Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition

by Jack Canfield

  Healthy Changes Ahead

  Enough is as good as a feast.

  ~English Proverb

  I’ve always viewed my mother as my mentor. She taught me how to be a woman. She showed me how to be a wife and a mom. She encouraged me to laugh, love, and have faith. Now that I’ve read “The Tiny Waist of the Fifties” in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Say Hello to a Better Body! I realize my mother also taught me something about healthy eating. For years though, I ignored her lessons just as I ignored this book.

  I admit it: I didn’t immediately open Chicken Soup for the Soul: Say Hello to a Better Body! after I received it. The book sat on my office shelves for months, its pleasant green title reminding me of things I should be doing.

  Then came weeks of abdominal problems followed by weeks of medical tests. The tests confirmed my doctor’s guess: my gallbladder wasn’t functioning. I needed to have it removed.

  One week later, I was home recuperating from surgery. That’s when I reached for my copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Say Hello to a Better Body! I needed some encouraging words.

  I had researched my post-surgery diet and lifestyle at various online sites. Though the medical information provided was straightforward and helpful, the comment sections were often filled with horror stories. Well, maybe not horror stories, but definitely bleak predictions of what I would be able to eat in the future. Especially troubling were some predictions that I’d never again be able to eat certain beloved foods or regular-size portions. I would be confined to eating small portions and small meals forever. That was not what I wanted to hear when I was in pain.

  Then I found Carole Bell’s list of lessons learned from her mom. Carole’s childhood experiences matched my own. My mother too served portions considered small by today’s standards. We all survived. My mother also filled the plate with simple, unprocessed foods, refusing to let her daughters become picky eaters who wouldn’t touch green vegetables. She encouraged us to enjoy many types of foods, and she never posted a calorie count by our plates.

  When I finished reading Carole’s story, I didn’t move on to the next one in the book. Instead I lingered on her question: “What is in my future?” I knew my future habits might need to change, but change could be good. If I needed to eat smaller portions for the sake of my health, I could do it. Like Carole, all I needed to do was remember my mom’s tiny waistline and my childhood dinner table.

  Two years ago I volunteered to proofread a graduate student’s research paper on the childhood obesity epidemic. The facts and figures in his review were sobering. I wondered how our country let this happen. When did giant dinner plates, super-sized meals, and endless soda refills win the day? Now I know it happened after the demise of the little belted housedress.

  When Carole Bell compared eating and exercise habits in the fifties to those in the twenty-first century, she decided to make changes in her lifestyle. She didn’t resent the need for change. Why should I? Rather than resisting a different way of eating, I could embrace the adjustments thrust upon me.

  Today I’m grateful a revised diet and smaller portions are part of my future. I want to offer healthier meals to my family and friends, and I’d like to maintain my lower post-surgery weight. And thanks to Carole, I realize my mother already taught me how to do it.

  Yes, my self-discipline might weaken on occasion, but I know what to do when that happens. I simply picture my mom and those tiny waists of the fifties. Then I forge ahead — June Cleaver housedress not required.

  ~Donna Finlay Savage

  The Tiny Waist of the Fifties

  Be moderate in order to taste the joys of life in abundance.

  ~Epicurus

  She looked like June Cleaver except for her red hair. Like many young mothers in the fifties, mine often did housework in what she called a “housedress.” It was nothing like the slouchy sweats I wear today to tackle the toilet bowl, the kitchen floor, and the cobwebs in the corners.

  The housedresses our mothers wore then were unique. They were cotton and had to be ironed. They buttoned down the front to about six inches below the waist or nearly to the hem. The waistline of that dress still amazes me after all these years. Mom’s waist could not have been more than twenty-two inches. The dress always had a belt that defined her tiny waistline.

  That housedress, with its tiny belt-covered waist, represents an era when people didn’t discuss or worry about weight control. It was something that happened due to lifestyle. Diet programs and books were much less prevalent.

  Most of my adult life, I fought to keep my weight under control. It was a struggle at which I had varying degrees of success. I tried fad diets as well as healthy diets. The struggle occupied too much of my time and thought, almost to the point of obsession.

  About three years ago, the image of my mom’s belted housedress began to flit across my mind frequently enough that I deemed it important. I decided to evaluate her lifestyle compared to mine. Surely there was something about how her generation lived that kept most of them trim even into their later years.

  Here is what I found:

  • We never ate more than one thin pork chop each. When Mom opened a can of vegetables, it was shared by four of us. Our hamburgers were probably about a sixth of a pound. Weekday breakfasts were a piece of toast, milk, and juice. Yet, I never remember passing out from hunger. Conclusion: If we eat smaller portions, we will survive until the next meal.

  • We ate a wide variety of fruits and vegetables. Living in an agricultural community, we had access to fresh produce, which Mom canned. Although we had meat at most meals, produce dominated our plates. We always had some type of starch with our meals. Conclusion: Starch is not bad. Meat is not bad. The idea is to use them as additions to our meals rather than the mainstay.

