I've been craving kolaches for a while now. I finally got around to making a batch. While fumbling my way through the recipe in a manner which would have driven a Czech grandma to dark liquor, I realized I wasn't really craving kolaches. Well that's not true. I always crave kolaches. But I was really hungry for something more.
In what seems like a lifetime ago, but also seems like yesterday, I lived out in the countryside past the town of Snook, Texas. It was while I was in college and while the distance between home, campus and work seems odd now, I loved it at the time.
The setup had lots of things to appreciate, including high up on the list Thursday, Friday and Saturday mornings. On those mornings, a group of grandmotherly types of local women opened their kolache shop. There was nothing fancy about the place. I don't even recall a sign out front. It was just a simple small house that had been converted into a bakery in the bake and sales counter up front.
At first I wondered why they would only be open three days a week. Slowly I discovered the marketing genius. Wednesday nights always held the excitement of fresh kolaches in the morning. If they were open everyday, Thursdays would have been nothing special.
On Saturday mornings, excitement changed to mild panic with the knowledge this would be the last chance for kolaches for several days. I soon came to appreciate these savvy ladies had concentrated a full weeks worth of sales possibly more into three days.
Needless to say, I was a regular. The ladies came to recognize me and over much time warmed from skeptical of me to slightly less skeptical of me. Very slightly. They were never rude or unkind. They just had a practical approach to the dispatch of business.
This was our relationship for almost two years. Me needing (okay wanting) kolaches and them selling them. Transaction done. Moving on.
That relationship changed in an unexpected way.
After an early work shift I was driving back home and just barely out of College Station I saw a Monte Carlo broke down on the side of the road with a priest looking over it and scratching his head. I had been up since 4:30 a.m. I was tired and ready to be home. I was having trouble reconciling a Monte Carlo driving priest. Despite all that, I pulled over and backed up to his car.
I asked him what I could do to get his car going and he said what he really needed was a ride to his church in Somerville, which was another 15 miles past my house. Another 30 minutes or so between me and my nap seemed a small price to pay to help out, so we got in my truck and off we went.
After the perfunctory expressions of appreciations and "glad to help"s we settled in for a pleasant talk. College was great fun, being a broke college student working two jobs had a number of stresses. I can't tell you the specifics of all we talked about, but I remember feeling uplifted and more empowered by the end of the ride - a ride I admit I wasn't ready to be over.
As he got out, he invited me to church. I said I would and I meant it. I am not Catholic, but I had been to a fair number of masses at that point in my life and found them intriguing.
The next Sunday came and went. I didn't go to mass. I was probably working or maybe just too lazy that day.
But the next Sunday, I did attend his church in Somerville. It was a perfectly fine service and I got to say hi to my new friend and shake his hand. I even saw a few familiar faces the ladies from the kolache shop. We didn't speak.
Thursday rolled around and when I swung by the kolache shop it started out completely normal, but as I paid something different happened. The lady taking my money asked me a question.
"Are you going to start attending church in Somerville?"
"No, ma'am. Father Richard invited me, so I was just visiting."
Not understanding, she asked, "Where do you know Father Richard from?"
"Oh, his car broke down a week or so ago and I gave him a ride."
"That was you?"
"You heard about it?" Now I was the one not understanding.
"He told us about you helping him and your ride together in his Sunday sermon the week it happened."
She handed me my change, but took away my kolache bag. She turned back to the kolache pans and added a couple more to my bag. She gave it back and I said thanks for the extras. I stood there for a bit trying to figure out if there was more to this exchange. There was not. She was well back to work and I slowly figured out I had been dismissed.
But from that day forward, I always got one or two more kolaches in my bag than I had paid for. And sometimes, if the shop wasn't too busy, I'd even get a little smile or pat on my hand.
A couple of years after graduation, I was visiting Usha in College Station and I took her to the kolache shop. To my surprise, the ladies still remembered me. We even got a couple of free kolaches in the bag. I dare say we even had 30 seconds of small talk.
But that's the thing. We didn't need to talk a lot for it to feel comfortable. To feel community. To know we all knew what was important.
As I finished making my kolaches this morning, I was pondering all of that. Its been many years since I have set foot in that shop. I don't even know if it is still there. But the feeling lingers. The feeling of being a part of a community.
The old man in me wants to say things have changed and long for the good old days. But rationally, I know that is not true. It is 100% absolutely not true. I see people every day helping their neighbors, kids or someone in need.
People haven't changed. What has changed is the narrative. The narrative that "we are more divided than ever" and that people should be judged and classified first and foremost by their politics. It's the idea that says it's not important what you do, but what you say. That somehow being compassionate only requires looking and sounding compassionate.
My dear kolache ladies were antithetical to today's narrative. Their actions spoke volumes. They didn't need to.
As I eat my poor excuse for a kolache, I have but two wishes. One that I could make them half as good as that Snook kolache shop. Two that we listen less to those motivated to minimize us and instead celebrate the many good acts that happen all around us everyday. Only then can we truly appreciate them and only then will they reach their potential to inspire us to do more.
