Famous Amos
In the Ramona books, every other Friday Mr. Quimby would have his pay day, and he would bring a treat home for the girls (books, a stack of coloring paper, fresh crayons, gummy bears). These things are small in retrospect, but reading their stories and growing up with the Quimby girls, I was just as thrilled by the idea of these presents as they were.
Once in a while I’d ask when Dad’s pay day was and if he would start doing something like that for Jane and me. Mom always sort of explained that Dad didn’t have pay days like that, and the tradition never transitioned from Quimby to Hardwick family.
I know I grew up naive. My parents did an excellent job of sheltering me, and for the most part I don’t think that was a bad thing. But I should’ve realized earlier that it meant something that I couldn’t explain what my dad’s job was. (Later I would settle on business executive.)
We weren’t the Quimbys. We lived in a big house, went to private school, and our treats took different forms. Beezus and Ramona got their books and candy every other Friday, while I got riding lessons, Jane got the clothes she wanted, and we would all take yearly trips to Florida or Arizona or Hawaii.
I can’t believe it took me as long as it did to realize we were rich. I should’ve known from the books I read that I wasn’t like the middle class protagonists, but I couldn’t help myself from identifying with them. When you surround yourself with people in your shared status, it’s hard to recognize how good you have it.
Whenever my dad would take his Lexus in for repairs, he always would bring me back a small bag of Famos Amos. I didn’t particularly love these cookies. I prefer big, soft, and chewy to small and crispy. But today, when I took the Mini in for mom, I couldn’t help but swipe a pack for myself. I love those cookies now. I love biting into them and crunching down.
I was used to my hopeful traditions not being picked up. Real traditions shouldn’t have to be labored over and their participants shouldn’t have to be convinced.
That every time he went he’d bring those home for me; that more than anything told me he cared.
