Little Charlie who walked by the chocolate factory to and from school every day. Little Charlie whose father screwed caps on tubes of toothpaste for a living. Little Charlie who had a cherished bar of chocolate that he nibbled once a week, savoring the flavor as it spread over his tongue and dissipated into the back of his throat. Little Charlie who then put his silky treasure away until next time. For he did not
know when he would ever have a bar of chocolate again.

In Which I Empathize
I was seven years old when I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the first of many times. My family was not rich. We struggled. A lot.

I was not aware of the depth of the struggle at times, but I knew when my older brother had to give my dad money to help pay the electric bill or buy groceries that things were tough. My mom made most of our clothes by hand; we used hand-me-downs; cut-off shorts were our bathing suits almost exclusively. Yet, somehow our holidays were rich, our needs were met and though I had a lot of wants we couldn’t afford, there were always gifts on birthdays and Christmases.

When I read that book, I remember identifying with the ache Charlie felt and feeling amazed at his self-control: to nibble, savor and save so that he could have his chocolate bar for as long as possible. His parents were dirt poor and couldn’t afford even the occasional chocolate bar. Then, we know what happened after that: he won a ticket to visit the chocolate factory from which the tantalizing, delectable aromas Charlie waded through each day eminated.

By Which I Identify
When I was ten years old, my dad and I took a drive out to the Santa Barbara airport. It was one of his favorite places to take me because he was a retired Air Force pilot. Then we stopped by Goleta Beach to walk on the pier. I don’t recall what, specifically, was happening at that point in our lives but I do remember overhearing my mom and dad talking about how bad sales were and how they were going to have to make hard decisions.

So, there my dad and I were, enjoying the ocean breeze on a beautiful Central California day, chatting with fishermen and just enjoying time together. After we had walked to the end of the pier and dad talked about his days in Guam, the fishing boat he had owned while in the service and how much he enjoyed the ocean, we turned around and headed back toward the car.

As we neared the parking lot, my dad asked if I wanted something from the snack bar. I asked him if he could afford it and he said that he could. But, I knew he only had five dollars in his wallet and needed gas for work the next day.

Yet, he insisted I have something. My dad truly loved me. I knew that already, but I really felt it that day. He would have given all five of his dollars if I would have wanted a hamburger, fries and chocolate shake. Instead, I chose a chocolate bar. He bought a soda.

Like Charlie, I remember thinking this might be the last chocolate bar I ever eat. Like Charlie, I felt sad that my father was struggling to make ends meet. Like Charlie I wanted to help. And like Charlie, I nibbled on that chocolate bar, enjoying it like I had never enjoyed a chocolate bar before.

A Simple Gesture Remains For a Lifetime
I thanked my dad and he said, “You’re welcome, son.” My eyes teared up a little at his willingess to sacrifice for me and at the imagined loss that I may not be able to have a chocolate bar for a long time.

Thankfully, things were not as desperate as I thought. But, that moment is seared into my heart with a special salve. A simple walk, a simple gesture, a simple sacrifice from my dad meant all the world to me that day. And still does.

Dad, I miss you and will see you when my time on earth is up.

photo credits: spoospa, DieselDemon