We were hungry.  There was rarely enough food.
My three brothers, one sister and I were hungry a lot growing up.

Dad tried to work hard, but sometimes the stress was just too much.  It seemed he could never bring home enough and so alcohol became his companion for many years.

Mom did everything she could to provide.  I’d watch her scrub floors on her hands and knees, tears rolling down her cheeks and witness outbursts I didn’t understand.

Fear and hunger held hands together and gripped most of my childhood, but there was one day, every few weeks that was different.

We never knew which day it would be, but as soon as we heard the big engine of the Del Monte tomato truck slow down – we knew this was the day.

The truck chugged to the curb, came to a halt and then we heard the brakes release with a loud sigh.  This was the day we squealed in delight!

All of us and the neighbor kids ran to the truck that was filled to the brim with fresh tomatoes that were picked only hours before. We scrambled up the truck bed, reaching as far as our arms would reach.  We held the sun-warmed tomatoes for a moment and then we ate and ate.  We ate tomatoes until we couldn’t eat another red luscious bite.

The truck driver waited patiently in his cab until the last child finished eating tomatoes and had crawled down off the truck.  The driver then, waved good-bye, until the next time.

I’ll never know the name of this truck driver, or who he was, and it’s my bet no one ever knew the angelic Sign of Love he was – except for those of us that had tomato stains on our shirts and handfuls of tomatoes every now and again