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| Bella, hoping for a cookie. |
There is something sacred about a bakery. That may seem like
an absurd statement to you, but you would think differently if you had the
smell of freshly baking bread about you. For the last 20 years I have had that
privilege, as Hartman’s bakery has sanctified my neighborhood with it’s
intoxicating aroma the way a church is filled with frankincense.
There is no better neighbor than a baker. There is no
business you would rather have in your neighborhood than a bakery, except
perhaps a café or bookstore (fortunately, we have both within blocks of our
house). I have lived a block away from Hartman’s for decades now and I only
have to step out of my house and breath deeply to be reminded that we are blessed
by its presence. There is no bottled perfume at any cost that can be as
alluring.
When I was young, we would go to visit my grandmother, who
also had a bakery right around the corner from her house. It was one of my
fonder memories of visiting her, being sent to buy a loaf of bread and given
enough money to buy myself a cream puff, as well. Bread had always been nothing
more than bread to me, until I had toast at my grandma’s. The bread was not the
type I was used to, did not fit perfectly in the toaster, so that some parts
were burnt while other parts still white. But there was a taste to it that
could not be compared, especially when paired with boysenberry jam canned by an
aunt or friend of the family. The most enduring memories are those that are
related to a smell, and to this day I can still vividly recall the smell of
fresh bread toasting in my Grandmother’s kitchen.
Moving into a house that had a bakery so close brought back
vivid and pleasant memories of youth. More than that, it created many new
moments, for my wife, myself and our son. I remember our son being an early
riser, and we could buy a few extra moments of sleep by giving him a small
amount of change to purchase something from Hartman’s. He always seemed to return
with more than he had money for, and I half-suspect someone there had taken
pity on the boy whose appetite was greater than the sum of his quarters.
My dog, too, was a fan of Hartman’s bakery. For years we
would walk by it on an almost daily basis, and often I’d stop for a dog cookie
or two (all right, I might have gotten a cream-filled Long John to go with it).
I’d put her cookies in a white bag and hand it to her, and she would carry it
home in her mouth as daintily as Jackie Onassis with a hand bag. One of my
great pleasures was seeing drivers-by stare at my dog as we walked home. Dogs,
too, would stare, sticking their heads out of the car windows as if in envy.
My dog would want to stop at the bakery every time we passed
by it, and often times when it was closed I would have to drag her away. On one occasion, the owner was outside and noticed my dog’s intent. He told
us to wait where we were, and in a moment returned from inside with a handful
of cookies for my very grateful dog. And—I think it’s okay to say this now—on
several occasions, he permitted my Bella into the bakery itself in order to
have a look around.
I can tell you everybody’s favorites. My wife likes the
peanut squares, my son likes the frosted cookies, and I like the cream-filled
Long Johns. Or the cream-filled chocolate cupcakes. Or the seven-layer squares.
My mom’s favorites were the apple fritters and the glazed croissants. I can’t
recall how many times I stopped at the bakery to grab donuts on my way to my
mom’s house. I always brought extra because my mom loved to share. It was a real treat for her neighbors on the south side of town.
I like to walk, and in the 20 years I lived in the
neighborhood, I’ve easily walked past the bakery thousands of times. I have
seen countless people go in to Hartman’s and come out with arms full. I have
bought donuts to bring to work for my birthday, seen parents buying cakes for
their children’s. I have seen the happy faces of those who walked up to the
door, and have witnessed their secret suffering when they saw the Closed sign on the
door and had to turn away empty-handed. I have seen the misfortune of a child
who dropped his cookie on the sidewalk and the good fortune of my dog who was
not at all shy about eating off the ground.
There are certain things that make a community unique, and
for many years Hartman’s was one of them. Hartman’s is closing, and it makes me
very sad, but I understand that nothing lasts for ever and I wish all the best
to those who have given so much to the neighborhood for so long. You have
touched many people in positive ways, and the smell of baking donuts will
linger forever in my memory. Thank you.
