I promise that every time I write about Howell that it won’t be another story about love, understanding and inclusion.
However, I want to include another chapter of how a citizen of Howell made life better.
I enjoyed one of my best Christmas holidays in part because of a night manager at the Howell Meijer store who helped me find a product I had been searching many weeks for.
The only time we hear about Howell, besides when its football team or girls basketball team is making a run through the state tournament, is when Nazis and skin heads gather in front of city hall or a freeway overpass screaming “white power”. People believe that is the real Howell. That, once again, is not the Howell that I see.
These people do not represent this town. In fact, most of them are not from Howell or any other nearby city. They are shipped in from other states and leave behind the stench of their hatred.
They believe they are cheered in Howell. The reality is they are jeered.
Here is the set up.
My daughter Celine, 25, is grown and out of the house. She lives in Las Angeles and looked forward to our tradition of making Betty Crocker gingerbread out of the box. There was one problem. I searched high and low for the gingerbread mix up and down every Meijer and Kroger from Waterford to White Lake and Walled Lake to West Bloomfield.
No gingerbread mix. One manager said Betty Crocker stopped delivering a while back. Another said it was a seasonal product that was out of season.
I thought I was wasting my time when I dropped by the Howell Meijer a few days before Celine returned home for the holidays.
I bumped into the night manager around 11 p.m., told him my holiday wishes with my daughter Celine. He said he had not seen the gingerbread mix, but said he’d help me look for it. He called his stock person on the phone who said there were boxes in the store somewhere. She just didn’t know where.
The night manager got on his hands and knees, pushed some boxes of white cake mix around. And then it appeared. A box of Betty Croker gingerbread mix had fallen behind on its side behind the white cake mix. Then we saw another and another.
Three boxes of gingerbread mix in all. I scooped all three boxes and hustled to the cash register to purchase them.
I’d already warned Celine that we might not have gingerbread this year. She was sad, but understood.
I called her with the good news as soon as I left the Meijer parking lot. She was thrilled that we could make the gingerbread together and eat warm slices in the basement while watching movies.
I poured in the water and began to stir. She cracked an egg and stirred until the creamy mixture was perfectly blended. We worked as a team and laughed throughout the entire process.
My son Brandon, 22, used to join us. Now he waits for us to bake the bread and then digs in.
This added to the best Christmas celebration in many years for me. My best presents were the family that surrounded me. I’d hope my kids would find jobs in Metro Detroit and remain near home. But Texas and California called and they are both happy where they are.
I miss them though.
A simple box of gingerbread brought smiles and cheers to our faces.
Thank you, night manager. Thank you, Meijer. Thank you, Howell. You came through again.