McCollumn Classic - The Krispy Kreme Doughnut Dilemma

Opelika is a wonderful town. I really cannot say that enough. I’ve had the distinct pleasure to be raised here, and I feel blessed for it. 

However, Opelika is not perfect. We do not live in some sort of blessed utopia or the proverbial “shining city upon a hill.” 

There is only one major thing Opelika lacks that keeps it from achieving true greatness: its lack of a Krispy Kreme Doughnut shop. 

Truly, there are three no more glorious words in the English language as the ones that flash in that soul-piercing red neon sign, as if written in the handwriting of the gods themselves for us mere mortals to be honored to see: “Hot Doughnuts Now.”

 I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly caused multiple car collisions because of that sign. 

I love Tiger Town and the many stores it has brought to this area. For example, I don’t know how I’ve lived this long without the 24-hour Kroger. 

Every time I’ve heard about a new expansion at Tiger Town, my pulse has quickened with anticipation, a longing to hear a Krispy Kreme was coming our way. 

I would get myself to a mental place where I could be prepared to preemptively amputate my feet in an attempt to combat the diabetes I would be sure to develop. I’ve even got Wilford Brimley and the good people at Liberty Medical on speed dial so I can get my testing supplies delivered right to my door. 

And, every time, I’ve been disappointed, disheartened and disturbed when I would hear a Krispy Kreme would not be here. 

You can only get your hopes up so many times before you begin to feel defeated by the whole thing. 

I’ve talked to city council members and folks at the Opelika Chamber of Commerce, and they’ve all said the same thing. 

Krispy Kreme headquarters has decreed we are too close to Columbus and Montgomery to support a store of our own. 

I find that statement to be as absurd as it is incorrect, and wrote Krispy Kreme a fairly strongly-worded letter saying something to that effect. To this day, I’ve not heard back from them. 

Seriously, the sales to First Baptist Church on a Sunday alone could keep them in business, and I know full well that it isn’t just Baptists who love those doughnuts. 

To me, it is easy to mathematically prove Opelika deserves a Krispy Kreme. 

Krispy Kreme doughnuts are the best. Opelika deserves the best. Therefore, by the transitive property (or one of those math things that Gloria Campbell tried desperately to drill into my brain in high school), Opelika deserves a Krispy Kreme. 

There is nothing in the world quite like one of those hot, glazed doughnuts. 

Honestly, they are so soft you really don’t even have to chew them; you just sort of inhale them and let the warmth spread over you like a beloved family quilt. 

Few things in this world match the happiness of doughnut happiness. 

I know some of you love these doughnuts just as much as I do. 

I’ve seen you in line after Opelika football games at Montgomery’s Crampton Bowl. We all laugh and share coupons as we wait patiently for a few boxes of those wonderful treats. 

Just think, if we had a store like Montgomery, we could do that every Friday. So, what do we do? How do we let the suits at Krispy Kreme HQ know that we mean business? 

Write a letter, send an e-mail, make a phone call. 

These are all good things to do, for a start. I propose a more drastic action, one of those “cut off the nose to spite the face” kind of deals. 

We must boycott all forms of Krispy Kreme found in our local grocery stores, gas stations and other sundry locations. 

We must resist the siren’s call of the creme-filled and brave the straits of the cruller and the chocolate-glazed. 

We know coffee cake and danish aren’t as good, but we will stick to them and remain steadfast in our resolve. 

We will tell Krispy Kreme they can keep their day-old goods from Columbus and Montgomery. 

We will tell them we will only eat a doughnut that comes from our town, so they’d better hurry up and build one.

 If we hit them in the pocketbook, they’ll fall like the walls of Jericho. 

I know we can do this, Opelika. We are capable of great things when we work together. 

Imagine what a wonderful day it will be when we can all stand in the queue on that opening day, laughing and bantering as we wait for the doors to open. 

We will all fill ourselves full of golden fried goodness and that highly addictive coffee. 

We will be a step closer to true greatness. We deserve greatness, don’t we? 

But, you read it here first, if I am not at the head of the line that wonderful day, there will be trouble. 

Consider yourselves warned. 

The McCollumn - 10/26: "Kudzu bugs and Tippi Hedren"

My paternal grandmother, Janie Ruth McCollum, was an interesting individual.

