On any given construction site in the mid-state at noon, the guys from Gratz eat their pie first. When asked why, they say, “How else will you know you’ll have room?”
Before every mother cries “foul!”, think about it. Ladies from Gratz make great pie, and the guys certainly don’t laze around all day. They eat their lunches. Just after the pie.
Art experienced something similar. He was working in a panel truck, blowing up balloons for some political campaign or other. It was blistery hot. He and the other guy were told to help themselves to the picnic offering for campaign workers. Art passed by the food and headed right to the Cokes, green glass bottles nestled in a sea of ice. He downed one in a gulp. Nothing matched it since.
I remember a summer day in Winner, SD. The town was still wet from a torrential rain. After being stuck indoors John and I were eager to get out. He charged onto the grass outside as I dragged a laundry basket to the line. The next thing I knew, he was sitting in a mud puddle, covered with muck, having a blast. I figured I’d hose him off before he came back indoors. We later heard an elder’s daughter and her boyfriend drove past and saw him. Her beau said to her, “Is that the preacher’s kid?”
If we hold convention so tightly, we miss out on pleasures along the way. Don’t continually put them off. Every once and a while remember those guys from Gratz, and eat your pie first.