The year was '59 or '60, and I was just young enough to ride my bike to the store occasionally. I find it interesting that the place where I bought these incredible 5 cent donuts would be my future father-in-law's business. The doughnuts were always fresh, and they were by the front counter. My mom would let me get a glazed donut, and I will always remember how good they were. It's one of the memories I have of that store.In '74 and '75, Ann's dad would still get donuts, but they had this caramel-chocolate frosting. The old store was no longer there, but Ann's dad still sold the best donuts in town.
The old store, however, was a classic--a cinder block building that Stan built with his brother Boyd, who also built a garage behind his house.
I remember the old counter like this. Ann's dad was an incredible man. He scared the living hell out of me when Ann and I dated, which is funny, because he not only liked me, but he was also a gentle man.
This was the Christmas when I received the bike I always rode to the store. I was in first grade or a bit younger. This was the front room in our house on South Main, about 300 yards south of Ann's house and their family business.
It was an interesting time.
Astronauts were getting ready for Mercury Missions. Bob Dylan was just starting to do protest songs. The Beatles were almost ready to get together to perform in nightclubs in Hamburg. The time was one of innocence. JFK was on the verge of running for office. They called those years the American Age of Camelot.
It was a magical time.
Growing up in Malad was in itself a unique experience. It was something that shaped my life forever in a positive way.
Part of me wishes to find a town like that again, but my own children had positive experiences like that too.
My daughters remember the chocolate cake every Sunday at Erma's house, and they still smile when they think of the miniature puddings in the fridge waiting for them when they visited.
Holidays were always a special time. My parents had Santa visit on Christmas Eve, and the
children knew exactly what to listen for as they waited impatiently for his arrival in the basement, singing Christmas songs or laughing and playing together.
It was a time when we had "real" Christmas trees: extremely large pinion pines that had been a family tradition as long as I can remember.
Putting up the tree was a ritual. Dad would smile at the size of the thing. Mom would be upset at the risk of getting pine sap on the ceiling or walls.
We would bring in the tree after installing a wooden stand, perfectly balanced and secured. Then it was the moment of truth: the check to see if it fit into the room. Usually, the tree was at least six to eight inches or more too tall. A stain of sap marked the ceiling. My dad would look sheepish for a moment, and then we'd start the process again. First, we'd remove the stand. Then we'd cut a section from the bottom, reset the stand, and take it into the front room a final time.
The process left me out of the loop as soon as I had my own family, but my dad helped me bring the tree into our house. We continued the same "big tree" tradition.
A new tradition began with my grandchildren, but it isn't all that new. My mother's cookies were something that all three of my children loved. Each one had a different favorite. Lydia like the applesauce chocolate chip, and Cles and Kristin loved the chocolate chip cookies.
One day I craved them, so when I called my mom and Jack asked to talk to her, I whispered my request into his ear. The next day, my mom had a gallon bucket of freshly baked cookies waiting for us when we arrived for a visit. Jack learned quickly.
When Cles came home recently, I tried to keep the visit a secret, but it didn't work out well. But the cookies were waiting.
Lydia visited us in July, and that time the surprise worked perfectly. Mom never knew the grandchildren were there until we rang the doorbell, and it was fun for mom too. They are the first two granddaughters, and Tommy has been there several times as one of the older grandsons too. We left with two gallons of cookies, but as usual, we left quickly without taking pictures. I won't make that mistake again.
In my last conversation with my mom recently, she reminded me that our family picture, taken the day before my hip replacement surgery in early July of 2003, was now in desperate need of an update. That will be another summer, when everyone is home. I only hope that will happen some time in the future.
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