No Tears for Spilled Milk today

Back in the early 1980s, when innocence seemed far more common, I spent a short time living with my new christian foster family. They were kind people doing good-hearted things, with two small toddlers of their very own, but took me in anyway. A precocious stubborn teen boy with nowhere to go after a horrid situation with my morally monstrous birth mother.

Staying there with them it was often my conscripted duty to do certain household chores for them at a mere 12 years old. Yes, I was the small, thin, shy errand boy fulfilling my drafted duties when required.

One fine early afternoon, I was enlisted to walk to a local corner store for a gallon of whole milk by myself. The walk was not an issue, it was a friendly area on the west side of Buffalo, and I’ve dealt with stores many times like this when asked, even at my tender age. I paid the merchant, and he gave me a very flimsy thin brown paper bag to carry my heavy white burden of whole milk.

I walked three blocks in both directions in the bright glory of the sunlit day, trudging my way up the stairs to the upper floor where we all lived, old wooden stairs creaking in light complaint.

Arriving at the top, I opened the heavy engraved wooden door and came inside. As soon as I stepped onto the living room floor, the flimsy paper bag suddenly broke, due to the moisture and condensation of the cold milk.

The gallon hit the hardwood floor fast, and burst like an overripe melon hit with buckshot! An explosion of milk occurred, and there was suddenly a large wide river of white, snaking its wet way across the wooden floor towards the unfortunate rug like wild white water rapid!

Patti (my young foster mother) was in the kitchen, but looked down the hallway when I entered and witnessed it all. I have never heard such a primal scream of enragement towards me, not in all my years since that time either. It was a scream worthy of a witness seeing a murder, the human equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, but magnified. It would have frightened a hungry aggressive lion away, it was that piercing.

None of it was my actual fault, I was merely doing as I was instructed, but it could have been the End of the World, as far as Patti was concerned. I came close to a heart attack right on the very spot, just from the combination of the dropped gallon, the explosion, and the loudness and shock of her reaction. After the original scream, came another. Equally loud and frightening, but actual words this time.

"JOHNNY!!! What have you Done!"

It was more than unsettling, it was heart-stopping. Luckily I was still young, and my heart was strong, but I was still in a sort of shock, and scared out of my wits, like a cat getting hit by a stream of water. If I had claws, I would have been stuck to the ceiling in fright if possible.

Eventually Christian her husband being the natural-born diplomat that he was calmed her and convinced her the fault was not mine, and she was sufficiently calmed, at least enough for normal discourse.

Within a few minutes, the mop up was already occurring via the efficiency of Christian, kind soul that he was, and the river had only affected the edge of the carpeting.

Of course, I ended up sent right back to the store, and buying another gallon, they did have two adorable little girls after all, and milk was an absolute necessity.

I carried it back by hand, using the handle and not a bag, which I was only too happy to do, for the purposes of pure appeasement and diplomacy. As in many times, I did not do what I wanted, but what I must, if I wished to keep on living obviously.

I think I’ve always had a bit of the diplomat inside of myself as well, maybe as an adaptive survival mechanism. Not specifically good, but useful and necessary, and often in my existence mandatory for my very continuation.

I learned many things from them. How to change diapers (of course), how to unhappily wash mass amounts of sauce-stained pots, pans, and dishes. Also how to keep my big mouth shut in the spirit of self-preservation. As well as how to get by with minimal sleep on a small couch in the middle of their well-used living room. I learned what was necessary, but also some other handy skills that came in useful over my years. I also learned the hazardous nature of spilling milk on an Italian woman's floor.

The End