By Lorry Myers
I was caught off guard when my daughter’s Girl Scout leader stopped me as I was going out the door with a toddler on my hip, a Brownie with her pink backpack, and an impatient middle schooler waiting in the car.
“Would you mind being the Cookie Chairman this year?” she asked.
Well, I do like cookies…
“What do I have to do?” I inquired. Sort cookies and collect the money. I can do that. Where do I get the cookies? They come right to your door. That’s it, that’s all?
Just like that, I was the Cookie Chairman.
Weeks later, I received a call saying the cookies would be delivered the next day. I was going to be gone around that time so I told my husband that someone would be dropping off my cookie order. Randy was very aware that I am a Girl Scout cookie fan and always teased me each year about the number of boxes I buy. He was convinced no one buys more Girl Scout cookies than I do.
“You have got to be the Cookie Queen,” he would say, mint cookie crumbs clinging to his shirt.
The next day right on time, a semi-truck pulled up in front of my house. The truck driver knocked on the door and my husband answered, holding his afternoon paper. The driver had a clip board in his hand and a tired look on his face, patience running short just like his gasoline.
“How many boxes did my wife order?” Randy joked, pointing to the dolly sitting beside the truck.
Now, I wasn’t there but I was told that the driver stopped and looked my husband dead in the eyes so there would be no question about the seriousness of his answer.
“Mister, this whole truckload is yours.”
Well, it took a while to unload those cookies and when the truck was empty, cookies filled every crevice in our house. They were stacked floor to ceiling on the porch and up and down the hallway. They were five feet high on counter tops and circled every bed in every bedroom. They were over and under the dining room table, in and falling out of the closets. A crude pathway was carved like a maze from room to room created by a teetering wall of cookie boxes. My children, who had been enlisted to help, dutifully informed their father that I wasn’t the Cookie Queen, I was the Cookie Chairman, everyone knew that.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.