We had rolls with our dinner yesterday. While buttering them, I noticed that the butter was just about out. Just about. It was enough to butter everyone’s bread. 6 year-old Kenyan, a bread lover like his dad, tore through his roll like a ravenous animal and asked for another. By now the container had only traces of butter on the sides. Traces, but still butter.
Thinking like a true West Indian, I took the two slices of bread and dabbed the inside of the butter container until it was clean as a whistle. While doing this, Kenyan blurted out, “Whoa Daddy! We are not in St. Vincent!” I pretended not to know what he meant by this and asked why. “Well we are not exactly poor.” Amie and I had a good chuckle over this.
Every now and again, I would fill the boys in on my life in St. Vincent. Telling them how I grew up poor and the things we did as kids. I was pleasantly surprised that Kenyan remembered and was able to put it in perspective.
Yes son, that’s the way Daddy did it in St. Vincent. “Waste Not Want Not” Was what I was always told.