McDonald's and a Candy Bar

“Mom, I love you.”

My mom, taking groceries out of the cart, and putting them on magically moving conveyor said without turning around, “I love you too, David.”

“Mom…”

“Yes, David.”

“Can I have some candy?”

Mom turned around in the aisle to find me staring enraptured by the strategically placed racks of glossily wrapped candy. My heart was in my throat as my 7 year old eyes greedily roved over the seductively colorful candy bars. I was enthralled by the mysteriously named “Three Musketeers”, “Charleston Chew”, “Twix”, “Smarties” and most puzzling of all, “M&Ms”

Mom smiled. “You love me, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Can I have a ‘Three Musketeers”?

The answer that Mom gave to this question is of little import in my memory. Sometimes she said yes, sometimes no. I suppose the answer reflected how much money she had and whether I had been bad or good that day. Or maybe it depended on how convincingly I told her that I loved her.

*******************************

That same seven year old boy, sitting in the back seat of my families car. Dad, masterfully driving, mom in the seat beside him. They talked and laughed in the front seat. I could hear the gentle murmer of their voices, but when combined with the hum of the engine, the rush of the wind, and the buzz of the tires, I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying to each other (which I realize now, as an adult myself, was actually on purpose.

They knew that we couldn’t understand the words, so they could carry on their own conversation in open privacy.) My brother was sitting on the back seat next to me, staring out the window on his side of the car.
My forehead was pressed against the cool glass of my window, and I stared at the fields and houses flashing by me. Sometimes I would stare fixedly out in one direction and let the landscape blur by in an indistinguished stream. Other times my eyes would flit ahead and fix on one detail after another.

This particular day in my memory, maybe it was a Saturday evening. Maybe my family had been out for a drive, or maybe we had been to one of the neighboring towns to visit friends or family. The relevant fact was that in my memory, we were coming into Malone (my home town) northbound on US Route 11. And even more relevantly, we were about 200 yards from McDonalds.

It was usually at this point that I started praying.

“Please, God. Make dad start slowing down. Please, please, please.” I would stare fixedly at my dad, willing him to take his foot off the gas, and let the car coast slower and slower. One of the problems was that McDonald’s was on the outskirts of town, so if he did take his foot off the gas, it might be that he was simply slowing down to the speed limit.

“Please put your foot on the brake. Come on dad.” I would silently instruct him.

“Oh…I think he is braking. I think he really is slowing down!!!!”

Dad, a twinkle in his eye would look back at me in the rear view mirror. “Who wants to go to McDonald’s?”
Gary and I, sitting up straight, would grin back at my Dad.

So that was what Mom and Dad had been talking about just below the audible threshold. My mind started scrolling through the menu. What did I want? A Big Mac? A 10 piece Chicken McNugget? A strawberry shake? An apple pie…

****************************

We will leave this enraptured 7 year old to his decision, and fast forward a little.

Now I am 33 years old. I own my own small remodeling company. I have faced some of the issues that adults face, and hopefully have grown in wisdom, and certainly in stature, relative to that scrawny 7 year old that I was. I even, according to my wife, have grey patches appearing in my hair. But still there is that little boy inside of me. He tends to talk to me as I am checking out at a grocery store with Gracie.

Gracie and I are unloading the groceries onto the magically moving conveyor, and the cashier is swiping them across the laser reader. Above the sound of the monotonous beeps of the laser, I hear this little voice, “Hey, look at the rack of candy.” My eyes flit over to the enticingly wrapped candy bars. “You can buy one. You have the money. You have been a good boy today…go ahead. You don’t have to ask anyone.”

I rapidly pick up 4 different candy bars, and serruptitiously put them on the conveyor behind the boxes of cereal. Gracie catches the motion out of the corner of her eye. “What are you doing?”

“Umm…nothing.”

“David, are you buying candy?” She smiles as she moves the boxes, and sees my cache of brightly wrapped candy bars. “Four?” She looks at me in amusement.

“Well…well. I won’t eat them all at once” I lie.

She nods her head. “Sometimes you are such a little boy.”

I shrug, looking down at my candy bars that I can buy whenever I want to. I love being an adult.

***************************

Later on that day, Gracie and I are wading our way through our personal and business bookkeeping. When we are finished, we pull up some reports in Quicken and Quickbooks, and see where we are spending our money.
Gracie’s eyes scan down the list of expenses, and stops at the “Eating out” category. Her eyebrows shoot up, “Good grief. We have to stop eating out so much.”

Guiltily, I look at the figure. I think to myself, “I wonder if I should tell her how much I eat out on my business debit card on top of that amount.”

I find it very hard to resist, now that I am the driver, and can put on the brake and turn into a fast food place anytime I want. Though it usually is not McDonald’s anymore. It is more likely to be Chik-fil-a or Schlotzky’s Deli. But the delight is still there. I can eat out any time I want to now.

