Lessons from Camelot | By Sam Mehaffey, Partner

From 1978 to 1980, life was simple. My sister Donni, my mother Dianne, and I lived in the Camelot Apartments in Brownwood, Texas—a place that now exists only in the rosy tint of childhood memory. It was just the three of us, along with the most important member of our household, my cockatoo, Cracker Jack.

My world centered around that bird. Each morning, before my mom left for the day, she’d place Cracker Jack’s cage in the middle of our living room. I would sit down right in front of the door of his cage, my legs crossed in the way we used to call "Indian style," long before anyone started saying "cross-cross-applesauce." Mom would turn off the lights on her way out the door and turn them back on when she returned in the afternoon. I’m not sure why I chose to spend those hours in the dark. Maybe I was just too content to get up and flip a switch. It was a self-contained world of two.

We had our own game. I'd stick my fingers into his cage, and he would gently bite them—a soft, repetitive rhythm that was our way of playing for hours, days, and months. My mother knew my routine. Next to the cage, she would leave a small white saucer with a single Hostess Ding Dong. I’d eat it slowly, making it last all day, carefully peeling back the foil and taking small, deliberate bites.

I was skinny back then, but I don't remember feeling hungry. I don't recall eating much else during that time, nor do I remember my grandmother who lived just fifteen miles away. What I do remember is the pure, uncomplicated joy of that daily routine—a sunbeam through the blinds, a gentle peck from a bird, and a single, perfect Hostess Ding Dong. Sometimes, the most meaningful meals are also the most memorable.

I now think of my own children who’s memories I am making: memories we make in my hometown, in Brownwood and beyond. SAM TO END IT WITH A THOUGHT TO TIE IT FROM PAST TO PRESENT DAY FOR READERS.