Sometimes happiness is as simple as milk and bread. Even now as I sit here in remembrance of a time that was so innocent and pure, so uncomplicated, I shake my head and smile with wonder and ask myself, whatever becomes of that simplicity? How do we lose it? Where does it go? Is there a way to hold onto it or get it back?

Seventeen years of my life have gone by since precious and delicate childhood memories of family, loving and living were etched into my mind'� It is amazing how time does manage to stand still in our youth and then stay with us like a familiar and worn sweater, ready and willing to be put on from time to time to bring comfort to our hearts.

I remember how milk and bread made all of the difference between a dismal day and a happy one. No milk? Why then there would be no cereal, no scrambled eggs, no macaroni and cheese, no powdered Nestle chocolate milk- a special treat. And no bread? Why then there would be no toast and jelly, no bologna sandwiches, no French toast and certainly no tomato sandwiches made from the tomatoes in the garden. Without these, there could be no smiles, no laughter, no fun, just the reality that something very simple and very wonderful was missing.

As children, my brother and I knew times were hard when there wasn't any milk or bread in the house. There were even times when we would go to our neighbor's house and 'borrow' some milk or some bread rather than that proverbial 'cup of sugar.'� There was this one wet and snowy day in our New England town and mother sent us out with a dollar bill to a neighbors house for milk because father was gone to work and he had taken the car. My little brother and I knocked on her door and I said to her, 'My mother would like to pay you for some milk if you have any to spare.'� The woman took the dollar and came back with a plastic container of instant powdered milk. My momentary elation at the prospect of vitamin D whole milk poured over a crunchy bowl of Apple Jacks immediately fizzled into nothing more than good manners as I politely thanked her and returned home to more-than-disappointed mother. Although my brother and I had cereal with the milk we had brought home, that had been a rather dismal day. Apple Jacks had never tasted so sad in all my life.

Once in a while there was a birthday. My family had a tradition; no matter whose birthday it was, they would get a card with a five dollar bill inside. Sometimes we would send five dollars to an aunt or our grandma and then there were times when it was our turn. The five dollars always meant so much. For one thing, five dollars was not always easy to come by, but most importantly, five dollars was enough to buy milk and bread! With every card and every five dollars came a message of love and provision, 'I send you milk and bread, my sweet loved one. I send you a blessing.'� Oh five dollars! Oh joyous day! Milk, bread, and maybe even a little something sweet. Mom used to open the loaf of bread and put the slice right up to her nose and inhale the scent of it, and rejoice- a gift from God, manna from heaven.

I never quite understood why our mother did that. As a little girl, I watched her smell the bread, seeing her eyes close and lips smile over such things as fresh milk and bread.
But I would indeed come to understand that outward expression of thankfulness for the provision of a family for just one day as soon as I was a mother looking after my own son in a world that can be so hard at times'�

I remember my first job. I was eleven years old. It was the summer before sixth grade. I worked picking blueberries at a blueberry farm in our beautiful seaside New England town. My brother was 4 years old. Mother would wake me up at 5:15 a.m. every morning, just enough time to brush my teeth and get dressed. We would put my little brother, still sleeping, in the backseat of our old yellow town car with his lion blanket and drive 10 miles to the blueberry farm. I would grab a milk crate to sit on and several empty cardboard containers to fill and from 5:30-7:30, I would fill up as many quarts as I could. We each got paid 50 cents a quart and I had a daily goal to reach: five dollars! Five dollars to bring home for mother. Five dollars for you, little brother. Five dollars to help father with the family. Five dollars to get the most wonderful treasures of all- milk and bread! Each morning, with blueberry stained fingers and lips and teeth (blueberries for breakfast are such a royal treat!) I would run to our car at 7:40 a.m. and hand mother my bounty. My little brother would giggle with glee because he knew when he saw me it meant a decadent chocolate covered doughnut for him and an ice cold cup of milk.

