The "Is It True?" Series Episode One Hundred Three
"Actions Speak Louder Than Words"
Many children go to school hungry. I did, but it wasn’t for lack of food. Nope, there was always plenty of food on our table. My parents had some tough times, but there was always enough to eat. My Dad would tell my Mom she had better “watch it,” but we never knew the difference.
She never failed to make her trips to the Jewel. When the list on the frig would get more than a few items long, she was off and running. I LOVED a good Pop Tart, especially the cinnamon kind with the brown sugar icing - but not enough to drag myself out of bed for it. I could always get one later. I’d rather sleep. I wouldn’t get out of bed unless threatened by a wooden spoon.
This slacker-type mentality never left me enough time for anything other than rummaging around for all the pieces to my uniform and flying out to the bus stop. I was more concerned with looking “presentable,” so as not to get a punch on my “punch card” and wind up in detention. We were checked individually as we entered church every morning. We would bow our heads to have our hair checked, put our hands out to have our nails checked and then reveal our teeth.
I know it sounds surreal, but it’s true. We were like monkey children. If you made it to the 6th grade, you could wear whatever kind of socks you wanted and I did. I didn’t want to be a monkey girl. Every night I’d plan ahead. I didn’t care if they matched the uniform or not. It was plaid, but I paid it no attention.
Apart from my father who wakes up playing a ukulele, we’re not breakfast people. Don’t talk to a Hadraba about anything of any importance in the morning. Until sufficient coffee has been applied to my brain, it’s not wise to approach me. I’m crabby and rash. If you want me to say yes, pick another time.
In fact, it’s best if you deal with the coffee entirely. I can hardly be trusted with it. I spill the beans, break the decanter, burn myself with hot water, boil the water until the kettle’s bone dry or knock the whole kit-and-caboodle over, resulting in a total mess... with tears. I’ve tried a variety of coffee making methods; automatic, percolator, press pot, cone filter… all with similar consequences.
My Mom is the same way in the morning. She was not big on words, but she was big on food and it was always made with love. This would include the school lunch. At St. Michael's, all we got was milk. We each brought our lunch from home in a bag. It was pre- groovy, trendy, lunch box time, but the lunches my mom made, ruled.
They may have been in a brown bag, but they were special... beginning with how she would put our names on the bags like we were rock stars with some kind of flower or other cool design. No one else had that. She would often put a note… a joke or a quote… or some other kind of surprise in the bag. We were the first ones to have the strawberry bag. It was a variation on the brown paper bag - a white bag with strawberries. She would put our name in one of the strawberries.
After school, we’d totally pig out. Quite often, eating the “breakfast” that we missed that morning… Pop Tarts, cereal, toast, whatever. We went through a lot of bread in my family. We could easily go through a loaf of bread in an afternoon. There was never a problem that a good piece of toast couldn’t solve… Just have a piece and think about it.
You can still find the toaster, the bread, the butter dish and the knife all armed on the counter at Mom's house 24-7. If you walk into the kitchen, it’s pretty much a guarantee someone’s gonna ask you if you want a piece of toast, so get ready. And just an FYI, if you have one, the follow up question is, “another slab?”
My Mom would save the “heels” in an empty bag. When the bag was full, she would cut them into little bread squares and douse them with huge globs of sugar and butter and bake them in the oven until they were crispy… white bread, white sugar and butter. They would be cooling on trays when we tore through the kitchen, just off the bus. You could smell it when you hit the door. We loved those crunchy sugar squares.
Whatever she made was always made with love. It spoke the love she couldn’t say. I’m not going to put words in her mouth, nor into her food, but if there were letters in her food like alphabet soup… it would spell out L-O-V-E.
Square food apparently feeds the masses well. In high school, we got “milk” money. It wasn’t enough to sustain oneself solely from the machines, but we’d try. I lived on Dr. Pepper and a Milky Way for about 3 years until I dropped out. The lunchroom fare was provided… and yes, it was square.
On any given day, one would grab a tray and get in line and I don’t care what it was, it was square… pizza, hamburgers, meatloaf. Things were mushed together, casseroles or whatever would be conveniently plopped in a square paper container in a square clump. It was nasty, but it was food. I guess I was spoiled. Everyone would get excited about the pizza, but I never ate it.
I may not have heard words for love, but then I never heard false promises either. I wouldn’t know what to do with those words if I heard them. I got used to it. I learned to read the signs… when to be happy and when to hide. Dad was on a business trip to Mexico and brought home dolls for each of us. We woke up and they were on the foot of our bed. I can picture him trying to decide who should have what color and laying them there before he left for work. He got the colors right. It still makes me cry. I want those days back.
We used to go for ice cream in the station wagon. We all loved pralines 'n cream and daiquiri ice. Mom made us matching outfits so we wouldn’t get lost on any escapades. We would go to dinner at “The Hamlet” and order kiddie cocktails. The waitress would tell us we were good. My Mom and Dad would smile as if it were so easy, although I know it wasn’t.
How they did it and how they’re still together is miraculously charming. I’d like to do it all again… the good times and the “bad,” the happy times and the “sad.” Although the memories have few words, I still hold their meaning in my heart. I Honor My Truth!
I agree actions speak louder then words. I also believe hearing heartfelt words are also a beautiful thing and are touching. But keep in mind its not always easy for ALL to express themselves verbally..... I personally have no trouble doing this haha... I also think since everyone is not expressive in words.. its really important to pay attention to actions..because sometimes there is more stated or expressed in an action. But then again ...I think thats exactly what you expressed here while talking about your parents.
Thanks for sharing Angeliis
It's tempting to say 'always, actions speak louder than words' but then I think of those times when we act because we don't know another way. We think and we know somewhere deep inside, but acting on it is just a weeeeee bit too hard.
Another fantastic question! (And, btw, really good writing, too.)
You are a bottomless well of creativity, Debra.
Here's an idea for one of your productions: tell us how you do so much.
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