Onika L. Dainty

“There are three things in life that you can’t get back once they are gone. A shot arrow, a lost opportunity and the spoken word.”-My Daddy

My father is a man of very few words, at times, then there are other times his speech and presence commands a room through the magic of his storytelling. When it comes to me however, growing up my father said very little but what he did share with his eldest daughter was life lessons in the form of poetic advice that opened my mind and settled deep in the soul of my consciousness where I could reach them anytime or anywhere and at every point in my life. All that was required of me was that I listen, remember and apply his sage advice. The following memory is a seemingly insignificant story of spilt milk and how my father made this mishap into one of the most profound life lessons I have ever learned.

When I was seven years old I spilt an entire carton of buttermilk on my mom’s loveseat. I was attempting to churn butter, something I had learned on a recent school trip. I begged my mom to buy a carton of buttermilk so I could attempt to replicate this incredible process of turning liquid into solid butter and after much hesitation and a child’s persistence my mother gave in and bought me a litre carton of the milk. It was a Saturday morning when I would begin my project. Before I started, I jumped on the loveseat, grabbed the remote control and turned on the television to my usual Saturday morning cartoons. I then entered our apartment kitchen, went into the refrigerator to retrieve the buttermilk then headed to the bottom cupboard where my mom stored a myriad of old butter containers she reused as tupperware and refused to throw away. 

I sat down on my mother’s loveseat and began the process of shaking the buttermilk in the butter container, just as the kids were taught on our school trip. I shook and shook and shook periodically checking if milk had turned to creamy butter. Eventually my seven year old hands got tired and slippery so I decided to take a break and watch cartoons instead. As I put the butter container on the seat beside me, and shifted my focus to Bugs Bunny. The butter bowl tipped and thick, half-churned buttermilk spilled onto the right side cushion of my mother’s beloved brown loveseat. My parents hadn’t quite gotten up for the morning, so using my 7 year old logic I took the opportunity to turn over the offended cushion to the cleaner side because I figured what they didn’t know I couldn’t get in trouble for.

I continued on with my morning routine of cartoons and dry Frosted Flakes, then my day filled with playing with my toys and my weekend in anxiety waiting to be caught for my actions. But time passed and nothing was said so by Monday morning when it was time to go to school I had stopped worrying about the split milk and by week’s end the milk was a distant memory. However, on Saturday morning, one full week after Milk-gate my mother noticed a funny smell that permeated the apartment. I sat silently on the left side of the love seat knowing what was assaulting my mothers senses and watched her frantically try to find the origins of the offending odor. My mom, in an accusatory fashion asked my father if he knew where the smell was coming from and he non-committally shrugged his shoulders as if to say “What smell?” which drove my mother crazy. Then she turned to me and asked, “Onika do you know where that smell is coming from?”

With a straight face and all the cowardly courage I felt in that moment I said “No,” I lied to my mother, not for the first time or the last in my lifetime but this was a significant moment in the history of my lies because in the past I could always remember telling a lie or making up a story because I didn’t know the truth. I always tried to tell the truth but this time the lie was for purely selfish reasons even if that reason was self-preservation. After an hour of tearing through our apartment my mother gave up and left to do her weekly grocery shop.