  • We ate food close to its source. We did not have packaged food until I was in high school. About that time, the infamous frozen potpie arrived. It was totally disgusting, so we seldom ate it. Conclusion: There’s something about real food that promotes good health.

  • Neither of my parents ever obsessed about food. If we had homemade ice cream, we all enjoyed it. I suspect Mom’s bowl was smaller than Dad’s, but she never mentioned the fact. We all enjoyed the ice cream guilt-free. I think my mom’s idea was that if she could get enough veggies into us during the meal, there wouldn’t be a lot of room for dessert. Besides, most of our desserts came from the fruit bowl. Conclusion: No food is bad. And, it may be that spending too much time analyzing one’s diet causes problems.

  • Mom and Dad did all their own work. Mom did the shopping, cleaning, laundry, cooking, sewing, and childcare. Dad did the yard and repair work. They raised chickens and put them in the freezer to enjoy through the year. Together, they painted and papered walls, waxed floors, and cleaned rugs. Conclusion: There was no need for a gym membership when there was so much to do at home.

  • Television and computers didn’t dominate our lives. Even after we bought a TV, we chose to be active. Although we weren’t jogging or working out on a piece of machinery, we were moving most of the time. Even our winter taffy pulls burned more calories than sitting in front of a screen. Conclusion: An active lifestyle is conducive to trim waists and good health.

  • We ate supper at six o’clock and had nothing else to eat until breakfast. That gave us about a twelve-hour fast each night. Conclusion: Bodies do well not having a continual inflow of food.

  After I looked at how a family of the fifties lived, it was apparent that our twenty-first-century lifestyle was responsible for the differences in our waistlines. I decided to make some changes.

  I knew any modifications needed to be gradual so I could fully embrace them. Drastic changes usually end in failure.

  I set up these guidelines, knowing it would take time to totally adopt them:

  • Decrease portion sizes drastically. Picture the one-fourth-can serving size of my youth.

  • Plan for my plate to be two-thirds plant-based food, light on white
starches.

  • Quit talking and thinking about food and diets.

  • Increase the amount of work I do in the house and yard. Include regular gym-type exercise because I use work-saving devices not available fifty years ago.

  • Decrease screen time.

  • Eat supper early and then fast until breakfast.

  Has it worked? It has been three years. During that time, I have very gradually lost fifteen pounds. That is not the “fifteen pounds in two weeks” many fad diets advertise. But slow is okay, because I know I am changing.

  I changed how I think about food. I know that I will not fall over if I eat a light meal. It’s okay to leave food on my plate. I learned that a meal heavy on meat makes me feel sluggish, so I look for ways to get more vegetables on my plate. I eat my larger meal at noon and try to have a light supper early.

  I changed how I feel about exercise. It is now like the air I breathe — necessary for my wellbeing, rather than something I force on myself. I do some weight training and yoga. I walk outside if the weather is nice, or I watch the news while I’m on the treadmill. I have a shelf for my computer in front of the treadmill, allowing me to watch inspiring or educational videos.

  What is in my future? I may never totally adhere to my guidelines. I sometimes eat too much. There are times when I eat late. I don’t think about food and diets as much as I once did, but here I am writing about them now.

  However, I don’t believe I will ever again have an issue with weight. I expect to slowly lose a few more pounds until I am where I should be. I doubt I will wear housedresses with belted waists even if they do come back in style. It is enough to be strong and healthy, and to have more pleasant things on my mind than the number of calories in a food or whether or not it is “on my diet.”

  ~Carole A. Bell

  World Traveler

  Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.

  ~Seneca

  The story in A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul entitled “The Window” touched my heart in an amazing way. The story speaks of two men who were sharing a room in a hospital. One man, bedridden, was on his back on the far side of the room. He was somewhat envious that the other man was on the side with the window.

  The man by the window shared everything he saw with the man on the other side of the room. He elaborated and explained every detail to the point that his friend could see everything he saw. When the man on the other side of the room was eventually moved to the bed by the window he was surprised to discover that the window looked out on a blank wall.

  I was devastated when my father became terminally ill. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease. The last thing he asked for before he was admitted to a long-term care facility was to go on one more vacation. I talked with the doctors about the possibility and learned that it wasn’t possible. So like the man at the window who tried to encourage his friend on the other side of the room, I decided to pretend we were traveling right there in the nursing home.

  The man in the story brought the outside world (the park, the people, the lake) to his friend. I decided that I could bring many famous vacations spots to my father. I got on the Internet and asked my online friends to send me pictures or postcards from their hometowns. The nicest people who I had never met began mailing me packages of pictures, cards, souvenirs and keepsakes from the festivals and other events in their hometowns. Many not only sent pictures and postcards but wrote long, descriptive letters to a dying man they had never met.

  Then the oddest thing began to happen. We started getting memorabilia from places all over the world. My friends told their friends and their friends told their friends. There were days I would go to the post office and find boxes filled with exciting stuff from all over the world. My daddy became a world traveler in his nursing home room. And he didn’t even have to buy an airline ticket. My online friends knew Daddy couldn’t go out and see the world, so they sent their world to him.

