Once a year, my brother and I are awakened at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. We stumble in the back seat of the 4-door Pontiac with pillows and blanket and sleep off and on for the next two and a half hours. But I only doze. The excitement of what is ahead is too stimulating for sleep.
And yes, finally! My dad, driver of our annual camp-in-the-mountains adventure, stops at a place we never go any other day of the year. A place that sells — donuts.
This is a time before Dunkin’ Donuts or Honey Dew or any coffee/breakfast chain. This is a dive – yes, we drive to the donut dive – in which our parents never let Chuck or me enter. I never question why. I just wipe the sleep from my eyes and wait with great anticipation.
Dad sinks back down in the driver’s seat with a pack of cigarettes for him (cheaper here, he claims) and four donuts: one for each of us. Glazed. Chocolate. Sugared. Fresh. More delicious than paradise.
We have at least five more hours to our destination – a beautiful mountainous campground in the middle of nowhere-Vermont.
But I don’t care. I bite daintily into my sugary fluffy donut.
Five minutes later, I take my second bite.
A half hour later, I slowly lick the last of the sugar from my fingers.
Best. Vacation. Yet.