it's time to make the donuts

Do you recall the short little man in the Dunkin Donuts commercials, the one who got up before dawn every morning to make the donuts? In a zombie-like state he’d repeat over and over, “It’s time to make the donuts.” In one commercial, he runs into himself, only to hear, “I already made the donuts.”

I loved this commercial, mostly because I thought the actor, Michael Vale, looked like my father.

Growing up, Sunday mornings were the happiest times of the week. My father would leave the house while it was still dark and head to the grocery store for coffee cakes. They were dry and yellow and dripping with white icing. Each square was dotted with red gooey filling, which I always ate around and then devoured in one swift bite.

The house was always peaceful on Sunday mornings, and I was always the second person out of bed. I'd awake to find my father dressed for the day and the cakes on the table, unopened. I realize now, he was waiting for me to join him.

I'd sit with my father and we’d eat our coffee cake, until he slipped away to trim his mustache and put on his suit. He always let me pick out his tie.

My father would leave for church well before he needed to be there. And, then he’d preach and preach and preach, and lord have mercy, sometimes it was so boring. Mind you, I was just a girl.


I don't recall my father preaching hell, fire and brimstone. What I most remember about his sermons were the stories he'd tell about how God rescued him. He'd make brief mention of his interludes with sin and what a terrible person he was before his “conversion.”

I always wanted to know that terrible person – who drank beer and got into fights – the one who ended up in a sailor’s brawl so bad he missed his ship and missed Korea, got busted in rank and missed dying. And, here. I am.


I thought if I knew my father as he was before he found religion, I'd like the saved him better. These days, I'm just glad I got to know him at all.


***

On Saturday mornings, I take the kids for donuts. I know they're fattening. I know they're full of sugar. I know. I know. I know. Bridgy is not even two. It's just wrong. But, in some small way I am just thinking of my father. I am wishing he could be with us. I am wishing he could know Bridgy, and I'm sending a message to him: thanks, Daddy, for all the donuts.