In what seems like a lifetime ago, but also seems like yesterday, I lived out in the countryside past the town of Snook, Texas. It was while I was in college and while the distance between home, campus and work seems odd now, I loved it at the time.
The setup had lots of things to appreciate, including high up on the list Thursday, Friday and Saturday mornings. On those mornings, a group of grandmotherly types of local women opened their kolache shop. There was nothing fancy about the place. I don't even recall a sign out front. It was just a simple small house that had been converted into a bakery in the bake and sales counter up front.
At first I wondered why they would only be open three days a week. Slowly I discovered the marketing genius. Wednesday nights always held the excitement of fresh kolaches in the morning. If they were open everyday, Thursdays would have been nothing special.
On Saturday mornings, excitement changed to mild panic with the knowledge this would be the last chance for kolaches for several days. I soon came to appreciate these savvy ladies had concentrated a full weeks worth of sales possibly more into three days.
Needless to say, I was a regular. The ladies came to recognize me and over much time warmed from skeptical of me to slightly less skeptical of me. Very slightly. They were never rude or unkind. They just had a practical approach to the dispatch of business.
This was our relationship for almost two years. Me needing (okay wanting) kolaches and them selling them. Transaction done. Moving on.
That relationship changed in an unexpected way.
After an early work shift I was driving back home and just barely out of College Station I saw a Monte Carlo broke down on the side of the road with a priest looking over it and scratching his head. I had been up since 4:30 a.m. I was tired and ready to be home. I was having trouble reconciling a Monte Carlo driving priest. Despite all that, I pulled over and backed up to his car.
I asked him what I could do to get his car going and he said what he really needed was a ride to his church in Somerville, which was another 15 miles past my house. Another 30 minutes or so between me and my nap seemed a small price to pay to help out, so we got in my truck and off we went.
After the perfunctory expressions of appreciations and "glad to help"s we settled in for a pleasant talk. College was great fun, being a broke college student working two jobs had a number of stresses. I can't tell you the specifics of all we talked about, but I remember feeling uplifted and more empowered by the end of the ride - a ride I admit I wasn't ready to be over.
As he got out, he invited me to church. I said I would and I meant it. I am not Catholic, but I had been to a fair number of masses at that point in my life and found them intriguing.
The next Sunday came and went. I didn't go to mass. I was probably working or maybe just too lazy that day.
But the next Sunday, I did attend his church in Somerville. It was a perfectly fine service and I got to say hi to my new friend and shake his hand. I even saw a few familiar faces the ladies from the kolache shop. We didn't speak.
Thursday rolled around and when I swung by the kolache shop it started out completely normal, but as I paid something different happened. The lady taking my money asked me a question.
"Are you going to start attending church in Somerville?"
"No, ma'am. Father Richard invited me, so I was just visiting."
Not understanding, she asked, "Where do you know Father Richard from?"
"Oh, his car broke down a week or so ago and I gave him a ride."
"That was you?"
"You heard about it?" Now I was the one not understanding.
"He told us about you helping him and your ride together in his Sunday sermon the week it happened."
She handed me my change, but took away my kolache bag. She turned back to the kolache pans and added a couple more to my bag. She gave it back and I said thanks for the extras. I stood there for a bit trying to figure out if there was more to this exchange. There was not. She was well back to work and I slowly figured out I had been dismissed.
But from that day forward, I always got one or two more kolaches in my bag than I had paid for. And sometimes, if the shop wasn't too busy, I'd even get a little smile or pat on my hand.
A couple of years after graduation, I was visiting Usha in College Station and I took her to the kolache shop. To my surprise, the ladies still remembered me. We even got a couple of free kolaches in the bag. I dare say we even had 30 seconds of small talk.
But that's the thing. We didn't need to talk a lot for it to feel comfortable. To feel community. To know we all knew what was important.
As I finished making my kolaches this morning, I was pondering all of that. Its been many years since I have set foot in that shop. I don't even know if it is still there. But the feeling lingers. The feeling of being a part of a community.
The old man in me wants to say things have changed and long for the good old days. But rationally, I know that is not true. It is 100% absolutely not true. I see people every day helping their neighbors, kids or someone in need.
People haven't changed. What has changed is the narrative. The narrative that "we are more divided than ever" and that people should be judged and classified first and foremost by their politics. It's the idea that says it's not important what you do, but what you say. That somehow being compassionate only requires looking and sounding compassionate.
My dear kolache ladies were antithetical to today's narrative. Their actions spoke volumes. They didn't need to.
As I eat my poor excuse for a kolache, I have but two wishes. One that I could make them half as good as that Snook kolache shop. Two that we listen less to those motivated to minimize us and instead celebrate the many good acts that happen all around us everyday. Only then can we truly appreciate them and only then will they reach their potential to inspire us to do more.
