They tell me that confession is good for the soul. I have one to make. Among my many weaknesses in life is the complete inability to drive past a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop when the hot sign is lit.
I know. I know. I should be stronger, but I am not. Any vehicle I am driving becomes bewitched when I see those illuminated letters and I have no more control over the steering wheel than Tom Crean has over the SEC basketball standings. I have to turn in, and even though I always have the best intentions to buy just two of the delectable pastries, I come away with a at least a dozen. Sometimes two. It never fails.
This malady of mine goes all the way back to childhood. I was introduced to Krispy Kreme at an early age. When I was a Cub Scout, we used to sell them to make money for the various projects our pack would undertake throughout the year. We took orders and then delivered the doughnuts when they “came in.”
Honesty compels me to admit that I wasn’t aware that they didn’t just come in and that certain fathers drove to Ponce de Leon Avenue in the middle of the night to pick up the thousand or so boxes of treats our group would sell.
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Wayne Penn always won the price for top salesman – but his mama was the one who really sold them all. She took orders in the mill, which my mama said wasn’t fair. She made me go door to door and hit up all my neighbors. So, I would sell maybe a dozen boxes and bring in six dollars – they sold for 50 cents a dozen back then. Wayne’s mama would sell more than a hundred boxes and bring in more than 50 bucks.
As an adult who is a big fan of capitalism, I think Mrs. Penn had the right idea.
Later on, when I got a driver’s license and my friends and I could take off to Atlanta on a Friday or Saturday …….