What's in a maple bar?

I ate a maple bar yesterday and thought of my Dad. It’s strange how the memory works… how such a tiny act can open the door to so many memories. Suddenly there is that little southern Oregon town of 3,000, and the house my Dad built; the house I grew up in with two younger sisters. Dad worked in Roseburg, a 13-mile drive in the company pickup. He worked at Industrial Electric, a wholesale electrical supply store that mostly dealt with the area’s many lumber and plywood mills. It was the heyday for the logging industry and the economy was booming. Dad worked 5 1/2 days a week and sometimes got called out in the middle of the night to provide supplies for emergency repairs. Mills ran 24/7 and couldn’t afford downtime.

There was a donut shop across the street from the Industrial Electric Store. No Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Just the local mom and pop kind of place with a counter and bar stools. It’s where most of the area workers took their breaks, enjoying a freshly made donut with coffee and a cigarette. Once a week, on Saturday, Dad would pick up a box of assorted donuts to bring home for Sunday breakfast. We each had our own favorites and Dad never forgot… the maple bars were mine. That was a long time ago, but I can’t eat a maple bar today without the memory of the pink bakery box, and Dad. Just like the A & W hot fudge sundae… I’ll tell that story tomorrow.

... P. L. Morningstar