When I was growing up, we weren’t exactly wealthy, to say the least. For entertainment during the holidays, my family (and sometimes friends) would brew up a Thermos of strong coffee, pile into the old Bel Air, fog up the windows, and ride around Montgomery, Alabama looking at Christmas lights and decorations in the nicer neighborhoods and a Normandale, a legendary shopping center (at the time) and the absolute coolest place during Christmas. Gas was cheap so this was the next best thing to free entertainment besides perusing the Sears Christmas “Wish Book” catalog – which many poor Southerners called (along with the Bible) the “good book.”
Last night, we invited a couple of old friends to recreate the light ride in Richmond. For years Richmond has had a Tacky Light Tour, so we were hardly alone as we slowed in front of yards filled with more things than the entire holiday section of Lowe’s. The Tacky Light Tour lives up to its name in this town and it is tragically awesome.
My wife says it is ironic that I love to ogle lavish holiday displays when all I have erected in our own yard is a red, snake-ish light draped over a pole. My daughter calls it the most pathetic display of holiday spirit she has ever seen. It is kind of lonely, I’ll admit, but no worse than Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree in my estimation.
My pitiful effort aside, we drove around enjoying the electric equivalent of a cruise ship buffet. I loved it. Then we drove over to West Broad and saw the most lovely light of all: the Krispy Kreme “Hot” light.
If you are unfamiliar with Krispy Kreme donuts, my words will not do them justice. They melt in your hand and in your mouth and on your shirt and leave crispy residue on your pants that will cause dogs to follow you. Hot Krispy Kremes will jump out of the box and down your throat before you realize what has happened. People plan weekends around a trip to Krispy Kreme and will cross state lines to get them.
This is not health food and I don’t recommend it as a habit. I’m not suppose to eat such things. But it is the holiday and my diet is like a Tibetan Monk, so I splurged for two donuts. Everything in moderation.
There was a crowd; a traffic jam, really. Inside the Krispy Kreme, the conveyor belt was running dozens and dozens of fresh donuts through the gushing waterfall of soupy sugar frosting. Hundreds of people stood, hypnotized by the site of orbed dough inching down the assembly line, headed to their waistline. An army of people worked behind the glass wall protecting the donuts from the rest of us. The people in paper hats worked like a Bill Belichick football team. It was impressive. Then one of the workers pulled a long metal rod from behind the Rube Goldberg contraption and began doing something that made everyone gasp in disbelief. He scanned the hundreds of donuts and began to thread imperfectly shaped donuts from the process and toss them in a trash can.
People stood in shock. A man in flannel began to weep. Childrens’ smiles dipped to snarls. An old woman held her chest and moaned like her grandchild had gotten a tongue ring and used it on the cat. Whispers passed. Eyes darted. Damn.
If you think you have a tough job, at least you are not in charge of standing in front of hundreds of people at Krispy Kreme and throwing away perfectly good, imperfectly shaped donuts. I just don’t think I could do it.
