Human Parts
m Stay with you at night in a house with 2-3 children in bed at night. Because we didn't have much in terms of extras or luxuries in life, we could spend time fantasizing about better things while waiting for sleep.
Most Friday nights, 13 of us went to bed wondering if garbage bag donuts and gasoline chocolate were waiting for us in the morning. There was a lot of hope to admit, but this week depends on what was thrown in front of our door. Some people will work harder than others.
During that period, almost every Saturday morning, I would have woken up to my brother's faulty breathing on my face.
And almost every Saturday morning, Joe the Donut Man actually delivered the goods. If we were lucky, a solid block of chocolate (reminiscent of a 2 x 2 inch section and evoking gasoline) would be resting with a pastry bag.
Joe ran a small, respected repair shop in our town, a quiet and unassuming mechanic. But that was his day job. He rose to mythic status in our house. Our kids had no idea who Joe was or exactly what snack of future root canals he was delivering.
What's the bigger puzzle for us? Surely, Joe didn't think we were poor. Just because we didn't have breakfast every morning? Our cabinet was choked with Cheerios and Carnation Powdered Milk. We had a stack of Baloney burst from the fridge to cry loudly.
Yes. We were a biblically large family, living in cramped quarters, ignoring all safety protocols with only one car. And yes, we're sure people talked about us as we moved down the street in replicated packs. But whenever we potentially had the eyes or ears of the village gossip, it was Mother's life mission to always dress us neatly, feed us well, and behave our best. She made sure we were best dressed for Easter - head wound open or not.
Our concerns about being meager and the method of passing on that secret and the interest in the day quickly disappeared. We wouldn't have pursed our lips for the sake of mysterious concierge's generosity. We wouldn't have risked it by asking foolish questions.
We also wouldn't have given hints if the donuts were crumpled or withdrawn. As for the smell of gasoline chocolate, would a child of the 70s with a sense of dignity deliver a block of pure brown joy due to nasal disgust? Not one of us. We lived with farts in regular faces.
We enjoyed self-induced ignorance about details for quite a while. The dark truth was unearthed until my brother Jonny started dating a girl from another prominent family in town. The Garcia family is close to a 2-tier herd with only 8 children. Joanie learned from a conversation with one of the Garcia Girls that she could get the donut bag delivered to the doorstep the day before on Saturday morning.
When she reported the news back to me, a small part of my mouth and stomach opened. It couldn't be true. What was she talking about? We were recipients of Joe's generosity. How did the Garcia girl find out about our sweet secret? But the more we talked, the more she would have realized what she told me.
When she delivered the final report to me, she relayed it to the Berrys (only 7 children) and the Laughlins (just 6). As she revealed the details, my face flushed with the weight of many emotions.
Joe was a double deal. He cut through our town with donuts as a reckless offering. We weren't Joe's only people. We were part of a common charity case. I felt a kind of collapse, especially me at number 9 - a kind of collapse. It seemed as if the foundation of our reputation had come undone. I could feel our story hovering over me. We weren't as special after all. We weren't unique. We weren't the "town's big family." We were just another big family.
I screamed the news about the house that day as if witnessing a murder, hotter than the preacher at the church. The older kids shrugged it off in a "don't say much" way, while the younger crowd wondered if this would make the magic donuts disappear.
But for the middle stewardess, especially me 9 - feeling a personal assault sense was a kind of collapse. It felt like the foundation of our reputation was crumbling. I could feel our story hovering over me. We weren't that special after all. We weren't unique. We weren't the "village's big family." We were just another big family.
Feeling unique in a crowd of that size is a rare experience. Efficiently using time and resources is difficult, and honestly, trying to stand out on stage is difficult, and honestly, being honest and frankly speaking is difficult. Your number defines your position in the pecking order and the actions of predecessors greatly influence the foundation and direction of your life whether you like it or not. Your actions operate similarly to the cohort below.
Whether real or imagined, tearing leaves a hot red mark. I was pricked for a moment as I reworked my steps. But over time, the lessons that changed Donut Man Joe's life began to unfold like sweet yeast. Realizing that our family situation was not unique in our small town brought some comfort, knowing that we were no longer the "other people" in the city. Having a deep connection with the other "other people" and in the rearranged story, made it a little easier to breathe.
The most important lesson was learning what humility is. Donut Man Joe didn't need to make such selfless efforts to many children who shed many tears without thanking him or even acknowledging his generosity. He did it because he cared about his neighbors even when he didn't live on the same side of town. His lovely acts of service may not have been grand, but they seem not to care. He wasn't in it for points or glory. He didn't seek applause for living out his belief in how to live. He went out simply and humbly to bring a little excitement and joy to the small lives of our entire local community.
Later in life as a parent, I gained deeper gratitude for what his sacrifice did to comfort hearts and minds, and to help struggling moms and dads under stress. I may not offer my hand regularly without expecting to receive, but I try to remember Joe's way of service and act with his spirit. However, I must confess that I still have some secret information to help soothe the injured ego during anxious times.
When I shook my sister about the conversation with Garcia Gal, I asked about chocolate. No, the smelly cookies were not mentioned in all the detailed discussions. The sigh I let out left a bit of bright hair when I tucked the warm happy, benzene love letter into my heart.
Perhaps we would have been a little special after all.
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