Donuts with Daddy

I drove past a special place last night. The Robin's Donuts on Lagimodiere and Bishop Grandin...

When I was a kid, Robin's was a special treat.

Sometimes Dad would have to take a load of pigs in to the market in the evening. And sometimes he would invite me along. We'd climb into the rusty old ford and hit the road. The box of the truck was extended higher by pieces of plywood Dad had cut to fit, and the pigs were on board. Trucks on the farm were never meant to be toys. No, they were for work. And real work meant eating sunflower seeds. Being in the truck meant we were working, so it was ok to spit the shells directly onto the floor of the cab. Sometimes we'd listen to AM radio. Sometimes we'd just get caught up.

Once at the market, Dad would unload the hogs while I waited in the cab. I would bounce around the cab while the large animals fought and squealed to stay on the truck, seemingly knowing their fate. I'd help by... eating sunflower seeds. (To this day I believe the stock prod is a fabulous invention which could be utilized as a valuable rehabilitation tool for certain patients)

Dad would climb back into the cab and we'd drive around to the back of the building where he would sweep out the dirty straw before heading back on the road.

I always wished for a donut at Robin's on the way home. I may even have hinted in this regard. Subtly, I'm sure. Usually I got it. If we sat inside to eat instead of taking it "to go", it was extra special. And we'd sit there, Dad and I. And for a few minutes, all was right with the world because my Dad was with me, and there was no problem too big for my Daddy.