Spilled milk

...where'd you say you're from?

My parents left me when I was ten years old.

This was nothing new, of course.

Mom and Dad were serial entrepreneurs. They traveled a lot, worked late, and worked most weekends, but my brothers, sisters, and I got along fine.

We D’Arcy kids were self-reliant, self-starters, and self-managed. We were D’Arcys, after all.

No babysitter required.

But despite our independence, Mom and Dad D’Arcy decided to try something different this time…

…they welcomed a strange family into the D’Arcy household to ‘watch over’ the D’Arcy clan.

This was unprecedented.

To further our confusion, upon arrival, the matriarch of this invasionary force immediately commandeered the D’Arcy kitchen to prepare meatloaf, string beans, and mashed potatoes with gravy.

“Sunday Dinner,” she called it.

And then she announced that we were all expected to “wash up, dress up, and be on our best behavior.”

Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

But that’s not what we D’Arcys do

This was also quite unprecedented.

We D’Acys were feral, free-range, free-wheeling free agents. When it came to food, we fended for ourselves. Rice Krispies, SpaghettiOs, TV dinners, baloney sandwiches, peanut butter at the end of a spoon… whatever we could get our grubby little hands on.

The D’Arcy family ate together maybe twice a year. Christmas and Thanksgiving, that was it—and even those were very loose, casual affairs.

“Sunday Dinner?” You must be joking.

But this visiting mother-type… she insisted

“You may sit wherever you like,” she directed. So long as it’s not in the Father’s seat at the head of the table,” she motioned, “or my seat here,” she smiled.

Her graceful presentation rivaled any of ‘Barker's Beauties’ on The Price Is Right.

“No elbows on the table, please,” her finger wagged. "It's impolite.”

“Always keep still in your seat, eat everything on your plate, and always, always ask permission to be excused.”

The rules seemed reasonable enough, she seemed nice enough, and her food smelled good enough, so the five of us D'Arcys figured… Hey, why not? and we fell in line.

But their kids—that well-dressed group of raggamuffins… well, they didn't get it.

Their daughter, who was probably six years old, started the calamity by refusing to eat her string beans.

“Euuuw,” she complained. Scaping the green mound to the side of her plate, she looked up through chopped bangs and scanned her parents for a reaction.

Nothing.

“Eeuuuuuuuuw!” she wailed again and began to sob.

With a nod from the father, the mother went to work. Standing behind the six-year-old, she pinched the child's nose with one hand and shoveled forkfuls of string beans into her wailing mouth with the other.

“Eeeuuuuuuuuw!” the banshee howled. “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!”

My brothers, sisters, and I gaped in horror. We had never seen anything like it.

Then, as if on cue, their second oldest child, an eight-year-old named Stephen, began plopping his fork into the gravy puddle at the center of his mashed potatoes.

Plop… plop… plop… plop… Slow and lazy, both elbows on the table, head resting on one fist, fork dangling from the other hand.

Plop… plop… plop… plop…

Each plop sent milky brown arcs splashing across the meatloaf and onto the white tablecloth.

Plop… plop… plop… plop…

All this while his banshee of a sister howled. “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!””

The dad huffed through clenched teeth. Fork in one fist, knife in the other, he ground his wrists into the table's edge.

Plop… plop… plop… “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!” Plop… plop… plop… “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!”

The father's lip curled in disgust.

“I will not have it!” he erupted, slammed his utensils flat on the table, and marched around the table to Stephen.

Wrenching the fork from the boy's hand, he twisted Stephen's arm behind his back.

“Neeeeeoohhhh!” the boy screamed. “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!” the banshee wailed.

“Neeeeeoohhhh!” “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!” “Neeeeeoohhhh!” “Eeeuuuuuuuuw!”

We D'Arcys sat …wide-eyed in disbelief.

Then… their eldest, my age, I think. Old enough to know better but clearly slow of wit… he reaches for his milk without looking, like it's an afterthought, like he does this all the time, like the current entertainment is just too good to miss and splash! the glass topples over, splatters across the table, and soaks his father's trousers.

The mom and the dad completely lost their marbles.

Muttering curses through clenched teeth, the would-be parental figures muscled each of their well-dressed hellions off to their rooms—our rooms— “with no supper” while twisting their arms and pulling their ears.

That family stayed in our house for an entire week, but I don't remember anything else about them or their visit.

I simply pushed myself away from the table and walked out the door.

Went to Blake’s

Third grade, new school, five minutes before the bell.

The kid in front of me spins around. “Got a pencil?” he says.

His crumpled white t-shirt sports the Del Monte logo emblazoned across his chest.