But staring at the huge dollar amount on the Quicken report, I begin to realize why dad didn’t always turn into McDonalds, even though he must have known that his 7 year old son was praying fervently for him to do so.
“Well, actually honey. I have been spending a lot more than that when I am out working. I probably eat out most every day.”

She looks at me, and smiles knowingly. “Well, maybe I can pack a lunch for you most days, and you can just eat out every once in a while as a treat.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

The 7 year old boy has to grow up some time. But he loves knowing that he can always step on the brake and turn in to McDonald’s when he really wants to.

***********************************

By the way:
The M and M on M&M candies stand for Mars and Murrie who were the heads at M&M Candies in the 194Os

A Wedding From A New Perspective

I love societies.

National Geographic Society, musical appreciation societies, book reading clubs, dinner clubs, American Whitewater Association.

There is a delicious sense of camaraderie in being a part of a close knit group of people who have similar interests joining together to partake in some hobby or event together.

Personally, I have been part of numerous organizations.

The American Automobile Association, which is a group of American’s with poorly maintained vehicles who have pooled some of their financial resources (about $76 per person per year) in order to minimize the damage done to the budget when one of our raggedy old cars breaks down, and has to be towed.

The American Whitewater Association, which is a group of whitewater kayakers and canoers who have decided that it is cool to have the title of “AWA Certified Whitewater Kayeker Instructor” and to carry around a little card that demonstrates that the bearer is insured by the AWA to teach someone how to get into a tiny boat and float down a river.

I have also, for the past 6 ½ years been a part of an extraordinarily small club. In fact, I have been the only member of this club up until about 2 weeks ago.

I have never really named the club, but for convenience sake, let’s call it the “Men Who Have Married Phil B’s Daughters Club” or MWHMPBDC for short.

The Code of Conduct and the hazing rituals for the MWHMPBDC are pretty rigorous, but I am proud to announce that one other individual has passed all of the requirements of the club, and I would like to utilize this venue to publicly congratulate the new initiate, and welcome him to the MWHMPBDC!

The first obstacle that must be conquered is called (by those of us in the club) the “falling in love” ritual. The is typically signified by thinking the object of affection (in this case, a B. Daughter) is the greatest gal in the known universe, wanting to spend lots of time with the OOA (object of affection) and wishing that the OOA thought that you were groovy. The new initiate of the MWHMPBDC passed this test with flying colors, but…WHAM! He stepped right into the next test…

The “Putting up with the B. Brothers Sarcasm and Insults.” This hardship of this part of the test is significantly lessened when the prospective club member remembers that these same brothers will someday have to 1.Put up with the sarcasm and insults of some other lady’s brothers, when they one day go a courtin’. And 2. Are going to have to put up with you for the rest of their miserable lives if you manage to join the MWHMPBDC. This thought is significantly more delightful if you are bigger than the brothers, because you can beat them up. If a prospective club member passes this hazing, then it is on to…

The “Getting By Phil B.” test. This is probably the most grueling part of the club hazing ritual. Phil B. is notably affectionate and protective of his daughters, and doesn’t take lightly the rumblings of affection that just any young buck makes when they come checking out one of his daughters. In fact, in a sense, I guess Phil is the “Grand Pooba” of the MWHMPBDC, and has senior voting rights over who can and can’t join. Anyway, the new club member (we’ll call him “Kevin”, for convenience), after much labor (labor being one of the hallmarks of this portion of the club initiation) “Kevin” finally moved onto to the next portion.

“Scrounging Up Money for a Ring.” “Kevin” revealed that he had passed this portion of the club obstacles one night a few months ago over a steak dinner at the B. family residence. I knew at this point that I was about to have a new inductee into the club.

The MWHMPBDC final induction ritual is generally a gala event. To those who don’t realize the existence of the MWHMPBDC, the induction ritual looks very much like a “wedding”. In fact, it is so much like a “wedding” that most people think that is what it is. And the club is so esoteric and quiet about it’s existence, that we allow everyone to think that it actually is a wedding. But we know better. Anyway…the club event went of like a charm. There were about 350-400 people there to witness the induction of a new member into the MWHMPBDC on May 20th, and everyone celebrated by eating, drinking (lattes, that is) and making merry.


So congratulations, and welcome “Kevin”. Enjoy your lifelong membership in the MWHMPBDC!

The Age of Innocence

The view from my writing studio

Our Morning Ritual

"Gracie, time to get up. Your alarm has been going off for 47 minutes."





"Don't talk. Make coffee."





In the our cafe, I grind, dose, tamp, pull, and pour.






One for me, and one for her.







Ta Da. She's awake and ready for the day!

Elk River Coffee Co.

"Hey, do you remember that tonight is our date night?" Asked my beautiful and dateworthy wife.

Startled, I thought quickly, "Yeah I remember!" (Please note that for honesty sake, I didn't say "I remembered".)

"So what should we do?"

