What kid doesn’t live for cookies? My mother, an otherwise adventurous shopper and cook, was pretty conservative when it came to our own supply, which she always bought from the store. Her selection consisted primarily of vanilla wafers, pink and white frosted animal crackers, ginger snaps, chocolate chip cookies, and Oreos. I was always an Oreos man but, in a pinch, I would also consume Hydrox, even though I convinced myself I could tell the difference. Like many others, I enjoyed the possibilities presented by the three-layered “sandwich” cookie. For the record, I liked to twist the two halves apart, lick off all the cream filling, and then let each chocolate wafer stay in my mouth until it got all soggy. My attention to detail definitely made each snack last longer.
My summers were mostly spent exploring our large backyard. While I wasn't an only-child, my brother and sister were four years my senior, so I was left to my own devices most of the time. And that suited me fine, especially when I was just six years old. There was a lot to do back there. I hunted for hidden treasures. There were bugs to watch and juicy Santa Rosa plums to eat off our tree. Then there were my Tonka trucks and tractors. I could spend hours upon hours making roads and generally landscaping the bare hillside, motor sound effects included. As an aside: Is making sound effects while playing with toys a totally guy thing? I never recall my girl friend (not girlfriend), Lynny Montgomery, making sound effects when playing with our dolls (yes, our dolls). Anyway, if there had been a recent delivery of a few yards of landscaping soil or sand, then I was in little-boy heaven.
My usual attire was corduroy pants with the cuffs rolled up and a short-sleeved button-front shirt. But the most distinctive accessory was an official army-issue green webbed belt that my father had acquired in the National Guard. It featured sturdy grommets from which you could hang other cool stuff. In my case, I added a steel canteen with thick canvas cover, and a small canvas bag, no more than six by eight inches and bearing a white first aid cross, both of which attached to the belt with little hooks. I doubt that the first aid bag was ever used for that purpose. Since the very beginning, it was known simply as “Mark’s cookie pouch.”
Each day I would venture forth, but not until my mother made sure I had something in my cookie pouch, lest I become faint during my treks into the wilds of 38 South Knoll and be overtaken by ravenous hyenas (I suppose, in that regard, it really was a first aid pouch.). Naturally, cookies fit the bill perfectly, being the food staple of six year-old boys everywhere. On a more practical note, my mother probably thought that by supplying me in advance with a mid-morning snack, she could have some peace and quiet until at least lunchtime. Oreos made a regular appearance in the cookie pouch, being sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of my backyard safaris.
Did my mother ever make homemade cookies? Not that I can recall. The designated baker in our neighborhood was Mrs. Gallagher, mother to my two best friends, Scott and Steven, who happened to be twins. On the occasions when I would have a play date at their house at the other end of South Knoll, I would always look forward to their mother’s cookies, often served fresh out of the oven. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, or peanut butter with the traditional fork-marks crisscrossing the top; they transcended my family’s store-bought cookies in the way a live concert transcends even the best recording. For decades after, we would eagerly await the arrival of Mrs. Gallagher’s annual holiday basket, which was filled with a tantalizing variety of fresh-baked treats. Especially her tiny nut cups that were so delicious. Those always went quickly.
But what I didn’t know until I became an adult was that all the time the Clark kids had been craving Mrs. Gallagher’s home-baked goods, all three Gallagher kids had been pestering their mom to buy store-bought cookies, just like Mrs. Clark’s. They wanted Oreos desperately, but the only place they could get their fix was at our house.
Perhaps it was pride that made Mrs. Gallagher insist on home-made, perhaps it was economics; or perhaps she knew, even back then, that all those additives in store-bought can’t be that good for you, but she heroically held the line. As for me, little did I realize at the time that the contents of my army-issue cookie pouch had had enormous street value. In retrospect, I could have parlayed my humble Oreo stash into a vast home-made cookie fortune at the age of six. If only I had known.
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