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My Sweets for My Sweet

Kenneth is a rural citizen of Hamilton, Ala., and has begun to observe life and certain things and people helping him to write about them.


The Year Was March 1975

Saturday to be exact. I had the arduous labor of working at my job. Did you hear that, working, on a Saturday? That was a pure act of Communism and knew that Karl Marx would be proud. I ate my breakfast, had a cup of “Joe,” and I do not have to give you an “erg.” (example given), dressed in my blue jeans, flannel shirt, and fired-up my 1974 Plymouth Dodge Duster. Did I tell you that I was single at that time? Did you not see a dead give-away in this text?

I was logged in to work on the outside of our plant, Toll-Gate Garment Co., in Hamilton Ala., which is now a naked piece of ground where our building stood. But in its day, this company turned-out thousands, maybe millions of shirts for a lot of big distributors in our country. But I am not going to talk about the textile industry, which is also a naked piece of ground, but on a nationwide space.

My job was to mow the grass around the fence on the inside of our parking lot, why? I do not know, but I was getting paid, so what did it matter? It did matter that the March sun was growing hot as the morning went into noon and our lawnmower seemingly-would not run smoothly. It reminded me of a crazed crocodile on acid and folks, I can guess that this was not a happy moment.

At noon sharp, I hit it to the time clock, but before I clocked-out, I was captivated by this gorgeous brunette with big blue eyes and had a smile that would stop platoons of the U.S. Marine Corps. She was one of those really-pretty girls who did not go around wearing a big sign around her neck telling folks, “Hey Look! I am Gorgeous!” She didn’t need a sign when she had a crazy guy to do it for her. (you can guess who that was.)

It Was Time For Me

to make my move. I had waited for a long time. I even got on my knees and prayed in secret that He would see fit to send me a girlfriend. Now. Look at what God can do for us if we are sincere and honest. I did not ask for a pretty girl. That was ALL God. And I will not apologize. But ladies and gentlemen, my new female friend, Pamela Carol Winsett, of Hamilton, Ala., soon became my girl friend. I was 19 and had dated a few girls, but never dated a wonderful girl like Pam. Without going into many details, I knew that I just had to ask her for a date.

My plan was easier said than done, because I could not find her name or her family’s name in our hometown phone book, I initiated my own “Find Pam Project,” and by a simple deduction of not contacting those without her last name, I found two families who had last names as Pam’s.

I called the first family and hit the brick wall. But they were nice. And the second call that I made, I hit pay-dirt, as it were. The lady on the phone knew Pam and was related to her. This venture was getting better and better. I asked the lady what her dad’s name was and within 10 minutes, I was phoning her dad’s name that the lady had given me and I got scared, because the phone rang at least four times and I was just about to hang-up and there she was . . .Pam. What a nice voice, so kind,so nice and easy to talk to. And that I sure did talk to her for about 15 minutes. We talked about work, school, and life itself. She was a bundle of information, ideas, and theories. My kind of woman.

When I felt that the time was right, I made my move. I threw out the caution and just asked her if I could take her out to eat and maybe go shopping. Guys, I am not lying. I used the “go shopping,” ploy and it went fine. Pam was ready to see me. And when we agreed on the time, I was ready to meet her and deliver to her my first “Gift of Appreciation,”: a package of the most-delicious chocolate drops that I had ever ate. But not this package. They were all hers.

, .... dressed in my blue jeans, flannel shirt, and fired-up my 1974 Plymouth Dodge Duster. Did I tell you that I was single at that time? Did you not see a dead give-away in this text?

— K. Avery

So as Time Went by

Pam and I began a wonderful relationship and eventually getting married and I owe it all, first, to THE God of the universe, who plans and sees the end of them in their beginnings, before they take-off, and to that package of t sweet chocolate pieces.

But the sad thing is this: I have looked and looked all over creation and no package of perfectly-shaped pieces of tasty chocolate, I am honest. I have even called in most of my favors, pulled a lot of strings, and no such item is for buying and sadly, for eating. Yours truly is in a fix.

The package is not that big, just big enough as 13 inches long, three and a half inches wide. The colorful package carries six, maybe eight sections of candy filled with a tasty filling. Pure ambrosia, if you ask me.

Now I am Left With

a dream. One beautiful, touching dream that I cannot forget, nor would I want to. I can explain it better by saying: in one lifetime, when “that” one person or persons rolls through our lives, we are then touched in so many special ways that people like yours truly cannot describe them in proper wording. Yours included.

But if ever find and secure “that ” package, or small box of chocolate candy, I am going to tell you what my plans are once I take it to a safe hiding place that I know that Pam will not soon find. I will not wrap it in fine wrapping paper because the first box of candy that I gave her was given just the way that is was, and so will this one. And I will wait until our 44th wedding anniversary sometime in June and wait for “just” the right time (e.g. after I take her to a fine restaurant, not one of those fast-food joints, although I do love them, I think that my choice of a fine restaurant will fit our occasion.)

Then . . .and only then when she gets drowsy and she takes her nightly-shower and ready for bed, I will spring into action and place my box of candy into her little hands. Ta,Da! If only I could find that particular package of chocolate.

Not to worry. Although some dreams die, mine do not.

October 12, 2019_______________________________________________


© 2019 Kenneth Avery

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