"Hmmm...how about driving up to Fayetteville, TN and checking out Elk River Coffee Company?"


Elk River Coffee Company was recommended to me by a coffee roaster who posts on an online roasters bulletin board that I frequent. When I originally mentioned the coffee shop to Gracie, she said that it wasn't too bad of a drive. We didn't allow for rush hour traffic, so it took us considerably longer, but that isn't bad when I have such a hot babe for a wife. I can just look at her whenever we are sitting at a stop light, and I am entertained. I am not sure what she does for fun...I am not quite so delightful to look at, except perhaps in a comical sense.

So taking our leisure time, playing bumper tag with the cars in front of us, we moved in stutter-start fashion into southern Tennessee. And I have to say that the suddenly rolling hills, and perfectly fenced horse pastures of Tennessee set a peaceful scene, though it was jarringly interrupted by regularly spaced and abundant used car dealerships. Still, the pastoral agricultural setting set a nice tone as we finally exited the flow afternoon commuters, and pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of a blue and gold painted brick building with a brown canvas awning advertising "Coffee...Desserts...Pastries...Lattes". Over the awning, a handsome gold leaf sign reading "Elk River Coffee Company".

Our first impression was of quality as we walked into the nicely appointed coffee shop. The floor tile was brownish tan, the walls were painted classy bold colors, and the equipment was first rate. (For those of you in the know, you will understand that when I saw that they had a La Marzocco espresso maker, and Fetco dual airpot coffee brewers, I knew we had come to "our kind of coffee shop".)

The barista behind the bar was a curly haired girl who promptly made us a great caramel latte to go with our chocolate filled croissant (for Gracie) and strawberry and cream danish (for me). Later I returned to order a double shot espresso so that I could taste the unadorned product. It had a pleasantly intense acidity with a little bite that I don't have in my espresso, but altogether a good cup.

Now it is 6:21pm, and Gracie is sitting on a couch nearby playing Scrabble on my Pocket PC. While I admit that doesn't sound like a very romantic date, Gracie is always eager to give me a chance to write, so I thought that I would compose a quick post to recommend this very well done cafe.

So if you find yourself in Fayetteville, TN - stop by Elk River Coffee Company. It'll be worth your while.

Gracie and my reaction as we looked around at the facility, the espresso bar, the mugs for sale, the bags of roasted coffee, the artwork was, "Are we sure that we don't want to start a coffee shop?"

It looks like fun.

Why walk in the woods?

Gracie and I, busily trying to catch up on our business and personal paperwork, decided that we needed a de-stressing interlude. So off we walked hand in hand on a round trip trek to our mailbox. The mailbox being about a half a mile from our front door.

As we walked down the drive, under the canopy of newly leaved trees, I started wondering why I love to walk in the woods. Instantly, David The Writer started dictating a short essay in my mind, which I am now going to try to recapture on my laptop screen.

Assuming that the weatherman has accurately predicted a day of pleasantly temperatured clement weather, (which he did today) the first thing that strikes me is the breeze ruffling the hair on my arms. Having sailed with my dad as a teenager, I am prone to taking off my ball cap, and letting the wind cool my head as I inwardly gauge how many knots the wind is blowing, and whether there are likely to be whitecaps on the peaks of the waves on a nearby lake. I wonder what my dad, across the Atlantic in Kenya is doing. Wondering if he too is feeling the wind play over his skin and remembering days of bliss sailing under the orange and white sail of our catamaran sailboat.

Then there is the varied warmth and coolness as I walk from sun to shade to sun again. Back and forth from light to shadows, my skin taking turns enjoying first the warming rays of the sun, and then the cooling shade of the trees. It reminds me of the absolute delights that I remember from my childhood, walking hot and sweaty from the bright hot sun into the cool dim house…the lights all off…curtains drawn…and the hum of oscillating fans droning throughout the house…a glass of ice cold lemonade waiting in the fridge.

Then there are the sounds. The occasional bird whistling it’s recurring song. The wind gentle and persistent, moving the fresh green leaves. A hawk calling as it circles over a nearby field. The crunch of our feet beating rhythmically on the gravel driveway.

My nose enjoys the moist fecund smell of the leaves and grass, of the recently rained on earth. My brother and I used to pack a sandwich or some cookies in our pockets when we were boys, and tramp off into the adventurous wilderness of our family land. Over fields, and up hills, down into valleys, and jumping from hummock to tree stump as we navigated across the swamp that bordered one of our pastures. The smells of the swamp and of newly plowed fields, of the river and trees are something that I have lived with all my life.

And the sights of the forest. The shadowed brightness of the sunlit forest. The thousand and one colors of green that combine to make one color.

There is something so basic about being in the woods surrounded by nature. Something more appealing than the "cha-ching" that Quicken makes when a transaction is entered, or the chirping beep that Quickbooks makes each time I fill in a check. But enough procrastinating. I need to let my mind catch up with my body, and get back to the prosaic reality of the world of finances.