It isn't all "that" to not be fat. I mean, take it from me, a person who's been fat, skinny, and in between. It really isn't all "that" to not be fat. I learned this invaluable lesson when I was a slightly overweight twelve-year-old girl in public school.

I know that I have always carried around extra weight. And I've learned that people have different levels of acceptance if you are larger than the norm. As a child, when my mother's friends visited there was always that point where the strangers would all admire my growth. "Oh she's growing like a weed!" the polite ones would say.

I was never really sold on that being a real compliment. Often my mother would come to my defense by saying, "Well she's always been a "big girl". People who thought they were making excuses for me called me stout. I was "big boned" according to my Aunts, and just plan old "fat" according to my sister (and basically all the meanies in school). At the tender age of five however my dad did marvel at how I could shove his chair around in the kitchen with him in it when I wanted to get around him. After all "Ten Tonne Tessie" as he used to call me had some weight behind her. I enjoyed my special status at times like those. I knew even then that I could be special even if I was not thin.

My older sister and brothers couldn't beat me at wrestling. Their only solace in losing to me was to tease me until I either got angry or left crying. And so, my childhood and school daze were filled with the ups and downs of my "larger than every body else-ness". So when the pitcher said, "Put your weight behind the bat" during a friendly school gym game of baseball, I took his comment personally.

After all, I had always endured the humiliation of being the last pick when the team captains chose up their players from the line up. Even though I knew I could play well, basically, the fat girl with the glasses was a team player strictly by default.

It was a close game. Our team had only a one point lead on the other team. And then it was my turn up to bat. Throughout the entire game I had been eagerly waiting for my chance to play. But when the pitcher saw me walk up to bat he dropped his hands down to his sides and smirked. Then he cocked his head at me and shouted sarcastically, "Just put your weight behind the bat!" Outwardly, I didn't react at all. But inwardly, I was more determined than ever to show everybody what I knew I could do.

I gripped the bat in my hands until it felt right. Standing sideways at the plate with my bat up and ready, I focused all of my thoughts on the pitch. Adding to his previous insult the pitcher waved his team to move closer into the infield. But that pitcher's attitude didn't faze me. All that mattered to me was HITTING THAT BALL!

The pitcher leaned forward and gloved the ball. Then he leaned backwards and with a smooth and easy movement he threw me a perfect pitch. And as I watched him, his words sounded clearly in my head as I put ALL of my weight behind my bat and swung. The bat hit the ball with a resounding CRACK!

The ball sailed fast and low over the heads of the players in the field and disappeared in the bushes behind the catch fence. The first base man couldn't help himself and shouted to me with pure astonishment as I passed him, "You really cracked the ball!" And he repeated, "You really cracked the ball!"

I heard someone on my team shouting to me that I could walk the bases if I wanted to since my home run was a done deal. But, unable to contain my sheer joy, I skipped past each base. Elated, I relished in hearing that wonderful "thunk" sound when my running shoe touched down on every one of those bases cushions sending the dust flying around the stunned baseman's feet.

Victorious, I crossed home plate. The shocked back catcher asked me, half choking with disbelief, "Where'd you learn to do that?" Grinning victoriously, I looked back at him and I replied smugly, "I can catch great too!"

That ought to teach them to tell me to put my weight behind the bat I said to myself.

Name: Susan C.Jose

Story Title: Two Car Mombo

Your Story:

Well, we are officially a two car family now. Even though I have yet to get my drivers license we're doin' the double car mambo now at 5 to 8 (and gonna be late for work) in the morning. Basically, while Dave is still putting on his work clothes (that I just ironed) and grabbing his lunch (that I just made) he asks me if I want to wake the wagon up and pull the aging beast out of its bed, (i.e.: the driveway) for him. This sounds like an okay plan to me. So I pull my jeans on and head out the door with the keys. The master plan being, that when I pull out of the driveway, then Dave will artfully maneuver the Acura out of the garage and off to work, leaving me to restore the wagon back onto the driveway to collect more bird droppings - until the next rainfall comes, that is. Sounds like a workable plan. But I have learned from my many years of experience. (I'm over thirty-five - so I can use that expression now). There is one thing you can always count on. Basically you can count on things going wrong when you feel you have a flawless plan and you are in a rush. Orchestrating several maneuvers at once, ...well, you're bound to hit a snafu or two. (That last one sounds like a peppy little song doesn't it. It would probably go something like this.

When you're in a rush,

And got lots to do,

It's more likely than not

You'll hit a snafu or two.

(A little dumb ditty do dumb ditty for you!)

