Friendship and 33 Dozen by Joe DeRozier

I'm always happy when Joe steps out from behind the table to come through the Window Over the Sink to visit. His stories are always special, and this one is even more so. Thanks for coming, Joe. Take it away. 

There are days I travel to neighboring cities and meet friends in designated areas to deliver donuts. It isn't a highly lucrative adventure for me... Well, not monetarily. I sell them for just $10 a dozen, am out of the bakery for a couple hours, so I have to pay someone to hold down the fort, and try to stay under 25 orders so I don't disrupt the normal routine of my co-workers ("co-workers" is a rather generous title as far as my inclusion in the "co" part). The real compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. Many share with me where they are taking their donuts while wearing smiles from ear to ear.

I met a Mr. Smith, who was stationed in the same area of Panama that I was. I met a man from Chicago who moved here decades ago for a job. His accent is now only slightly prevalent, but completely resurfaces when the topic touches on one of his passions...like paczkis. I've met business owners, young parents, teachers, radio hosts, and even someone I knew in Peru when I first arrived in Indiana. It is not only fun—I like to feel that I am spreading good will.

My last delivery location was Pizza Quik in Rochester (one of my favorites because, ironically, I love Dunkin and never leave their city without gifting them a dozen donuts), and since this venue traditionally fills up quickly, I was keeping my eyes on the number of orders coming in.

 "Ding." My phone alerted me of an incoming message. The communique was from a wonderful lady I had met through Facebook a few months ago. Though certainly not one of my fortes, I happened to remember her name because of its unique spelling and the kind words she had shared with me. She wanted to place an order of 33 dozen donuts for the Rochester delivery. She was pressed for time, and promised to tell me more about the program she wanted to bless at a later time. The whole time were typing, something nagged at me. Something I should remember... But I'm old and have accepted the fact that I forget a lot of things, so paid no further mind to it. Because this order put us well over the number of donuts I usually deliver, I posted that Rochester had filled up, and would be taking no more requests for donuts.

The evening before the delivery, I was doing something close to nothing (name that tune), when... "Ding." My friend messaged me again. I assumed she simply wanted to confirm, or maybe to share with me more about the establishment for which she was buying donuts. Her message read, "I think I've made a terrible mistake. Please call me." She followed that plea with her phone number. Her phone number had an area code I didn't recognize. When I called and heard the intonation in her voice, I immediately remembered that thing that had been nagging me... My friend does indeed live in Rochester... ...Rochester, New York. Our previous communication a few months back, was about getting my books. That's how I knew she was on the east coast…and that was that tidbit of information my old brain wasn't willing to release to me when she requested the 33 dozen.

She felt horrible, as I tried not to laugh...I failed. After all, I thought, what an honor to have someone from so far away follow my bakery and all of my shenanigans! It was too late for me to get hold of the bakery to cancel the order, as my team would already have started production. What made this situation even easier to swallow was that my friend from Rochester, New York, offered to pay for the entire order and told me to donate them.

"That is awfully sweet," I replied, "but what are you going to do for donuts?"

She said they were scouring the city for donuts, and the prices ran $20-$30 a dozen. So, she was not only willing to spend between $660-$990 to get the donuts she needed, but she was going to pay me $330 for donuts she would donate to people several states from her, that she didn't even know! The donuts she was donating in New York were for a group of kids, ages 12-18, that give up their spring breaks to fix up homes in rundown areas of their town. It's called the Flower City Work Camp, and my friend's husband has been leading this group for 35 years. The number of volunteers has multiplied significantly over the years. Each volunteer works eight hours, Monday through Thursday. They eat and sleep at a parish near the neighborhood they're working. Materials are purchased by the churches and the volunteers themselves. On Friday, the last day of their break, the volunteers will share what they have seen and learned. It can get very emotional.

