Here is a story from my childhood. Was probably about 4-5 years old, so 1957 or so.

SUNDAY NEWSPAPERS AND THE BAKERY

One of my clearest early memories . . . flickers like an old home movie, recalling early mornings, and family togetherness in the late 1950s.

It features my oldest brother, Mike, eight years older than I, his paper route, teamwork . . . culminating in a visit to our local bakery.

On Sunday, the paper had to be delivered at the crack of dawn, as opposed to the typical afternoon delivery, and Mike needed the family's assistance.

I don’t know how long he had the route, or how often we rode along, but I do specifically remember one cold, rainy morning.

Our work party consisted of my Dad, Mike, and my other brother, Roger, who is two years my senior.

We were up by 3:00 am, groggily folding papers. My version of helping consisted of nodding off every so often, knocking over the stack of newspapers in front of me, and slowing down the assembly line.

Roger’s job included gently helping me stay awake by kicking me a few times . . . a part of the task he enjoyed immensely.

After “we” finished our prep work, we bundled up, throwing coats and blue jeans over our pajamas, and jumped into the old Studebaker.

The four men of the clan, off to work . . . while Mom stayed at home in her snug bed. She was still . . . the smartest one in the family.

In the front passenger seat, Mike would crank his window down by hand and sling the papers in the general vicinity of the driveway or front porch.

Only occasionally would Dad have to stop the car . . . and fish a paper out of a puddle.

Several times I pointed out faulty landings . . . and was rewarded with a nod of approval from Dad.

My other job was to make sure my side of the back seat remained warm, toasty, and dry. Not as easy as it sounds, since Roger had maneuvered me into the seat . . . directly behind Mike's open window.

While Roger sat smugly, dry as bone, I was buffeted by wind and an occasional gallon or so of rainwater, howling into the back seat.

Still, with the help of a large blanket, I completed my chore in good order, and upon returning home I told my proud Mom . . . “I was so good at my job . . . I could do it in my sleep!”

Which, of course . . . I did.

With the last paper delivered came the payoff. The Bakery!

It was still dark, and the lights from inside the Bakery shone warmly, casting into the black morning like a beacon calling us home.

We fell out of the car, our too-big bedroom slippers flopping precariously. We ran through the rain, jumped over puddles, and raced down the sidewalk.

Now fully awake, Roger and I flung the door open, and were instantly enveloped by the hazy lights, the warmth from the ovens . . . and the overwhelming aromas of sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, and fresh coffee . . . which were intoxicating.

The main attractions, though, were the huge glass cases, warm to the touch, and stuffed with donuts, pastries, breads, pies, cakes, and cookies.

Now came the agonizing part. “The Wait.”

As a little guy, I squirmed between, under, and around people to reach the front. My Dad would take his time putting together the family order.

He'd chat it up with the owner a little, smile, and start with a cup of coffee to go, before finally making his decision.

I never understood what took him so long, as I always knew exactly what I wanted . . . a chocolate donut and a maple long john!

The selections were stowed under my Dad’s arm and placed on the front seat between Dad and Mike.

Roger and I, when it was just the four of us, were relegated to the back. In those days, there were no seatbelts or car seats, so we would stand on the back seat, looking down at our reward, inhaling the scent, and drooling in anticipation.

The wait was all part of the family plan, though, as once we got home, we plopped down at the table together, including our wise, sweet . . . and well-rested mother.

We shared an excellent breakfast of freshly baked, still-warm pastries, as a family, while reading Dick Tracy, Dennis the Menace, Peanuts, and Beetle Bailey in the Sunday funny papers . . . before fighting over the Sports section.

Even though I can't eat a donut now without getting heartburn, those memories are cherished.

Today, when I catch a whiff of maple, it takes me back to that cold, rainy Sunday morning.

At the time, I didn’t make the connection. But this was the moment I realized that showing up for the family was well worth the effort . . . with or without donuts!