“I'm a Human Bean” is written beneath it in a bold, stylish script.

“Cool shirt,” I say.

He looks at me.

“Can I have it?” he finally says. “Your pencil,” he points. “Can I have your pencil?”

That kid, Rick Blake, became my first and only best friend.

I escaped to Blake's house so often that my Mom kept the same tattered note in our kitchen junk drawer.

Mom

Went to Blake’s

Love, Paul

Circa 1976: My penmanship has never been better.

I'd pull it out and slap it on the counter on my way out the door. Stashed it away whenever I was home… like one of those old ‘Out of Office’ message boards receptionists used.

Mom might not have known exactly where I was or what I was doing, but at least she knew who I was with… for the most part.

The Blake house was like my second home… only it wasn't. It was one of many.

Blake's, McGee's, Gorny's, Whitworth's, LeBeau's… Rick and I drifted from house to house—different friends from different families, each with different expectations, staying only until things got hard, their parents lost their temper, or we got bored.

We hopped from house to house trailer, tree fort to abandoned garage, from the train tracks to under the bridge, from the woods to the river, from the park to the community pool, and back again.

That one time…

Things didn't always go smoothly, of course. Rick and I got ourselves into a fair mix of trouble.

But for whatever reason, possibly because Mom and Dad Blake had never met Mom and Dad D'Arcy. I was always in the clear. Worse that might happen, Rick would be grounded.

But that didn't affect me, so I moved on.

I'd cycle from the Blakes to the Whitworths, from Whitworth's to LeBeau's, from LeBeau's to the McGee's, and back to Blake's again.

There’s no place like home… wherever that is

Researchers say the average person moves eleven times throughout their lifetime.

Who are they kidding?

By the time I was six years old, I'd lived in two states, five counties, two houses, one hotel, one inner-city housing project, and a lonely one-room schoolhouse out in the middle of nowhere.

When classmates asked me where I was from… I'd tell them, “From all over.” And if they pressed, I'd say, “Look. My mom was a stewardess.” But only because ‘flight attendants‘ hadn't been invented yet.

I've had the proverbial ants in my pants since birth and couldn't wait to strike out on my own.

So I didn’t wait.

I got my commercial driver's license when I was 16 years old and immediately hit the road with my uncle, the truck driver.

My uncle and I crisscrossed the country together, never staying anywhere longer than a night or two.

When I finally married and ‘settled down’ at the ripe old age of 19, I'd lived in every state this side of the Mississippi… and a few on the other side, too.

But my wandering days were far from over.

With a growing family to support, I jumped from job to job, chasing promotions, higher pay, better benefits, better working conditions… Hell, sometimes I jumped jobs simply to try something new.

Then I woke up

But with each new opportunity came new schools, new neighbors, new friends…

By the time my first-born Heather was eight, she'd moved at least that many times. By the time she was in high school, she'd moved another eight times.

“I swear, Dad,” she once told me, “If we move one more time, I swear I'm going homeless.”

We laughed.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

I never realized how much pain and anguish I was causing my beautiful children.

Running away was nothing new to me. As a kid, I ran to avoid conflict. As an adult, I ran to find ‘better,’ whatever that was.

All well and good… for me.

But I never wanted that for my children.

Standing still

Each Christmas, my daughter Heather hosts a big family dinner.

As I sit at her table – not at the head, mind you, but comfortably to the side – I can't help but think about that awkward Sunday dinner so long ago.

Last year, during our annual family gathering, her youngest boy, Reid, knocked over his drink, sending bubbly rivers of Sprite across the table and onto my lap.

My heart stopped for a moment, but Heather just laughed, already reaching for paper towels. "No use crying over spilled milk," she said, winking at her son. Reid giggled, helped clean up, and dinner continued without missing a beat.

No twisted arms. No pulled ears. No children sent to bed hungry.

My parents gave me independence, and I gave my children chaos. But Heather? She's giving her children roots.

When Heather gave birth to her third child last month, a happy, healthy, strapping young lad, I asked her, “Gosh, Honey, where's the little fella gonna sleep? Are you guys shopping for a bigger house?”

Heather laughed at me. “No, Dad,” she said. “We're not going to move. It'd be too hard on the boys. We're fine right here—at least until they all graduate. Then… maybe. We'll see.”

I used to think home was wherever the next opportunity was or wherever the wheels stopped for the night.

But now I know that home is wherever love keeps flowing, even when – especially when – the milk spills over.

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I love you guys! 🥰

Be blessed. Be safe. And wherever you are, may you always find your way home.

-Paul