The Aunt Helen Philosophy
by Cynthia Joan Porter
Aunt Helen was not my aunt. She was not even related to me by blood. For five years, though, she was my unwitting mentor. I didn't understand the value of her lessons then, which is the way these things usually happen. At the time, I could barely stand to be in the same room with her. I whined every time my sister announced that Helen would be attending a family gathering. I thought of her as a dictator who wanted far more control of my life than I was willing to share.
Before I met Aunt Helen, I'd heard my sister mention her off and on for years. When I found myself in the role of divorced parent, my sister invited me to stay at her home for a while to give me time to figure out my next step. "For a fresh start," she said.
Aunt Helen actually belonged to my brother-in-law. She was his mother's sister. I met her on a rainy Sunday afternoon. She and her second husband, who we all called Uncle Bob, arrived in a mammoth chocolate-brown Delta 88. It took them nearly fifteen minutes to maneuver Helen from the car to the front door.
That evening, as we sat down to dinner, the lesson began. I had just fixed a plate for my toddler son and placed it on his high chair tray.
"Aren't you going to give that boy some milk?" Helen asked with the gravelly voice of a woman who had smoked for fifty years.
"No, he doesn't drink cow's milk," I said, smiling at her and silently praying it would end there.
"He's got to have milk," she said. "How is he going to grow bones without milk?"
"Cow's milk is highly processed," I said with a stiff smile. "It's no longer healthy after being pasteurized and homogenized. Not to worry, though, I've done a lot of research and he'll grow just fine without it."
"I've never heard such nonsense. Somebody get that boy a glass of milk," she bellowed. "The boy's gotta have milk or his teeth won't form!"
My cheeks burned and a trickle of sweat ran down my back. How dare this woman, whom I'd known for only an hour, tell me how to feed my son! She had puffed on cigarettes for decades, what did she know about health? "Like I said, I've done a lot of research and—"
"Research? What research? Everyone knows children need milk!"
My sister touched my arm. I gazed into her pleading eyes. "Fine," I said to her. "Give him just a small glass."
I fumed throughout the meal. Why should I have to succumb to this crazy old tyrant? She was completely unreasonable. Wasn't Alex my son? Wasn't he my responsibility? Milk was bad for him, and I knew it! How dare she!
The next visit yielded equal challenges as Aunt Helen passed a plate of ham. "Have some of this fine ham," she said. "You need protein. You're too thin."
"I don't eat meat," I said. "I'm a vegetarian."
"No wonder you look so unhealthy." She slapped a huge slice of ham onto my plate. "Make sure you give some to your boy, too!"
I looked to my sister.
"Please?" she mouthed.
I glanced at my brother-in-law, who shrugged and stuffed an enormous bite of ham into his mouth. No help there.
"Thank you," I said to Aunt Helen. I poked at the pig flesh that filled my plate and allowed the fury to rage inside. By the end of the meal, I was a mere shadow of my former happy self.
By Aunt Helen's third visit, I was prepared for her. I would not capitulate to her bullying, because bullies should never win.
"You need to find a husband so you can be home with your son," Aunt Helen said. She handed Alex the stuffed kitty she had brought him for his birthday. "Women today take the easy way, you know. Raising children is hard work. They'd rather run off to some job every day and leave their kids for someone else to raise."
My jaw moved, yet I couldn't form a single word. What had made this ancient woman so judgmental? She didn't even have children! Did she have any idea how hard it was to be a single parent? I turned on my heel, walked into the bathroom, grabbed a fistful of tissue, and bawled for twenty minutes. How could anyone have such little tolerance for others?
The following weekend I attended a workshop. The presenter started his talk with a story that reached into my core.
There once was woman who lived to be 110. A reporter called upon her two days before her 111th birthday and requested an interview. "I can't tell you much, young man," the senior said. "I'm just an ordinary gal who happened to live a very long life."
"Still, I'd like to ask you a few questions," the reporter said.
"Ask away," the old woman said, stuffing tobacco into a battered clay pipe.
"Ma'am, I'd like to know the secret to your longevity, and apparent good health."
"There ain't no secret," the woman replied.
"But surely there must be something you've done to stay alive all this time."
"Okay, then, I never argued with no one. That's my secret."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but there must be more to it than that," the young reporter said. "Perhaps it's a special diet, or some form of exercise?"
The old woman sat back in her chair and stroked her long, wrinkled chin. "Naw," she said, "don't think so."
"Perhaps ma'am," the reporter prompted, "there is something special about the air or the water here on your farm?"
"Nope, nothin' like that."
"Do you drink special tea? Eat unusual food?"
"Nope."
The pacing reporter ran his hand through his hair. "Surely there's something to which you can attribute your longevity, ma'am."
The elder exhaled a puff of smoke and smiled. "You may be right, sonny, you may be right."
When the presenter took a break, I walked over to shake his hand. "I can't thank you enough for that opening story," I said. "I think you've just saved me from myself, and my Aunt Helen."
"Uh, okay . . ." the man said.
"Trust me, you've done me a bigger favor than you'll ever know."
The next time I saw Aunt Helen, it was Thanksgiving. I invited my new fiancé to join us. We met Aunt Helen and Uncle Bob at their favorite local buffet. I made the introductions and we all sat down. I was ready for her with what I had come to call my Aunt Helen Philosophy. Helen was on her best behavior throughout the meal. She'd falter though, she couldn't help herself.
"So now that you're getting married," she said finally, "you'll be able to quit that foolish job and stay home with your son."
"Actually, as soon as we're married we plan on starting a business together," I said.
"Women today, they always take the easy way. You should be at home to raise your son!"
"You know, you may be right, Aunt Helen, you may be right." I took a bite of my salad and smiled.
BIO: CYNTHIA JOAN PORTER is the co-founder of an international franchise, Positive Changes, where she served as Marketing Director for fifteen years. She earned
her doctorate in counseling at LaSalle University. She ghostwrote her husband’s first published book, Awaken the Genius, Mind Technology for the 21st Century, which was awarded "Best How-To Book of 1994." She later ghostwrote another book for her husband entitled Discover the Language of the Mind, and they co-wrote Six Secrets of G.E.N.I.U.S. Her Moondance essay, "An Angel for Two Sisters", earned her a nomination for a Pushcart Prize.
Cynthia Joan and her husband, Patrick, reside in Danville, California. She is co-founder of a start-up company, NewReality, which offers self-improvement products and services through alternative health providers. She is working on a book about her life as an entrepreneur. Contact Cynthia at: cynthia@newreality.com
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