Tales from an iconic Macon eggnog party

Eggs.

I eat four every morning. Breakfast of champions.

Egg nog.

Not so fast. It’s an acquired taste I’ve never acquired.

A sip or two is all I allow myself at the annual eggnog party I attend on the second Saturday of December. 

 This year’s eggnog revelry was held on Saturday morning at L.E. Schwartz & Son, a commercial and residential roofing company and one of the city’s oldest family-owned businesses.

I walked through the doors of the company’s warehouse on Reid Street to hobnob — or is that hob-nog — with hundreds of Macon’s movers and shakers.

It’s not this way now, but there was a time in my life when I believed my social status would be greatly enhanced if I were on that guest list. I had lived in Macon 26 years before I finally got my first invitation back in 2004. 

Longtime friend Melvin Kruger, the company’s C.E.O., made sure I was included. His maternal grandfather, Louis Erwin Schwartz, was a Hungarian immigrant who began the tradition in 1918. Schwartz served homemade eggnog and pound cake on Christmas Eve morning as a toast to the company’s success.

I was thrilled … and a bit nervous to make my eggnog party debut. It was a chance to see and be seen over 250 gallons of a family eggnog recipe that has been closely guarded for the past 47 years. 

Admittedly, it was awkward. I was there by myself, and I was uncomfortable trying to fit in with the large, social gathering. I walked around, drink in hand, moving in and out of slurred conversations, until I spotted some friends in the middle of the packed room.  

As I was making small talk, I heard a man behind me to my right who was a few nogs over the legal limit. His arms were flailing and suddenly, without warning, his left arm swung and knocked my right elbow. 

Eggnog went flying. It splattered on nice blouses and no doubt sent a couple sports coats to the dry cleaners. 

Several unsuspecting folks in the line of fire noticed I was the one holding the offending cup. I was embarrassed. I stammered to get the words out. I wanted them to know … IT WASN’T ME!!!

Had there been a hole in that concrete floor, I would have crawled in it.  Too embarrassed to stick around, I hurried out the door, vowing never to return.

It was several years before I was able to summon the nerve to show my face again. I was not black-balled or banned. All was forgiven … or forgotten. The Krugers continued to send me an invitation.

On Saturday, I mingled and jingled with folks I hadn’t seen since last year.  I told a few of them the story of the unintended splash I made at my party debut 21 years ago.

They thought it was funny. “Why don’t you write about it?” one of them suggested.

“Of course, ’’ I said. “It would make a good story.’’