Donut Memories

Such a pleasant, sunny morning, and as I circled Covenant Woods, my mind filled with pleasant memories. In the early 80s, we lived on Harmon Road in Ashtabula. Russ hadn’t started school, and I was home most mornings. 

“Daddy, let’s go get donuts,” Russ said.

“Want to walk to the Squire Shoppe?”

“I’ll walk.”

“The whole way; there and back?”

“Yep, the whole way.”

We walked down East 6^th Street, passed the railroad yard and the hopper cars full of coal. Then across the lift bridge, where we stopped for a minute to look at the lake boat taking on a load of coal. Then up Bridge Street to the Squire Shoppe.

Russ always ordered two powdered donuts and a glass of milk. I got whatever struck my fancy that day and some coffee. Russ led me to an empty table. We ate our goodies, talked a little, and looked out the window, while those around us discussed the Indians, the Browns, and local politics.

When we started back home, we didn’t get far before Russ said he was tired and wanted me to carry him.

“But you said . . .”

“I know, but I’m tired.”

I tried to look disgruntled, but I couldn’t hold back the smile. This was the game we played once or twice a week.

Back at Covenant Woods, my mind turned to memories I’d like to make. Memories of being in Idaho with my daughter, Beth, her husband, Ken, and the grandkids, Hayden (7), and MaKenna (4). 

Beth, Ken, and I would be sitting on the porch, as Hayden and MaKenna played in the yard. Then the kids would come running, yelling, “Grandpa, Grandpa, can we go get some donuts?” 

I’d look over to Beth and Ken, who would be discretely mouthing, “No.” Then I’d look into the imploring eyes of the two kids now sitting on my lap, and I’d say, “Sure, let’s get some donuts.”

That’s what a grandpa is supposed to do. Isn’t it?