When I was a kid, Saturday mornings meant one of two things: cereal and cartoons or honey buns and helping out.  

I grew up in an era when cartoons were only available on weekdays as an ‘After School Special’ or on Saturday morning while parents slept.  It’s clear parents were involved in those programming decisions.  This was binge watching before Netflix was mail-order.  Big blankets and big bowls of cereal were the necessary accoutrement; it was magical.  

Helping out was also a treat.  Some Saturdays brought sorting equipment at the community Rec League while others involved manual labor at the church.  As a child, projects were great because it meant that I would likely use new tools, that I had value to contribute among the men and it also meant honey buns. These high-sugar, pre-packaged, made-by-the-truckload pastries were compensation for my labor and became part of the routine.  A quick stop at the Golden Gallon for a $0.25 Little Debbie honey bun warmed in the microwave and a chocolate milk began the day.  It was the breakfast of champions, providing the necessary motivation for a 10 year-old boy, even if limited in nutritional value.  

This became our routine, a pre-requisite for Saturday morning work.  Honey buns on Sunday weren’t the same as honey buns on Saturday because of the ceremony around them.  Something familiar, inexpensive and tied to an emotion becomes something priceless and spectacular.  I’m not sure if Golden Gallon still exists and I am confident that Honey Buns are no longer $0.25, but I am glad to share that memory with my father.  

I wonder what those associations are for my kids.

I wonder if they know.  

Maybe I should ask.