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SHIRTS NOT CURRENTLY AVAILABLE ON ZAZZLE
Every now and again something that is considered ‘so random’ in common parlance comes down the pike and even though it’s not strictly “random” (you know, because it somehow relates to what’s going on at the time) it still feels really random. It makes you laugh. Then it makes you recollect. Then it makes you reminisce. Then it makes you hungry for the donuts that everyone in a local community Facebook group were going on and on about a few months back, but you now know you’ll never taste those praised “Amish-made” donuts because despite everyone’s absolute – obnoxious at times – devotion to those adored circles of fried dough, the shop went out of business.
Then you get back to reminiscing.
I was brought up in a family of campers. Most weekends and for several weeks out of the summer, we camped. Not roughing-it-in-a-tent (usually) camping, but roughing-it-in-a-canvas-roofed-trailer and years later, roughing-it-in-a-metal-roofed-trailer-that-actually-had-a-bathroom camping. It was fun. It was also in Somerset, PA (the canvas trailer) and in Clarks Mills, PA (the metal trailer). Both of these areas had higher populations of what I will respectfully call “Plain People” (because I’m not an expert on religious groups and I’m no more able to tell a Mennonite from an Amish by sight than I can a Presbyterian from a Methodist) than the Pittsburgh suburbs.
I was a slightly odd child (and possible odder teen), so I always enjoyed slowing down to pass (or waiting to pass) a buggy. I have an inherent appreciation for simple and straightforward things, so the orange/red warning triangle on the buggy back was always an invitation to smile at strangers – something high speed doesn’t encourage – and take a good look at a horse. I’m not a “horse person” as such, but I do think they’re beautiful and recalling that I’ve ridden in two separate countries, on two separate continents, gives me a happy, satisfied feeling to be sure.
Anywaywho, a week ago my dear family was having a get-together to celebrate my parents’ 53rd wedding anniversary. It was a lovely time – food, drink, sending my folks to Uniontown for a holiday (long story, don’t judge) and at one point there was a conversation going on – one of those charming little ‘side conversations’ that happens in kitchen doorways and on stairs – and for reasons that are lost to history (at least my memory’s version of history), one of my wonderful, lovable, hilarious nieces (I’m blessed with several) commented that she had judged someone Amish. I would love to relate the entire story, but I laughed so hard at her delivery that I just don’t remember it. I know there was some lighthearted remorse for the “judging” and a valid explanation why the judgement was made. But in true form, I’ve retained only enough of the occasion to keep chuckling about it to this day. And in true-yet-more-recent form, I’ve made a t-shirt art design thingy of it.
Off and on for one week I’ve been chuckling (sometimes even a full-blown chortle), being nostalgic for childhood family vacations and wondering if I should feel ashamed for regretting the missed opportunity to validate my suspicion that the glorified donuts didn’t have even a passing association with anything or anyone Amish. ;)