A Personal Place

Memories of Baker’s Peak pop to the surface like so many jack-in-the-boxes this time of year. I can still envision winter-coated people with greedy eyes crowding to the overstuffed bakery case where they stared and pointed at holly-berry-decorated yule logs and single-layer cakes topped with hand-piped poinsettias. “This-or-that-party is coming up; can I special-order something unique?” They’re eager, appreciative, and maybe even (for a second or two when adult sophistication drops its guard) childlike. “Oh, and I’ll take a lemon square for right now, please.”

I can almost smell the thick smells, feel the greasy red-stained pastry tube in my aching-carpal-tunnel-prone hand, and feel the prickles in my arches from standing in one spot for hours on end. In my mind’s eye the “brain boards” stand on chairs like artist easels with their hundreds of flapping papers – boards created to facilitate dealing with mega-orders. And the cash register – well, there it is with familiar ivory keys waiting to ring up the price-lookup numbers for a chicken salad sandwich (14) and a drop cookie (23). Funny, those two numbers have lingered in my mind while the others have faded.

Eleven years ago this month I was unknowingly orchestrating my final Christmas as owner/manager of Baker’s Peak – and yet in a sense it all seems like it happened just yesterday. All I have to do is mix up a batch of sour cream sugar cookie dough (which I did last night) and presto, I’m transported back in time to my little shop where people clamored for hundreds – no thousands – of homemade tree and star and wreath cookies as if they were pure gold.

What was it about that place, anyway? Naturally it had to do with offering baked goods from scratch (as well as other yummy edibles of high quality). But something else was going on, too – something relational involving supply and demand of intangibles like concern and support.

To quote Kathleen Kelly, owner of the children’s bookstore named Shop Around the Corner in the movie “You’ve Got Mail,” it probably had to do with being PERSONAL. “Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal,” she said. That’s it. Ours was a personal business. People often told me our store reminded them of an extended home kitchen, or the atmosphere of good old Grandma’s. We were the opposite of Village Pantry with its meager offering of day-old donuts and instant cappuccino where a blank-faced employee might never make eye contact.

The shop required me to give more than I had of every personal resource imaginable: skill, time, strength, energy, patience, creativity, organization, sensitivity/boldness. It was hard – very hard. In that sense I was stretched to the limit and beyond – it is no surprise I battled with cancer during this era. I worked too hard and slept too little…and discovered financial and relational success, and a changed identity that would forever affect my attitudes about God, myself, and my role in His kingdom on earth.

The perspective of elapsed time has allowed me to remember how my patrons were “fed” more than a bowl of steamy homemade soup, a sandwich on a freshly-baked roll, and perhaps a snickerdoodle cookie. As well as sacrificial service and product customization, they were offered respect, acceptance, and friendship. Interestingly, these same intangibles ended up being mirrored right back to me and my staff.

Whenever someone walked inside they were greeted with the tinkling bell on the door, warm kitchen-y smells, AND warm hearts. Despite the realities of a few inevitably gritty personality ouchies, in general we collectively cared about each other – employees, “regulars” (many of whom were on a first name basis with us),and even occasional drop-in patrons. This automatic attitude of regard for individuals was “in the air” as much as the scent of vegetable-beef soup and cinnamon rolls.

Although I felt ill equipped as a business owner at the time, now I realize I ran the place like a family rather than a business (not having any experience BUT being a wife and mother), which was not a bad thing. Baker’s Peak ended up being a place where everyone belonged, and we did life together.