It’s like clockwork. The wind picks up, the leaves line the streets, I pull all of my scarves out, the heat is officially turned on, and I head to the bakery.
Once a year, rain or shine, my granny sends me to the bakery in downtown Greenville. It’s a tiny little place filled with chocolate, sugar coated candies, antique dolls (which has never made sense), jars of Chow Chow, and every sweet food you can imagine. The two older ladies who run the store have me memorized. From the minute I walk in the door, they dust their aprons off and run to ask me how my granny is, when did I get that new hair cut, how is my love life, where am I working, would I want the new recipe for pineapple cake, etc.
Maybe they can never remember my name and always call me “that young girl” but I still consider them sweet friends.