The Legacy of the Bench

Family History

Our family history is written in flour and sweat. My grandfather left the Army as a trained baker and bought Cramer's Bakery, which became one of the city's most beloved storefronts. Two of his three sons, my father James and my uncle George, inherited the trade, pouring their lives into the rigorous demands of the wholesale ovens. 

As a child, I lived for my father's attention. I was his shadow, his sidekick. While other kids played in the neighborhood, I thrived in the high-stress, fast-moving environment of the bakery complex. I would stand completely mesmerized next to our twenty-foot wooden workbench, watching my father labor: lifting heavy fifty-pound bags, measuring out fluids, sifting flour, and folding dough with an effortless rhythm.

I wanted so desperately to be part of his world that I would do whatever it took to blend into the bakery environment. When the nights ran too long, I would locate a massive, fifty-pound sack of flour in the back storage room, climb on top of it, pull a stack of clean bakery aprons over my body to keep warm, and fall asleep to the sound of industrial mixers. 

My father was a strong, hard-working man who dedicated twelve to fourteen hours a day, six to seven days a week, to his craft. When he was home during the day, my sisters and I had to walk on eggshells and maintain absolute silence so he could sleep. I watched his body pay the price for that dedication. His feet, legs, and hands were in a state of constant physical pain. My uncle suffered severe back injuries from the unforgiving mechanics of heavy lifting. 

Yet, when we were together outside the bakery, the rewards were pure gold. I cherish the memories of washing cars with him, riding motorcycles, fishing, water skiing, and our annual two-week family camping trip in August when the bakery would completely shut down its ovens for rest.