Chapter 1 - ch 1 running back to winnipeg

As the plane descended to the airport at Winnipeg I could feel my happiness take flight. This may not be the normal response upon arriving in Winnipeg--Canada's answer to Minneapolis--but honestly it is a pretty good city. More importantly, I'd spent the happiest years of my life there, from when I was seven until I was thirteen. My parents had been getting along better than usual, I'd had my best friend living across the street from me, and overall it had just been a good time.

Gord and I had been almost inseparable. We lived across the street from each other and would walk together to and from school, where we were in the same class, and play together after school. We played on the same house league hockey team, although with his asthma he always got to play in net, while I had gasp my way around the ice as a winger. We'd ride our bikes or take the bus up to the Pan-Am pool together for swimming lessons. We spent endless hours playing games in his basement; often I'd stay for one of his Mom's excellent suppers, then we'd go back to playing. My Dad even un-bent enough to take us camping and hunting with him, for all that he didn't approve of me hanging out with 'that fat Mennonite family.' (That was my Dad for you, never mind that Mrs. Bunton was a former Hutterite, never a Mennonite--he didn't like letting reality get in the way of his prejudices).

It wasn't just that we lived close to each other, we had similar minds, like we made capes for our teddy-bears and for years we'd use them to act out the adventures of the league of super-teddies. Or when one of our Moms would go downtown, we'd tag along so we could each buy a 'frozen malted' from the stand in the Bay's basement, and see which of us could eat the most before getting a head ache from the cold treat. We had large houses in a old neighbourhood where the towering elm trees formed an archway over the street, and to use the interwoven branches were super-sized dream-catchers, rich with a few generations of dreams. Sure we had our differences, like I liked wrestling and Gord didn't, but he was shorter and weaker than me so I couldn't totally blame him.

Sure the winters were long and cold, but that seemed normal to us. Overall, those were good years.

The years since my family had moved farther west, to Edmonton, hadn't been all bad, just mostly bad. Let's say I'd had plenty of opportunity to look back on my time in Winnipeg nostalgically. Gord and I hadn't been very good at staying in touch, typical for teenage boys I guess. We'd sent email back and forth some at first, but when his Dad came down with lung cancer, and then the brain cancer that had killed him, I hadn't really known what to say. I had written short notes during that time, and Gord seemed to appreciate it, but like I said, staying in touch isn't a prime strength of teenage boys.

When it had been time to apply to university, the chance to move back to Winnipeg had been heavily on my mind. People looked at me like I was crazy, but in the end I'd been delighted to accept a place in the computer science program at the University of Manitoba. I'd immediately written Gord, excited to share the news. He'd written back that he'd accepted a place at Dalhousie University , all the way out on the East Coast! I was crushed, for some reason I'd just assumed that Gord would always be in Winnipeg , that it was where he belonged.

Half an hour later he'd written back, asking if I'd like to board with his Mom? It turned out that Mrs. Bunton was not looking forward to an empty house, and had been thinking about taking on a student boarder. Gord relayed that she'd be delighted to host me for a very reasonable cost. I'd inherited a bit of money from my Mom's parents, so the cost wasn't a huge deal, but I was happy to take her offer all the same. Being in the old neighbourhood, having a familiar face around me, that sounded good.

And so it was, my spirits soared as the plane landed. When I finally was able to get off the plane I was tempted to get down and kiss the ground, or at least the floor. But that would be pretty gross on an airport floor, and my jeans were tight enough that it would have been challenging. I settled for slapping a pillar as I passed, whispering to it "I'm glad to be back!"

* * * * * * * *

Naturally reality couldn't live up to nostalgia. Gord had already flown down east for school by the time I made it to Winnipeg. Mrs. Bunton must have lost a hundred pounds since I'd last seen her (although most people would still have called her fat) and their house seemed strange without the vague odour of cigars that Mr. Bunton had always carried with him. At my old house the new owners had widened the driveway, getting rid of my Mom's prized roses in the process. The frozen malted stand in the Bay's basement was gone. Instead of a small, friendly, local, school, I was one more pudgy, geeky, kid, anonymous in the crowds and classes at University off at the edge of town.

It certainly could have been worse. I could have been living out in Edmonton still, where my Mom had announced she was seeking a divorce from my Dad, after years of fights and affairs on both sides. I could have been living in residence at the university, ending each stressful, alienated, day with glop from the cafeteria. At least I'd get to a house that was warm and welcoming, to Mrs Bunton, who had always been a hugger, and who still cooked amazing meals.

Not that she cooked fancy, to be clear. She was just one of those people who could make perfect perogies, who could cook noodles just right, who made hamburgers that you slowed down and really enjoyed. She loved and respected food, and had that talent for making it very well. Maybe it came from growing up on a Hutterite commune, maybe it was just who she was. I'm sure it had been part of why she'd been such an overwhelmingly big woman when I'd been a kid, someone whose frequent hugs had been like getting wrapped in a warm cloud, and also part of why her husband had also been fat and Gord had been a pudgy kid.

She seemed delighted to have someone to cook for, someone who loved her food, and that was certainly a good part of my day. Making her happy by enjoying her cooking was not a chore at all! I was sad to learn that, after her husband had died, she'd felt she had to slim down to a more practical weight, so that she could handle more household chores on her own, but I was glad to see she didn't have that typical dieters attitude. She still loved good food, just in more moderate quantities and punctuated by regular swimming. And she loved seeing me enjoy her food, and was happy to pack me amazing lunches from the leftovers.

On my mother's thoroughly indifferent cooking I'd already been chubby. It was perhaps no surprise that on Mrs. Bunton's amazing cooking that chubbiness increased. As my jeans got tighter and tighter I had to admit that I was going from chubby to fat. Heh, 'had to admit,' I should be honest: I was thrilled to admit it. I'd always been interested in fat, even as a kid. Don't get me wrong, Gord and I had been good friends for all sorts of reasons, but my secret, bonus, reason had been his fat family. I'd been thrilled how there was no guilt associated with food in his house, how his Dad was fat and mom was super-fat and neither seemed to mind either their own size or that of their spouse, and how neither Gord nor I ever got criticism there for being chubby.

I hadn't just liked the fat acceptance at his house, I'd liked the fat itself. How when you tapped Mrs. Bunton on the shoulder, it felt like poking a pillow; or how his dad filled up his entire recliner. Some kids were obsessed with hockey or horses or something, but I was obsessed with fat. It was never too far from my mind, and everything associated with it just seemed like good things. I knew better than to tell anyone this, I knew this was weird, but most of all I just knew that I loved fat.

Well, since a young age I'd known it in a way, but I hadn't fully admitted it, hadn't taken ownership of it, hadn't accepted that it was an essential part of who I am. Yah, I'd been fascinated with fat since a young age, but it was only now that I was 18, that I was back in Winnipeg, that I was in that fat-oasis of the Bunton house, that I found myself enjoying getting fat, enjoying the knowledge that I was going to get fatter still. For maybe the first time ever, I found myself finally starting to feel at home in my skin.