As sure as death and taxes,
it came around each year…
Girl Scout cookie sales.
Time to don my uniform
and hit the pavement.
Oakley Lane had seven houses
on each side of the street.
I started at the bottom and
worked my way up the hill.
My strategy was simple…
smile and hope for the best.
In the 1950’s, there was only
one variety of cookie to sell…
no Thin Mints or Shortbreads.
It was vanilla and chocolate
sandwich cookies, period.
If that didn’t tantalize their
taste-buds, I was doomed.
I trudged from house to house,
secretly hoping no one would
answer when I rang the doorbell.
Better yet, if a Girl Scout emblem
sticker was on display I figured I
could skip that house, as it signaled
they had already done their civic
duty by purchasing cookies.
After what seemed an eternity
of sweating bullets, I finally
arrived back home.
I had survived another outing.
The Fuller Brush man covering
our neighborhood didn’t need to
worry. His job was safe, as I was
definitely not cut out for sales.
Nothing gets me in the holiday spirit
like pulling out my Christmas card list,
gathering up the stamps and address labels,
spreading my cards and envelopes on the table
and sitting down to send personal greetings
to friends and relatives.
When I was growing up in the 1950’s, we
always had a family Christmas card each
year. The cards traveled far and wide to
hundreds of people. There was a large
basket with holiday themed decorations
to hold the stacks of cards we received.
While I send far fewer cards today, I still
look forward to hearing back from people
and reading their notes scribbled inside.
To
Toys
Buried in