Set in her ways and more stubborn than a team of mules, she knew full well what she wanted to do and the way she wanted to do it, and no one, not even her well-meaning sons, could convince her otherwise.

As a child, she was my primary babysitter, as my parents would drop me off at McCollum Cottage with little worry that woman who raised Homer and Tank would have no issue whatsoever with bookish, quiet Cliff. Little did they know it wasn’t me they had to worry about.

While “Maw Maw” was an excellent caregiver and sitter, she didn’t always possess the best kid filters when it came to television and movies, letting me and my cousins watch things we never should have watched at our young ages.

Some were funny - Cousin Katie and I still laugh about the fake Saturday Night Live commercial for the “Love Toilet” and how she tried to convince a young Cliff to try to call the number on the screen to order one for Maw Maw. She then began to beat me savagely as I got to the phone and started pressing numbers.

However, some of Maw Maw’s entertainment choices were much too scary for young Cliff - and I was reminded of such an incident earlier this week.

Normally this time of year, McCollum Cottage is riddled what I’ve dubbed “the cutest infestation of all time” - the annual ladybug pilgrimage to the trees and bushes that surround my home.

I’ve noticed swarms of small bugs around the house, and thought my old friends had come back to visit once more.

Wrong. Dead wrong.

Horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad wrong.

Instead of my usual red and black cohorts, the estate of McCollum Cottage now finds itself overrun with a pest of a different color.

Kudzu bugs - the murky brown, foul-smelling beetles our county agent Chuck Browne warned us about in his column last week - have overtaken everything, from the front yard’s pecan tree to the poke salad bushes near the chimney remnants next door.

Crushing them to bits only brings a momentary satisfaction, as the horrid odor emitted upon their expiration is akin to the aromatic enjoyments of asparagus-laced urine and industrial oven-cleaning solvents.

The little buggers have begun to swarm now, making entering and exiting my home a real battle during the daylight hours.

The air is thick with the winged pests, and I’m forced to run and swing my arms wildly about to avoid the bugs finding safe passage on my personage.

I pray no one’s seen me do this; I imagine to passers-by I’d look not unlike a schizophrenic.

As I was saying goodbye to Friend of Cliff Kendra Carter as she departed Sunday afternoon from the house, we were forced to do the same air-slapping insanity to keep the bugs from getting in her car.

“Makes us look like Tippi Hedren, doesn’t it,” I said to Kendra before she was forced to bolt.

Tippi Hedren, indeed.

There was an almost immediate flashback to an 8-year-old Cliff sitting on Maw Maw’s sofa, watching a special presentation of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

I watched with terror as despite her wild gesticulations and screams, Hedren’s character was savagely mauled and attacked by the titular winged menaces. They didn’t kill her, but they came darn close.

I’ve been afraid of birds ever since. I even keep my distance from caged birds - just in case they decide to lose it and go straight for the whites of my eyes.

Since that Saturday night almost two decades ago, I’ve found myself determined to not leave the mortal realm in that fashion -  and while I always thought “Hedrenning” was not nor would it ever be a positively-connoted verb, I’m beginning to change my tune.

Save ordering a beekeeper’s suit from online or calling in tactical air support to gas the blighters out, I find myself left with few options other than the 20-yard Hedren Dash to and from the car each day.

While I hope that the recent cool streak will help rid us of this troublesome bane, I urge you all to maintain constant vigilance and be aware of your own outdoor surroundings.

I’ve received word from the Opelika Order of Geezers that their headquarters on Marvyn Parkway, on the opposite side of town from my beloved McCollum Cottage, is similarly infested with kudzu bugs - as the gentlemen can’t even take a much-needed smoke break without coming back covered in tiny brown beetles.

Be prepared, dear readers.

We all thought the kudzu plant itself was a horrible sickness, but the kudzu bug cure may be worse.

So, keep your eyes peeled on the horizon for flickers of small insect wings.

Check your garden’s leaves and stems for barely moving brown dots.

And, keep your arms free and available to flail about, if necessary.

“Hedrenning” might may you look like a fool or a mental patient, but it will help you beat off the bugs ... sort of.