Pie

I have always, from childhood on up, been blessed with a marvelous appetite; few things I enjoy better than eating.

My father had a rule that never was I to leave the table with any food left on my plate. This day we had some delicious pie, and I consumed the piece which I had been served and advised my mother that I wanted another piece. She thought I had had enough and that my eyes were bigger than my stomach, but I insisted, so my father said if I took it I would have to eat it all, to which I agreed.

Consequently, the pie was served, and about half-way through it, I sheepishly looked up to my mother who was sitting beside me and said, "Mama, I feel a little bit sick." My dad gave me a look and remarked, "You're going to feel a damn-site sicker than that if you don't eat up all that pie." As you might surmise, the pie was consumed.

I was, of course, a model child. The apple of my mother's eye, my grandfather's little saint, and my father's problem.

Commenting on my name one time my father said "Acton - yes, 'actin' like hell!"