I grew up in the Catholic Church, not by choice, but by Christening, at the early age of just over two weeks. And from that moment forward, I was deemed a Catholic. There were highs and lows associated with that role, as I’m sure there are with any young life, in any given place and time.
I liked wearing a uniform for one. Most kids complained about them, but I found them highly functional and very useful. And Mom & Dad had the rule. As soon as we got home at the end of the school day, we went straight to our rooms and hung our uniforms in our bedroom closets. The blouse was an entirely different matter. That went in the laundry chute.
Yes, we had a laundry chute, another great and glorious invention. Our house was two stories high, with an attic and a basement. The laundry chute on the top floor had one little door, on the far wall of the bathroom. And there was another small swinging door in the kitchen corner. When it was time to do our big laundry, we would send massive amounts of clothing down that chute, and quite frankly, I’m amazed that it never got stuck. Although, the enigma surrounding the missing sock could always be blamed on the laundry chute.
Yet, I digress. I was talking about the ups and downs of Catholicism, and one of those things was the Koffee Klatch. That’s how they spelled it every week in the church bulletin. “Koffee Klatch following the 10:30 Mass in the church basement,” it would say. I think they tried to be “Katchy” and attract the “Khurch-Goers.” The idea was to stimulate community interaction within the congregation. There was, of course, coffee for the adults, as well as milk, juices, and the big, big winner: Doughnuts. Lots of doughnuts.
Anyway, it started in the late 1960s at our church, and my mom was in charge of the Koffee Klatch Committee during the first years of the thing. Normally, we went to noon Mass on Sundays. But whenever there was a Koffee Klatch, we switched things up to the earlier mass. It was a production, for we were in charge of picking up those doughnuts.
We had a station wagon. A beat-up old goldish-green station wagon that was good for hauling around seven kids. By 9:30 a.m., we were piling into the car. From there, we drove to Rinaldo’s Bakery on Catalpa Drive in Dayton. We’d unpile, and then the all of us would fill Rinaldo’s small little bakery, pressing our grimy little hands on the shiny glass display cases. Mom always pre-ordered the dozens and dozen of doughnuts, and we’d carry them out to the back of the station wagon.
Driving to church was torture. The smell of the doughnuts filled the car, and we were hungry kids. Then, like little soldiers, we carried those boxes down the steps to the church basement. More torture. And if that weren’t enough? Right back upstairs to hear Father Schmezing talk about our wayward ways for at least an hour. The smell of the bakery hung on our clothing. Our stomachs rumbling so loud, we could barely wait for Communion. The anticipation of eating those doughnuts seemed, at times, unbearable.
And that is us, right now, in the final two weeks, waiting for the election.
Yes, we’ve had a glimpse of those amazing doughnuts, and we remember, all too well, how good they taste. We’ve seen them, smelled them, and now we are just waiting until we can actually have them. Our stomachs, grumbling in anticipation. Yes. We’ve seen what it might be like to be civil and peaceful again.
The waiting for the next president is exactly like waiting for the doughnuts.
I only hope that when we lift up the lid of the box, it will be the flavor we like.
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“For a while” is a phrase whose length can’t be measured.At least by the person who’s waiting.”
― Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
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“Time felt slower when we do nothing but wait.”
― Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut
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“It’s amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.”
― John Guare, Landscape of the Body
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What’s in the box? Doughnuts, and Peace.
