Three Wasn't Company, It Was A Family

I grew up in a single parent household since my father died when I was three. It was 1940, a time when my Mom had no car and walked for miles to get to work but glad
to have the work. Going to work at 3 p.m. was bad enough when she had to brave
the rain or the snow. But it was the coming home at 11:00 p.m. that must have been
the worst.

Of course, now, that I can’t asked her, I wonder what she thought about when she walked up those empty, dark streets, through a park toward home. I wonder if she was afraid or if she talked to herself, maybe, even sung out loud, since there wasn’t anyone around. But no, I don’t believe so. She probably hurried as fast as her tired legs could and was thankful when she reached the unlocked front door of our house.

This was a time when my 16 year-old brother, who was the oldest, cooked supper for my sister and I. There was always something to eat. But I liked it best when Mom could afford to buy pork chops. There was always three. They were pink, with fat running around the sides and with a bone. They were never thick. Yet, they were never skinny. They always seemed to be just right. The bone was always good when you chewed on it after the meat was gone.

Buddy would coat them in flour, shake some salt and pepper over them and carefully, brown them on both sides. Never did he burn them. There were three of us for supper, my brother, sister and I. But the first pork chop out of the pan was always placed on a plate and put inside the oven for Mom to eat when she got home. The other two chops were shared between the three of us.

Buddy always made gravy. He would scrape the brown flour drippings from the bottom of the iron pan, mixing them with the grease until he thought it was just right. If we did not have milk or canned Wilson evaporated milk, there was always water. The gravy was good poured over "white" bread and maybe, if he felt like it, and if Mom had them, he would peel two white potatoes and mash them. I hated it when he opened a can of spinach and heated it up. But it wasn’t too bad if Mom had some vinegar to put in it.

Like I have said before, I can’t ever remember going to bed hungry.