  I’ll never forget the trips we took, the conversations we had and the smiles on Daddy’s face as I shared all the tourist attractions with him. I received more and more stuff for weeks on end. And about the time Daddy no longer knew who he was or who I was, the packages ceased to arrive. His vacation was over, but the memories will last forever for me.

  “The Window” taught me to step out and do the best I could, that life could be a joyful event. Sometimes we must use our imagination and stretch ourselves to bring joy to someone else.

  The man in the story, looking at the wall, made a difference in my father’s life even after he was gone. His story touched me in a way that caused me to exercise my faith and stretch my imagination. I was able to fulfill my father’s dying request.

  After Daddy died, in an attempt to heal my own grief, I would often pull out the pictures, the cards and the souvenirs and travel around the world once again.

  It’s been thirteen years since my father died, but when I think of our traveling days together, I still shed a few tears of joy and hope.

  ~Nancy B. Gibbs

  The Window

  And life is what we make it, always has been, always will be.

  ~Grandma Moses

  There were once two men, both seriously ill, sharing a small room in a great hospital. It had one window looking out on the world. One of the men, as part of his treatment, was allowed to sit up in bed for an hour in the afternoon (something to do with draining the fluid from his lungs). His bed was next to the window. But the other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.

  Every afternoon, when the man next to the window was propped up for his hour, he would pass the time by describing what he could see outside. The window apparently overlooked a park where there was a lake. There were ducks and swans in the lake, and children came to throw them bread and sail model boats. Young lovers walked hand in hand beneath the trees, and there were flowers and stretches of grass and games of softball. And at the back, behind the fringe of trees, was a fine view of the city skyline.

  The man on his back would listen to the other man describe all of this, enjoying every minute. He heard how a child nearly fell into the lake, and how beautiful the girls were in their summer dresses. His friend’s descriptions eventually made him feel he could almost see what was happening outside.

  Then one fine afternoon, the thought struck him: Why should the man next to the window have all the pleasure of seeing what was going on? Why shouldn’t he get the chance? He felt ashamed, but the more he tried not to think like that, the worse he wanted a change. He’d do anything! One night as he stared at the ceiling, the other man suddenly woke up, coughing and choking, his hands groping for the button that would bring the nurse running. But the man watched without moving — even when the sound of breathing stopped. In the morning, the nurse found the other man dead, and quietly took his body away.

  As soon as it seemed decent, the man asked if he could be switched to the bed next to the window. So they moved him, tucked him in, and made him quite comfortable. The minute they left, he propped himself up on one elbow, painfully and laboriously, and looked out the window. It faced a blank wall.

  ~George Target

  Lawn Chair Living

  Reflect upon your present blessings, of which every man has plenty, not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.

  ~Charles Dickens

  Burn out. It happens to everyone — even writers. Thirteen years ago, I was a freelance executive speechwriter and advertising copywriter and my busy season ran from January to April. In that four-month period, I would write twelve to fourteen hours a day, six days a week to hit my deadlines for ads, brochures, speeches, newsletters, magazine articles, and annual reports. By the first week of May, I was comatose. My energy level was zero, my creativity was shot and my brain was mush.

  That’s when Gregg Levoy delivered just what the doctor ordered, a cup of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul, in his story entitled, “Power Lounging.” In it, Levoy
describes his extended sabbatical designed to revive his spirit, and he leaves us with a vital message not just for writers, but for any profession: rest brings restoration.

  Levoy reminded me that I need to rest more and he inspired me by the ways in which he found rest and renewal in ordinary things and in simple pleasures. In his words: “I succumbed to the lazy lure of a spring afternoon spent in my own backyard, watching the shadows of clouds bend in the folds of the hills, the hawks and vultures sweep into view on long, slow arcs, the tomcats stalk birds in the low branches of the fig. And for a brief spell I was released from being pinned to the ground by the gravity of my endeavors.

  “Over the next three months, as the days flicked by like white lines on the freeway, I took great long walks by the sea and in the forests, lost myself in epic novels, wrote poetry again, traveled, and stopped postponing jury duty. I went surfing, joined a men’s group, got to know my friends better. . .”

  His article not only motivated me, it changed me. I not only learned how to optimize rest and relaxation, I took it a step further. I inserted pauses into my routine to better appreciate the most meaningful moments of life. Some pauses were only a few minutes long, others hours, some days. I call it “Lawn Chair Living.” Here is how it works for me.

  Several years ago, I inserted a long pause into my day by grabbing a lawn chair and heading to the beach. I planted myself under a shade tree overlooking a bay. I was there for one reason. From the comfort of the lawn chair and the beauty of the idyllic setting, I was mentally preparing myself for another major transition in my life.

  In the next few weeks, my father, a widower of forty years, would be moved into an assisted living center because Alzheimer’s was robbing him of his memory. Soon, I would lose daily contact with one of the most significant people in my life.

  What troubled me though was that the chaotic pace of my life could easily cause me to overlook the implications of this life change. Thus, from a lawn chair, I would pause, refocus, and quietly reflect on my changing role as a son.