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    Broken Table: My Spiritual Journey from Carnivorous Cowgirl to Plant-Based Athlete
    Broken Table: My Spiritual Journey from Carnivorous Cowgirl to Plant-Based Athlete
    Broken Table: My Spiritual Journey from Carnivorous Cowgirl to Plant-Based Athlete
    Ebook119 pages2 hours

    Broken Table: My Spiritual Journey from Carnivorous Cowgirl to Plant-Based Athlete

    By Tanya Garrett

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A personal memoir of a spiritual journey from the carnivorous granddaughter of a cattle rancher to a plant-based equestrian athlete. The author shares her experiences with cancer, heart disease, and chronic inflammatory diseases, as well as the loss of her father and brother to heart disease and cancer.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLulu.com
    Release dateNov 27, 2020
    ISBN9781716495670
    Broken Table: My Spiritual Journey from Carnivorous Cowgirl to Plant-Based Athlete

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      Book preview

      Broken Table - Tanya Garrett

      journey.

      Chapter One: Raised by the Marlboro Man

      In my first memory of my dad, I’m standing in the driveway of my childhood home on Park Street in Attleboro, Massachusetts during the blizzard of 1978. I remember being bundled up so much I could barely move, my arms and legs wrapped in a puffy snowsuit. My dad had been shoveling snow from the driveway and digging out the family cars. The whole world had gone white, but there was my dad, a towering, brown, furry figure holding my younger brother, who—like me—was bundled up like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. I waddled around the freshly shoveled driveway surrounded by walls of snow confident that I was safe in the presence of my big, strong dad. Standing next to him, he seemed like a giant to me. He was the essence of American masculinity embodied in the man I called Daddy.

      My hometown is a pretty typical middle-to-working class city in suburban Massachusetts. I grew up in the seventies and eighties, so there were a ton of new 3-bedroom, 1- to 2-bathroom ranches and raised ranches cropping up everywhere when I was small. Our home looked much like any other home in the area except that our house had been built at the end of a private driveway next to my Aunt Sue and Uncle Steve's raised ranch and kitty corner to our grandparent's raised ranch. Across the street was an odd shack. The resident was a descendant of the previous landowners; he took up squatter's rights on the land before it was sold to a developer and had a job delivering papers for the local newspaper The Sun Chronicle. Flash, as many of the area residents called him, could occasionally be seen heading out to the woods to hunt with his black lab. My dad fit in our town about as well as that rundown little homemade shack fit on that working-class suburban street.

      Attleboro wasn't a town people move to, at least not normally. Most of the people who live in Attleboro have been there—or in the general area—for three generations or more. Many of the town’s residents can trace their ancestry back to the 17th century. In our Portuguese Catholic community, everyone came from farmers or fisherman and worked at any number of the jewelry and manufacturing businesses in town. They wore working-class clothes from Sears and J.C. Penny. They worked long factory hours and saved money to send their children to college, so their children could have a better life than they did, just as their immigrant parents had worked hard to give them a better life. They were exactly what you would expect from Baby Boomers living the suburban American dream in their cookie-cutter houses in cookie-cutter subdivisions.

      Having grown up in the expansive, sparsely populated Garfield County, Colorado, my Dad was the Marlboro man in a suit. He worked as a Database Administrator in Boston and dressed for the job in beautifully tailored suits, but his suits were always topped off by a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, even when he worked at IBM where unconventional accessories were frowned upon. In the winter, his outfit was covered by a heavy sheepskin coat, and the cowboy hat was replaced by a thick fur hat. You could easily imagine him riding out to tend to cattle in the middle of a blizzard—even when he was wearing an expensive suit. From my earliest memories, his skin had that weathered look that only harsh mountain sun and wind could produce. When I was in high school, his cowboy persona was exacerbated by his white '66 Cadillac; during a time when everyone else's car had gotten smaller and more fuel efficient, my Dad's car looked like something that should have had bull horns protruding from the hood. You half expected Boss Hog to step out of the driver's seat when he pulled up—a look that would have been completed by our family Basset Hound.

      His clothes and car were only part of the cowboy persona. Saturdays were spent working hard in the yard or on projects in the house, projects other suburban residents paid people to do. His cowboy nature wouldn’t allow him to pay for services he could complete himself, even if he had to buy a book to learn how to do it. His basement library had a shelf dedicated to How-To books, ranging in topics from plumbing to rebuilding a transmission. He also wasn’t one to go to the doctor unless he couldn’t get out of bed. He was too tough to ask for help when there was a chance he could heal on his own. I remember one incident when my mother had to force my dad to go to the ER. He cut his thumb pretty much in half while cutting vinyl siding. He told her he had it under control, but she insisted he go to the hospital for stitches. He had followed his dad's wish to chase an easier, white collar life, but he tenaciously held on to the cowboy roots that set him apart from his peers.

      The thing I remember most—and miss most—about my dad were his great big, warm hugs that made you feel more loved than anything in the world, the kind of hugs where you were wrapped up in safe, strong arms. To this day, his hugs are one of the things his children, grandchildren, and friends remember most about him. He was often hard to get along with and could be very harsh in his criticisms, but when times were tough, you could always count on him for a hug—a genuine expression of love that made everything better. When his faults made him a hard man to love, his hugs made up the difference. His hugs said what he couldn't. His hugs were the best. In fact, it’s one of the few things about my dad that I looked for—and found—in a spouse.

      He was also one of those people who had a hundred different laughs, like people who can make Really have a hundred different meanings. One laugh seemed to come from his toes and make everyone around him laugh. Another laugh came with a twinkle in his eye that let you know he was planning something mischievous; he was well known for his pranks and practical jokes. One laugh let you know you had just said the wrong thing, and he was MAD. Another laugh let you know you he didn't believe a word you were saying. (We heard that one a lot as teenagers!) He had more laughs than most people have facial expressions, and he could say more with a chuckle than most people do with 1,000

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