So I'm in my plaid pajama top and jeans outfit starting the wagon with the driver's door still open. (It's a habit I just can't seem to shake.) The sweet lighting from the Sunday morning sunshine is creating a halo of highlights on my unbrushed morning mop. I turn the key in the ignition and give the dozing beast some gas. It starts and then it's engine wanes off. I pump the gas pedal lightly to keep the engine going. The engine wanes off again. But just before it goes off completely, I give it more gas. A little too much gas, and I and the rest of the neighborhood for that matter, hear the engine roar like an airplane about to take off. This is not good, I know, for the car. A woman with two Jack Russells stares curiously at the scene as she walks by. She walks on without offering any assistance. She knows her offer of help would only increase my embarrassment. Or perhaps she just doesn't care to get involved in this madcap motorized debacle? That's more like it! But unfortunately, this sideshow of shame is not over for me. Even after that, the engine dies on me. Dave comes out and asks me if I want him to back the car out for me. Defeated and more than a little irritated, I answer, "Would you?"

Dave backs the wagon out onto the road and parks it there. Its engine is off now. It lurks there on the road. A quiet latent mass of steel and rust. Yes, It mocks me as it sits there and I ponder the job that awaits me when Dave leaves with the new car. Meanwhile, Dave gets into the Acura and gives it too much gas to start it. That car doesn't actually need any gas to start it. He forgets after years of pumping the beast's pedals to get it going. It's a different car Dave. And by the way, if it's in first gear when you start it will jump through the garage wall and into our kitchen Dave. HA!

As he pulls away and off to work I wave back to him, still sitting in the quiet beast. I wonder if I'll be able to move this bulk back to its old familiar spot on our driveway. I turn the ignition key. There I sit in my pajama top (braless to boot) in that enormous monster, cursing out the car as the engine keeps dying on me. The neighbors with balconies have a perfect view of my misfortune. The other neighbors with their screen doors open are probably wondering why they are sucking in gas fumes while they try to enjoy their Sunday morning breakfast. Their French toast will have more than a coating of maple syrup on it by the time I get this car started and back into the driveway. Finally on the fourth try, the car gives way and I'm able to get it back into the spot. Relieved and embarrassed - and irritated all to hell - I slam the car door shut and make my way into the house. Am I defeated? No way! Driving lessons? I can't wait. I'm going to be a master of those two menacing!

machines. I plan to slay that scrap heap into submission. ...Perhaps that is a little harsh. The thing is alive I think, ...and may have feelings. As for the Acura, I'm going to get those gears well in hand and it better R-E-C-O-G-N-I-Z-E.

Name: M. Suzanne Clydesdale

Story Title: Sit Down, Luvy (a true story)

Your Story:

My world came apart, not suddenly, as one who is stricken by natural disaster or personal attack, but gradually, as the emptying of an hourglass. It was an excruciating end to a life, the way my Father went to cancer, and six short weeks from his diagnosis, during which I nursed him and watched him die, he finally succumbed to the light.

Painful as it was to lose my mentor and best friend, I also lost the co-owner to the future site of my dream home, which held an uninsured mortgage and a great deal of construction debt.

Without my father's income, I hung on by my fingernails for several months, but just as fragments of light appeared far down the financial distance, layoffs became the order of the day, and a glacier rolled over the last burning embers of hope when I lost my job.

Feeling alone and defeated, I put my dream property up for sale and said goodbye to the small mobile home that resided there and was my home. My father's and my own labour had gone into it's finishing, and it was my last comfort, the final symbol of a dream held dear in my heart.

Knowing that I had to find a way to live, or else mock the memory of my father's strength, I went looking for a job in the nearby city of Victoria, B.C. After a few long days of uncertainty and fleeting hope, I went for a walk in the summer breeze along the waterfront downtown.

As I walked alone, pondering a minimum two-year sentence to heavy debt, I saw the bench. For no good reason, I read the brass plate: "Grandma Jean, 1898-1998, 'Sit down, Luvy.'"

I had an inkling that someone who cared had invited me to sit, to take a load off. So I sat, feeling the companionship of one I'd never known, feeling the wisdom of one who no longer lived.

A hundred years, Grandma Jean, I thought. You lived in this world for a hundred years. What did you learn?

It took me some time to relax and imagine that she was there, to let her come into my mind to speak to me.

"I learned," she said, "that two years is but the blink of an eye in a lifetime. Dreams die, and are replaced by new ones. I lived a hundred years, dreamed a hundred dreams. I learned that pain does not matter, it is only something to be tolerated, something that quickly fades into a distant memory to be learned from and discarded, leaving only the joy to be lived, loved and cherished always. All things are an experience, becoming a part of who we are. Dreams that are realized become that joy, remembered; dreams failed are left behind. That is the richness of living."

I rose and walked on with purpose, new dreams ahead to be discovered, facing my pain with a new perspective.