Valentine chocolates and a few bad words

My father contemplated becoming a preacher, but, instead, such duties as benevolence, forgiveness, and accountability were performed while serving in law enforcement for 25 years. His chosen profession didn’t stop him, however, from chiseling his own set of commandments. 

Sunday church was followed by a day of rest.  We prayed before every meal, and swearing was forbidden. Alternative words, like “shucks,” “poop,” “darn it,” and “shoot” were tolerated, but “fudge” earned you a serious scowl.

Dad also took pride in his unblemished driving record. He taught my siblings and me how to break on ice, drive on gravel roads, and change a tire. Because of his expectations, we feared any citation could mean “H-E-double toothpicks.”

It was the Sunday after church on Valentine’s Day 1985. Dad drove the long, white station wagon we jokingly called “the ghost.”  My mother, who loved a good bargain, sat next to him, holding a half-off coupon for a box of chocolates from Rexall Drug. I, a junior in college, sat beside her plump frame in the front seat, anticipating a home-cooked meal after we picked up the discounted delights.

Mom and I waited in the car while Dad lumbered into the drugstore. Within minutes, he was sliding back into the front seat ceremoniously handing her a large, heart-shaped box.

 “How many are in there?” Her eyes and stomach were eager.

“It says two dozen,” Mom said.

Impatient to taste, she ripped off the cellophane, while Dad pulled out of the parking stall and started driving toward their home, a small, grey farmhouse on the outskirts of Vermillion, South Dakota.

“My lands!” Mother said. “Such variety! There’s a coconut. This one’s hazelnut. And this looks like a raspberry crème.”

We were intoxicated by the sweet smell of truffles and nougats and salivated for Mother’s review of whichever delectable she popped into her mouth.

Once on the highway, Dad turned off the radio, increasing the volume of Mom’s mmm-yumm and tongue-lipped smacks of satisfaction. He jealously glanced back and forth between Mother’s mouth and the road.  “What was that one?”

“A vanilla buttercream.” Mom happily swallowed what remained. “Delicious.”

She hovered her hand over the assortment as if a magician ready to make another one vanish.

“It looks like that one has nuts,” I said.

“Is that one a caramel?” Dad took his hand off the wheel to point to a square morsel. He loved chocolate-covered caramels.

“It sure is!” Mom excitedly plucked the coated candy from its mini cupcake wrapper.

That’s when we heard and felt the KRUSHBOOM!!

Our bodies lurched forward, then flung back against the seat. The hood of the ghost angled like a crane, and steam billowed from the radiator like smoke in a magic act, only we didn’t disappear.

The box of chocolates had exploded throughout the car, scattering across the dash, onto the floor, over our legs, and into the backseat. As the haze dissolved, broken taillights and the mangled trunk of a brown car came into view. An angry man nearly as tall as my father walked toward us. I heard a growl starting deep inside Dad’s cowboy boots, groveling its way up his long legs, and exiting through his broad chest.

“Those…G*%…D@#m!…chocolates!!” And with a force I rarely witnessed in my father, he jerked open his driver’s door to make amends for his recklessness.

Mother, stunned and sorrowful, began picking chocolates off the dash with a shaky hand, returning them to the box with disdain. Tears dribbled over her bottom eyelids.

“I…I…I will…ne…ne…ne…ver…eat…cho…cho…co…lates…a…g…gain,” she sob-stuttered. It was a pledge she would break by Easter.   

I handed her a peanut cluster from my lap, not sure what I could say to make things better but understanding even an adamant “fudge” wouldn’t help.