I was so touched by the kindness of the program and everyone involved that I was left at a loss for words...not a common occurrence for me as you all well know. As she was asking for my address to send a check for the donuts she had mistakenly ordered from me, I was making a request on Facebook to anyone in the administration of Rochester (Indiana) schools. Before my New York friend could finish her twelfth consecutive apology, I arranged to have all 33 dozen taken to the school, where they would be distributed to all school employees. When I told my friend, she was so happy, but still wanted to pay for them...

"Absolutely not, Danise," I replied. As I stated earlier, my compensation comes in the form of interactions with the wonderful people with whom I'm blessed to communicate. I had the pleasure of communicating with my friend from New York, I was able to feel the love from the Rochester (Indiana) school district, and I learned about a wonderful program in Rochester, New York, where the younger generation is giving to those in need... I believe I've been more than compensated.

What It's All About by Joe DeRozier

Dave and I would tear down our checker patterned hall, wearing only our pajamas that we had outgrown the previous year.

It was 6:00 am... Of course, Dave and I had already been awake for over an hour.

We were early risers, anyway, but today...

...today, was Christmas morning. Starting at five am, Dave and I crossed that checker patterned hall every 10 minutes into Mom and Dad's room.

Mom possessed that sonar "mom hearing" that always jolted her awake when we entered their room, while dad pretended to sleep, hoping we'd leave...

...but we were seven and eight, sooo...

"Now?" we'd plead with mom.

"No, boys. Your dad is tired. Let him sleep until 7 am."

Negotiations took place between ourselves, and our very tired mom, until a compromise was met.

"You can go to the Christmas tree, but do not turn on any overhead lights, and don't touch anything."

That compromise worked for us, knowing there would be further negotiations 10 minutes after we stepped foot in that magical room.

Our tree was a real tree that we grew in our backyard.

Mom and Dad had planted several of them years earlier for this singular purpose.

This made our Christmas tree that much more special.

I remember Mom pruning and shaping the tree throughout the summer, so it would be perfect for Christmas.

The smell, and the pine needles are things I'll never forget.

That piney scent gently wafted throughout the house, and Mandy, our Collie/Shepard would continuously knock needles on the floor with her tail.

For the previous three weeks, our home was filled with Christmas music from morning until nightfall.

The voices of Brenda Lee, Bing Crosby, and Gene Autry filled our home, with songs like “Little Blue Bell,” “White Christmas,” and “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

Mom spent every morning vacuuming up the renegade pine needles, saying it was a small price to pay for the aroma of our tree.

...and she was right.

Mom was very frugal as money was tight, but that didn't stop her from going all out for Christmas.

Tree lights were never thrown away, and mom hit every garage sale in Spring to accumulate more.

Some ornaments were garage sale prizes, but the best ones were from mom and dad's childhood.

I especially remember a cheap plastic apple. The ornament itself was nondescript, but when you held it, you could see the teeth marks of a child.

Dad bit that ornament when he was a kid, thinking it was food, and grandma DeRozier passed it down to our family.

We were retold that story each Christmas.

All decorations and lights on our Christmas tree were perfectly symmetrical.

Mom would tell me I was the only one that could help her set up the tree, because my older brother, Dave, and younger sister, Kerin, didn't do it right.

Looking back, that's how mom got me to do a lot of things that no one else wanted to do...

...smart lady.

I'm certain my siblings messed things up on purpose so they wouldn't have to help.

Dave and I would stare in amazement at the beautiful tree, with the brilliant, symmetrical lighting that increased each year, and rag tag ornaments.

There were so many brightly wrapped gifts stuffed under the tree!

Dave and I would kneel next to the presents, careful not to touch them, as per our agreement with Mom, and figured out the division lines for each of our Christmas hauls.

Once Dad got up, he loaded up his six-point antler lighting system for his movie camera.

Once the movie camera started rolling, it was officially Christmas morning.

With squinted eyes, we displayed each of our gifts for the camera. Many presents were practical, such as socks, underwear, and clothes, but there was always one "surprise" gift.

