No Turning Back

My first attempt at walking the track on the Ft. Gordon (Georgia) Army Base taught a pivotal lesson that lingers.  You see, I had been transferred to a Southern city not too far from my job.   Excited to undertake the challenges and opportunities of this dream job, had I been a horse I'd have been champing at the bit.  Swoon. Swoon. A Midwesterner most of my life, the lure of the South had as much to do with the enterprise as its renowned cuisine promised.  My goodness,  bountiful blessings awaited! 

My first inkling of southern food came a few days before Thanksgiving, on the highway between work and home.  Every few miles or so, I spied vegetable stands on both sides of the road.  Collard greens, yellow squash, string beans, fresh okra, and sweet potatoes beckoned from bushel baskets arrayed enticingly.  Should I pull over and check it out?  No question.  Later, I inhaled and grinned at my backseat bounty.  Last stop before home: Shopping at the new supermarket.

I stood sandwiched between two shoppers---one Black, the other White. yet, our carts held identical purchases: cornmeal, eggs, butter, collard greens, ham hocks, flour, lard, hams, turkeys, onions, yellow, red, and green peppers; cane and brown sugars; vanilla, lemon, and banana flavorings, buttermilk---veritably a chef's cornucopia.  Another anomaly? Different ethnicities and races living as next-door neighbors.  Who woulda thunk it!" Or that cooks of both genders would spend days preparing feasts? Certainly, not I!

Plus, mom and pop diners, as well as chain restaurants, peppered neighborhoods, offering adventurous diners as well as "don't-feel-like-cooking-tonight" consumers their prepared wares.  Especially on weekends, they boasted menus comprised of: smothered cabbage; potato salad; made-from-scratch hush puppies and cornbread; collard greens and ham hocks; candied yams; fried chicken and catfish; roast turkey and cornbread dressing; fried kernel corn mixed with cream-style corn; turnips and mustard greens; bread pudding; shortbread with strawberries and cream; banana puddings; pound cakes; lemon pies, coconut layer cakes, and sweet tea---for example.

No wonder the pounds draped themselves around waist, midriff, face, and neck! Subtly and surreptitiously, obviously when I wasn't looking, maybe while I slept,  or even during stop-on-the-way-home-snacks.  After all, a thirty-seven-mile one-way commute could stimulate one's tastebuds.

Alas. When you dance to the music, the piper must be paid!  Next thing I knew buttons, skirts and blouses showed the strain; impossible to zipper jeans; or hard to fasten waistline belts compelled me to do something---quickly. Jeez! So early one fine summer evening, I reluctantly put on sweat pants and pulled an equally concealing top over my growing-as-I-watched-neck.  Off I went to the track.  Fortunately, fewer people than I'd worried about were out.  A few warm-up stretches later, and a check of my watch and I took off.  

Not speed walking, but faster than a saunter.   Checked my watch.  Maybe it'd stopped. It couldn't be true that only ten minutes had elapsed. Winded.  Hmmm, harder than I thought. Maybe picking up the pace will get me farther faster.  No.  The next marker informed me I'd only progressed a measly quarter-mile.  Help me, Jesus.  When I'd done one half-mile  I was praying a deacon's prayer from childhood: "Father, I stretch my hands to Thee.  No other help I know.  If Thou withdraw Thy help from me, whither shall I go?"  

What lesson did I learn?  If I just kept putting one foot after the other, no matter how long it took or bedraggled I looked and felt, I'd make it back to my starting point. By the time I made it back to the car, I had vowed abstinence from everything but bread and water.  Scout's Honor. even if I hadn't made it past Brownies. Give me strength, Lord, give me strength!

Well of course, in the safety of home all promises dissolved like a mirage on a highway. Including avoiding fat-producing restaurants.  Everything in moderation became a blessing before meals.  I did go back to the Ft. Gordon track three days later when I could move.  And kept walking until I could finish a 20-minute mile! I finally discarded the childhood fantasy of eating for starving children in Africa.  Still, it took months and months of walking and near starvation before I could fit comfortably into pre-Southern-food-gorging- jeans, skirts, suits, and blouses.  

Lesson painfully won. Thank You, Jesus, for guiding me. Walk with me, Lord.  Walk with me. Walk with me, Lord.  Walk with me. .All along this tedious journey, I want Jesus to walk with me.