I must have been about three years old. Those were the days when, to raise a family, only one parent had to work. My father worked in the aerospace industry and my mother stayed home with me and my two sisters.
We had a three-bedroom home with a black and white TV (we received about seven channels). We had a lawn in the back yard and the same in the front. In those days we could play outside, unattended, while Mom did household chores. If we went to the neighbor’s house we were then under the care of that mom. Those were halcyon days. Sitting with a PB&J leaning limply in my little hand, watching Sheriff John on TV at lunchtime; Mickey Mouse Club in the afternoon.
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In my room I had a small chair with attached table; peg board on one side and a chalk board on the other. I would draw stick figures of The Three Stooges, and then run down the hall to find my mother and drag her back to see my drawing. She’d compliment me on my artistic prowess then return to her house work. I’d erase the drawing and draw the same thing again. I’d find her again and repeat the dragging of Mom back to my room for her critique of my art. I do not recall how many times nor for how many days this occurred, but I do recall that she never told me she couldn’t come and see my chalk drawings.
I remember my father mowing the lawns (with a push mower) the day before Easter, then finding small nests made from those grass clippings filled with colored eggs the following morning.
More than half a century ago, my whole life lay ahead of me. I doubt then that I pondered anything more than watching cartoons and hoping my father didn’t have to work on the following Saturday so I could play with him. I spent hours driving toy trucks up and down the front walk. For my third birthday I’d gotten a cement mixer and an ice cream truck. In those days, toys were made of metal. I wore out many a knee on my pants as I drove those trucks back and forth.
For Christmas right after my third birthday, Santa brought me a swing set and I’d sit for hours on the various swings. Behind our house were fields of oil pumps. I saw them as large animals dipping their heads up and down to drink oil. They bobbed and I swung. Up and down. Back and forth. I whiled away many an hour on that swing set, watching the oil pump creatures drink up their oil while I enjoyed the Southern California sunshine. On a rare occasion when my little sisters were napping (and I wasn’t yet relegated to my bed for an afternoon slumber) my mother would join me on my swing set.
It was always a special treat when I got private time with my mom. Even today, when I ponder the meaning of Love, it, to me, is perfectly embodied in the presence of my mother. Her touch was always gentle, her voice always soft. And she remains the same to this day.
One special afternoon she joined me on the swing set. This time she arrived carrying two sugar cones, each topped with a scoop of strawberry ice cream. What a treat! But the splendor didn’t end there. As I struggled to keep ahead of the sun and the subsequent melting rivulets of ice cream flowing over my knuckles, my mom said to me, “Here, watch this.”
She raised her cone and bit off the bottom. She then sipped ice cream from the bottom of the cone. I had to try it! (Please insert here the sound of Herald Angels.) I knew that, in that instant, my life had changed. Though I was too young to articulate the thought, I knew then and there that there would be nothing better in my life, there could be nothing better in my life than slurping melting strawberry ice cream from the nipped off bottom of a sugar cone.
And here, more than five decades past, battles fought and avoided, loves found and lost, fortunes made and squandered, I know that there is no greater meaning in life than the simple pleasure of enjoying an ice cream cone with a loved one. Especially if you slurp it from the bottom of the cone!
