Whistle Stop

Growing up in Southern California meant beautiful sunny days, warm but not too hot temps, Disneyland fireworks on balmy summer nights and of course....the Helm's man. Just reminiscing about his visits gives me goose bumps. He was a giant among men. He knew how to work a crowd. He was a network marketing genius. He was in a class all his own. And it all started when we heard the toot-toot of his little whistle.

It didn't really matter to any of us what time of the day he showed up. It seemed as though entire neighborhoods stopped what they were doing at the earliest detection of that whistle. It could be early in the morning or late in the afternoon. It mattered not. As long as he made his way to our street. Please, please, please, let this be the day when it was our turn for him to drive through our neighborhood. Every single mother from every single home seemed to appear almost magically, looking like June Cleaver in her pearls and apron, walking briskly out of her house to make her way to his truck. It was poetry in motion.

He would cruise ever so slowly down the street and find just the right mid way point and then ever soooo slowly apply his brakes and roll to a gentle stop. The driver side door would open and out he would step. He was radiant in his white pants and white shirt. He seemed to almost glow. To all of us he was angelic. He would smile and welcome us and then....and then....and then? He would open the back doors of his truck and the most heavenly smell would waft through the air and the anticipation would begin.

The inside of the truck consisted of many wooden drawers. Each one was pulled out with great love and care to reveal the most delicious donuts and breads you could imagine. Jelly filled, chocolate covered sprinkles, eclairs filled to the max with scrumptious vanilla custard. The drawers seemed to go on forever as he would pull them out one at a time. Rows and rows and rows of warm, gooey, sugar coated, jelly filled circles of heaven, all just waiting to be bought and wrapped in that little special sized piece of waxed paper, and handed over to a ready recipient.

As our good mothers carefully picked out their loaves of bread, we kids would sit on the curb and savor our donuts. We didn't think about the calories or the quantity of sugar as it made a little mustache on our lips. We didn't even know where this guy came from or if his product followed the FDA guidelines. We just knew that every once in a while we would hear the toot-toot of a whistle off in the distance, grab our Moms and make a mad dash for that old beige truck. Life was simple. Life was good. Life was made sweeter because of the Helm's man.