During WWII, my dad was invited to dinner with a French family. Before he left the barracks that night, he ducked into the mess hall, slipped inside the supply room, and helped himself to a huge box of tea. At dinner, he gave the tea to his hostess. "She was completely overwhelmed," my dad told me, "nearly in tears." He explained that the French loved tea and that it was rationed during the war.
"But Dad, that's stealing," I said, confused.
He winked. "GI's don't drink tea, so it doesn't really count." It was the end of my lesson in WWII for that day, but one I remember.
This afternoon I lit a candle for my dad at Notre Dame Cathedral and thought of him again when we stopped for tea.