My Mother’s Lesson of the Broken Cake Platter

Our home on the back highway in Pharr was furnished for a 10 year old to live in. I could sit on the couch with a baseball glove and ball, bounce a basketball on the living room floor or repeatedly toss a football toward the ceiling. As long as I did not scratch or dent something, scuff the paint or knock furniture over, we neighborhood kids had free rein as we watched Dizzy Dean on Saturday afternoons.

We had few items of worth, but we knew what those were and gave them wide berth - with one disastrous exception. My mother’s favorite possession was not something expensive but instead was of great sentimental value. She had inherited from her grandmother a beautiful cut glass cake platter that was prominently displayed in the center of our dining room table.

As the story unfolds I had just received a brand new Red Rider replica Winchester rifle. It cocked and popped like a real gun when I pulled the trigger. It was not yet broken in and it was hard to cock.

As we were want to do, my good buddy neighbor Bobby Robie and I were playing cowboys, pretending to be in a running gunfight that started back in my bedroom and progressed through the living room into the dining room. Urgently needing to reload as I passed the dining table and requiring leverage to cock the rifle, I placed the butt on the edge of the table braced by my left hand and pulled the lever with my right. Things went horribly wrong. The butt slipped on the slick surface and propelled by my downward push flew across with enough force to lift the precious plate toward the far wall like an airborne hockey puck. Upon contact it broke into a thousand pieces.

After the explosion of glass shards there was silence, absolute quiet. Bobby gave me a look I understood and bailed out the side door. I was thunderstruck. I had destroyed that one material treasure my mother held dear.

I was alone in the house and dreading what was coming when mother came home. Knowing I was caught with no escape, I confessed upon sight and offered genuine apologies. I had never felt worse about any action taken.

Like most mothers of the late 1950’s, instead of immediately displaying overt sadness or anger, she attempted to comfort me in my distraught state. She put on a good act by calling it an accident, but I knew my carelessness had wounded her. I had deprived her of a family heirloom. Later I sneaked a peak behind a partially closed door to observe her crying while sitting in a chair at her dressing table. I tiptoed away unseen.

Her actions were typical of her life long sacrifice for me. She knew I was sorry and regretted my disrespect of the cake platter. But she also knew that her exhibition of loving forgiveness would be a much longer lasting lesson. In deed, I will never forget my mother’s unselfish love. Her example provided an invaluable resource of how best to parent.