “Bs,” I just hit delete.

I receive vacation pictures, invitations to Thanksgiving dinner, and emails showing me the newest listings in Bel Air, MD.

The weirdest misdirected email that I received advised me that the “subject” had left the “perimeter.” When I clicked on the link provided, I got the feeling that I was venturing into super-spy territory, and I wondered whose car was being tracked.

Terry and his wife have, previously, been advised that I am not Brianna, but they don’t believe me. Brianna’s sister has already replied. Her brother was copied, too. Mom and dad must wonder why Brianna never replies.

I talked to my own dear mother a few minutes ago. I know she’s not really in Cuba. Brianna’s mom enjoyed seeing Hemingway’s apartment and like Mojitos. She had a scary experience in a decrepit building where she followed a shady guy to the 3rd floor because he had a “good deal” to show her. I’m happy Brianna’s parents lived to tell THAT tale. I’ll pray for their safety.

I’m assuming that the other people who use my email address primarily give it out as a “spam” address. If only I had their true email addresses, I could forward their emails from Mom, Dad and the crazy stalker person who has set a perimeter. I don’t, though, so I’m torn about whether or not to wish “Mom” and Terry a safe voyage from the daughter they never knew they had.

Life is strange sometimes.