After the morning stop at the local '7-11'� quick mart, life would be glorious! Tomatoes grew in the garden and nothing ever tasted as delicious as soft, white bread, tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches- the tomatoes warmed from the sun and so juicy, we'd have to eat them outside and just let the sweet juices run down our chins and elbows.
It just seemed that after a filling meal, breakfast, lunch, or dinner- anything was possible. Life just seemed better, warmer, easier, and able to be met with and even conquered. With food in our bellies and maybe even a 50 cents or a dollar left over for an unexpected treat later, life was good. I was a hero. I never felt ashamed of my family or of picking blueberries; in fact, those were some of the happiest memories of all. I was the good daughter. Everyone was proud of me. I was a blessing and not a burden at the age of eleven.

I'll never forget how wonderful it felt each morning, that magical summer, when I was just eleven years old, when five dollars was all we needed to be absolutely intoxicated with joy, to be satisfied with life, for the moment, and what we had, which, more than anything else, was of course, each other. We had each other. We had air in our lungs and sunshine on our faces. And although in the backdrops and undercurrents of what we did not know were a swirl of complexities and problems, for my brother and me, life was simple and we were happy.

That summer, as I have said, was seventeen years ago and on this very day, I experienced the frustration and victory of scraping up wrinkled dollar bills and forgotten dirty coins from the creases in my car seats to once again, bring home to my family, that most cherished of gifts; milk and bread.

Standing in line, at my local Walgreen's store, at the age of 27, with my seven year old son thumbing through the toys in the toy isle, I wait to place the 2 items on the counter. It is the end of a long and hard week of teaching high school and pay day does not come for another 3 days. Rent has been paid. There is gas in the car but groceries are running a little low. Nothing a little milk and bread can't change though. With these 2 items, we are back in business.

It is my turn to pay. The total is $5:14. I only have $4.90. I do not have enough. My heart skips a beat. My entire world teeters on the verge of absolute disintegration. I have to make a choice: put back the milk or put back the bread. I hold up the line, staring at the insufficient funds in my hands. Time threatens to swallow me up in that horrible moment- but I am neither humiliated nor embarrassed- I am outraged! How can this be happening to me right now? I am an English teacher, a college graduate, a pillar of the community, a leader of young and impressionable minds! I am a hard working mother, and here I stand, 17 years after my struggles as a child, still struggling!

I do not have enough money to buy milk and bread for my son. This is inconceivable to me. This does not make sense. This is not the idea I had in mind all those late nights of studying and writing papers for college.

'I guess I'll just take the bread then'�'� I hear a small, distracted voice say, and the voice is mine. In a daze, I take the nearly weightless bag with the loaf of bread in it and in a child-like trance, wander over to my son, who has been investigating the Halloween paraphernalia.

'Look at this mom,'� he tries to show me something.
'Oh yeah'�Can you stay right here for a minute? I forgot something. I'll be right back, okay?'� My son looks at my hands to see what I have forgotten.
'You forgot the milk, mom?'� He asks me, teasingly, as if I had done something silly.
'Yes, I did. Can you believe it? I'll be right back.'� With a burst of energy and a new determination, I run out to the car and search for a few more coins. I look under the mats, and find what I need. Victory would be mine! I would succeed today- not fail. I would provide. My son would have milk with dinner, macaroni and cheese; he would have cereal for breakfast and a PB and J sandwich for lunch.

'Here you go, dear,'� the cashier hands me the receipt and my change; one penny. I smile back into her eyes with pride and a sense of accomplishment. I call to my son for us to go. In my one hand I carry the bounty of our sustenance, the milk and bread, and in my other hand I hold my son's hand in mine. I breathe out a sigh of relief and I am glad. And it feels good today, just as it had 17 years ago, to know that I can provide for my family.

As I sat down to eat with my son that night, taking joy in every bite he lifted into his lovely mouth, I realized I was no longer mad. Going to college was the right thing to do, of course. Working hard to achieve a goal is the best thing I could have done for myself and for my son. Teaching is an amazing profession that will never be matched by the salary it pays. I have a place to call home, a bed to lay my head, a haven for my son, a car to drive to work in each day, the mind and body to get me up and going, to keep me going. Times may be hard, money might be tight, sometimes there will be little to none. But I am not beat, broken or poor. I am blessed and in time my finances will increase. Meanwhile, I'm not going to let a little old thing like money rob me of my happiness. After all, look at what I've been so happy about all along: lots of love and just a little bit of money. As long as we have what really matters, we have so much.

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