I couldn’t deliver to every store. I sold throughout the country, so that would have been impossible. But there were a few in my city, especially the larger ones, where it just made sense. The Bibelot stores ordered a large volume every two weeks. It would have taken longer to pack and ship than to just fill the car and drive it over. Plus, truth be told, for me there was a real joy and satisfaction to take an order to completion. To walk in the door and be greeted by the smiling faces of those who worked there. To walk past the employees only sign. To be welcomed for heart and art. To see customers with items in hands — holding an idea that started inside of me, a thought that made it to paper, or canvas, or both. This, I suppose, was how my grandfather felt after a summer’s heat. A summer’s growth. 

There was even more to the routine. I called my mother when I neared her favorite bread and bakery — The Great Harvest — just across the street from Bibelot.  “Get a loaf of the honey wheat for me, and put it in the freezer, and a caramel roll.” She reminded me each time — though we both knew I wouldn’t forget. I would be getting the same for myself. After purchasing, then making the delivery, I would call her on my way home. “Was my favorite clerk there?” Yes. “Did they ask about me?” Yes. “Did you get two loaves?” Yes. “And a caramel roll.” Yes. “Did you already eat some?” Yes. And we’d both giggle in delight. 

Yesterday, Dominique and I went to that same neighborhood. The store is no longer there. I can’t call my mother, not by phone anyway, only by heart. But the Great Harvest is still there. And I don’t just mean the bread store. I can still feel each creation. Each delivery. Each phone call. Each giggle. My great harvest continues. 

I toasted the bread for breakfast, and welcome the day by heart.