Piece Of Cake

As the oldest child, and at my father's ongoing request, I accompanied him on his job picking up bread in the wee morning hours along with other "bread men" from the 18-wheeler truck bringing bakery goods from the city. We loaded our smaller truck with the various types of bread, cinnamon rolls, and cakes and then began the journey to all the local stores.

At one point we were living in Eufaula, Alabama (we moved around a lot). I settled in to the local school, having grown accustomed to "the new kid" process, and of course, was immediately assisting my father on his bread route. On the day he was struck with appendicitis resulting in a prolonged hospital stay, I entered the adult world. No one knew his bread route except me, a twelve-year-old.

I guided the man the bread company sent with meticulous and exacting instruction. I could have done it in my sleep (and no doubt sometimes did). All of a sudden I became aware, except for driving the truck, I could do my father's job. I knew the route, the people, their orders. The external reward I received for my labors that day, a 25 cent milkshake, though delicious, was small in comparison.