To this day, I can name many of those "surprise gifts" that were so special, and required Dad to work overtime.

When we were done carefully opening the gifts (on which Mom was careful to use minimal tape), we folded the wrapping paper neatly, so it could be reused for the next Christmas.

We weren't allowed to play with anything until that was done.

As we placed the folded holiday paper in its place, Mom and Dad would exchange the gifts they purchased for each other.

There would never be more than one for each of them.

Dad's gift from Mom was often an Avon decanter with aftershave.

Dad loved those decanters, and I know he still owned them until his passing.

Dad's gift to Mom was usually a surprise.

I'd hear a slight squeal from mom, followed by a big hug.

...I just got teary thinking about my parents embracing like that.

That picture is still in my head, and to this day, is the visual definition of pure love.

The years seemed to fly by...

I entered the Army after high school, and I made it back for only one Christmas, since.

Life, too often, seems to get in the way of love, and family.

Over 50 years have passed since Dave and I sprinted down that checker patterned hall, wearing pajamas that we had outgrown the previous year.

...but I remember it all like it was yesterday.

When I reminisce about those Christmas mornings so long ago, the thing that I'll never, ever forget... ...the one thing I remember that epitomizes Christmas spirit and love...

...will always be that slight squeal from mom, and the way they would embrace.

Merry Christmas.

Joe

Find dusty baker Joe on Amazon or stop in and visit him on Broadway in Peru, Indiana. I guarantee you'll enjoy the visit. - Liz

Keep Them Safe by Liz Flaherty

Early in the week, I dropped my teacher kids and several dozen DeRozier's donuts off at school in the morning because of vehicle malfunctions.

I admit to a love for the school campus where we live--it's been a part of my life ever since the high school was built way, way back in the last century. It's changed a lot over the years. More buildings, including what former elementary principal Don Davis used to call the castle on the hill--more athletic fields, more driveways. There are enough directional arrows that I'm almost sure I break the law every time I turn into or drive off the school grounds.

On this morning when I dropped Jim and Kari off at their respective buildings, I saw my friend Judy, who's driven a bus through a few generations, and got out to give her a hug. "I'm retiring this year," she said. I'll believe her when school starts next fall and she's not sitting in the front of a bus. I remember one time when she was substituting for another driver and one of the passengers said he liked it when Judy drove because it was "such an adventure."

Kids and teachers and backpacks were everywhere on the high school part of the campus. Even in the car I could feel the "almost there" excitement of the school year coming to an end. I loved seeing them, wondering what their summer plans are, what they want to be when they grow up. 

I've cried some at that school. Lots of times when I went there and sometimes when my kids did. Every time one of them graduated. Watching Bob Bridge and Tim DuBois's boys walk the field before football games. In 2020 when the seniors, including one of our grandboys, ran the bases in their caps and gowns. 

As I drove away from the school the other day, I found myself crying again, and praying, because I am frightened beyond all reason of people with guns who place no value on human life beyond seeing how many people they can hurt at one time.

Yes, I know, guns don't kill people, which is why we give them to people...you know, so they can do it. Their rights to be "...a well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed..." do after all supersede the rights of children to reach adulthood. 

I don't know most of these kids' names, although I'm sure I know some of their parents and many of their grandparents. I don't know who's at the top of their class and who hasn't turned in any homework since kindergarten. I don't know, sitting in my car, whose language would scorch my ears and who never learned the value of please, thank you, or a dollar earned. I don't know who shops at boutiques and who combs the clearance racks and who depends on the kindness of strangers. I don't know who worries about being bullied, who bullies, and who doesn't give a damn either way. 

I don't know any of that and frankly, that morning in the school driveway and this morning as I write this, I don't care. I want them all to graduate, to run whatever bases their lives bring them, to walk the fields of whatever is their passion, and to have more adventures than their parents can bear worrying about. My prayer for them is always the same, and I cry with the fear of it not being answered.

Please, God, keep them safe.

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.