It was a bright clear sunny day in the mid to late 1960’s. Lunch time on McKinley St. Dad had come home from Markem’s at noon and I remember watching Mom’s back in the kitchen as she bent over the four-legged grill on the counter by the sink. To and fro she moved buttering bread and layering cheese, flipping at just the right time so the bread turned a beautiful color brown. Then she placed the sandwich on the counter to be cut in half (triangles please) and set on the plate to go out to the table.

Dad always sat at the end of the table. I don’t remember what the general conversation was, only the silence that hit when we noticed a queer look that came over his face as he set down the sandwich. His jaw worked as he rolled something around in his mouth and there was only one direction in which it was going to go. He leaned forward and spit out something that ‘dinged’ when it hit the plate. His look changed from distressed to incredulous as he stared up at Mom and said, “A tack! There was a tack in my sandwich.”

Sure enough, someone had put a thumbtack on the counter upon which the sandwich was set and transported to LF’s mouth. Or did Mom plant that tack? The speculation of sabotage appealed to us and to to this day, we do not know if this was Mom’s way of making a point to Dad.

Sarah Farina