Joy. It sprouts in childhood, more for some than others. There are people who can look back and see privilege and great parenting while others would like nothing more than to skip the shrink once in a while. I can stretch all the way back to a time before my babysitting years, when I held my mother's hand and rested my head on her lap, and one thing remains clear: that there has always been, for me, a thread of innocence, one that gives me comfort and good, solid roots from which I can thrive and learn to love on my own.
Possibly the fondest memory of my childhood lies in the gifts that my mother gave me. And her gifts came to me in the simplicity of food with her purest intentions. Everything bruised was healed with a hug and a Hershey bar. Oh, the Hershey bar. It melted between my fingers and had the power to melt my heart. It was usually hidden from us so that my brothers and sister and I wouldn't eat it all in one fell swoop. Sure, my mother hid things from us and chocolate was no different. Christmas gifts, Easter eggs, desserts. But we didn't look for those items, only the Hershey's. Now that I am older I am pretty convinced that she meant to hide that rich block of deliciousness so that we would find it. I think she knew we would look for it, and she wanted us to have that satisfaction of finding it. Now that's love.
Once, While my mother was at work, my brother Dave, the "bag of bones" (we called him that because he was so dreadfully skinny) climbed up on every counter top, the kitchen table, the dining room hutch, every possible spot out of reach until he snagged the 16 oz. bar. The funny thing is, we never worried that we'd get in trouble for eating it. And we ate it so fast, I only remember that it was worth standing on the counter, reaching back into the dark dusty cupboard, and wolfing it down before my mother pulled into the driveway.
Her little gestures of love spread quickly, and we all learned how to give back. I started with the source: my parents. At that time, my parents budget was tight, so my mother chose to buy these tiny cans of frozen orange juice from concentrate, the store brand from Finast. There was just enough in a prepared pitcher to fill the six little yellow glasses that we drank from every single morning. Not a drop more, and of course, nothing less. One morning, I couldn't have been more than seven or eight, I climbed out of bed before the rest of my family. All the doors to the bedrooms were closed. It was early just before Saturday sun up, and so I made my way down to the kitchen. I don't know, for the life of me, what possessed me to do it , but I decided that I was going to "make the orange juice." I pulled up a chair to search the freezer for a can. There it was, the last one. My mom used to run it under hot water for a minute to loosen it from the sides. Empty contents into a pitcher. Fill 3 cans of cold water and pour. Stir. Serve. I could do that. I've watched it done every morning for 6 years! I filled that Tupperware pitcher, poured two little, plastic, yellow glasses all scratched and chewed around the rims, and carefully brought them to my room where I waited until I heard my parents talking, the signal that told me it was okay to go in.
"Here you go."
"What's this?"
"I made it myself.... Is it good? Do you like it?"
"It's delicious."
Joy. Innocence. Love.
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