Fruitcake

Fruitcake is not something I would normally think about, and probably not something I would normally buy. One Christmas I made the mistake of defending the beleaguered fruitcake in front of my parents and my grandfather. (My grandfather loved fruitcake. He stood nearly alone in this.) "There is only one fruitcake as far as I am concerned and that is the Collin Street Bakery fruitcake from Corsicana, Texas." I said. Not that I am a huge fruitcake fan like he was. In fact, there is not another fruitcake that I even remotely desire. But heated up in a toaster oven with a little butter, this fruitcake is a very earthy holiday treat. As far as deserts go, it is quite enjoyable in extreme moderation, thin slices, and always with coffee. My Grandfather took my comment as an excellent opportunity to take care of gifting me for the next 20 years. We had formed a fruitcake bond. Every Christmas, he sent me a Collin Street Bakery fruitcake. I would eat a few slices over the holidays while my wife and friends sneered and turned their noses. It was a reoccurring joke. But over the years this became a treasured connection to my Grandfather. He never forgot, although every year, I did. Each Christmas it was a surprise and a laugh when it showed up at the door.  In spite of the fact that three quarters of it never got eaten, I was quite fond of the fruitcake. My Grandfather died on Mother's day last year at the ripe old age of ninety five. He outlived my Grandmother Mildred and just about all of his friends. He begrudgingly moved to a small house behind my parents when he could no longer care for himself, though he always disdained help offered for anything he could still do. He spent the last ten years of his life writing an autobiography of sorts, mainly for us, on an ancient manual typewriter. Though he was not a great writer, it was filled with the beauty, adventure, and humor of his life. I enjoyed mostly the stories of his youth and his adventures when he left home to be a travelling Jazz musician. He was an exquisitely talented piano player. And also the stories of how he met Mildred, for whom he never felt quite good enough. He was an enormously larger than life figure with the driest sense of humor. As children, we feared the looks he would give us from under stern eyebrows and idiosyncrasies like his absolute intolerance for the way anyone else would load the dishwasher; but we loved him for his deep laugh, profound sense of the ironic, and the joy of life he imparted to us all. He had a long and wonderful life. I won't be getting a fruitcake this year, and I miss it. It is funny how cherished memories of those you love can be wrapped in such seeming insignificance. Merry Christmas Whitman! Thank you for the fruitcakes.