Milk toast

Last Sunday morning at 11 o’clock the first snowflake started to fall. Even though I had been raised better, I wasn’t prepared.

By 11:05 I was in the car headed to the grocery store for the necessary snow provisions. Pulling into the almost full parking lot, it seemed like half this county was also caught unprepared.

Inside the store frantic people were scurrying around like ants after a dropped gummy bear. Carts were bumping into each other all over the place.

Suddenly, on aisle four, someone took the corner too fast and spilled his entire load, causing a five cart pile-up.

It was like these people had never seen snow before, or could it be they were all here for the same snow provisions like me?

I had to hurry. After checking to see if anyone needed medical attention – they didn’t – I pushed around the pile-up on aisle four continuing towards my destination.

Along the way I passed an old guy with a cart full of those easy to light fire logs. Guess he got tired of splitting wood.

Turning the corner towards the frozen food, I almost ran into two young guys laughing as they pushed a cart loaded down with adult beverages and dog food. An odd combination for sure, but these are tough times and some of that dog food looks really good.

Did you know you can buy gourmet dog cookies nowadays? And they taste just like cookies. Not that I’ve ever eaten any, mind you. That’s just what they advertise on the side of the box.

After dodging two runaway grocery carts, I finally arrived at my destination. I quickly loaded the cart down with the staples that would ensure The Wife’s and my survival from the impending winter storm.

I paid for my two gallons of milk and two loaves of white bread and was soon back home safe from the falling snow flakes.

Now some of you may think that I’m not smart enough to come up with such unique survival techniques, and you’re right. All the credit goes to my mom.

Living at 110 Flamingo Street, anytime there was even a hint of snow, sleet or ice, mom would load us kids up in the green station wagon with the faux wood panels and off to the grocery store we would head.

She would always buy the same thing, two gallons of milk and two loaves of white bread.

Her reasoning was simple; the milk man doesn’t deliver milk with those cardboard caps in the snow. And her reason for all the bread was even simpler. We had to have something to eat when we drank our milk.

Buying milk and bread wasn’t the only thing Mom did when it snowed. Before any of us went out to play, Mom loaded us down in three layers of clothes so we wouldn’t get cold. Dad also helped; he took care of our feet.

First, he made us wear socks, something we never liked doing. Then he wrapped a plastic bag around each foot, another pair of socks, and then boots. He did the same with our hands. We were the only kids on Flamingo Street that had socks for mittens.

Sure we looked funny, but at least our hands were warm. Between my parents, they didn’t have to worry about us falling down and getting hurt. We could hardly even move.

I guess something’s from childhood you never forget, like your first snow and three straight days of milk toast for dinner.

When I arrived back home, The Wife looked at my hard-won life-saving snow provisions with concern. She patted me on the head and said, “You know, we don’t ever eat white bread.”

Even though she grew up in Virginia, my sweet Yankee Wife obviously never learned the right snow survival skills.