William Scantlebury’s death marks the end of an era. The proprietor of Betty Ann’s Donuts in East Boston, renowned for his “sinkers,” represented a connection to simpler times—a childhood fundamentally different from what today’s young people experience.
My brothers and I were introduced to these treats during the mid 1960s. Our grandmother would arrive at our house on weekdays carrying a box of pastries from Betty Ann’s, and inside we’d find Danish varieties—lemon and raspberry coated with icing, cinnamon rolls, chocolate chip cookies, and sometimes a pie or brownie. Most importantly, there was always a bag of “sinkers.” We gave no thought to calories; hands reached eagerly into that bakery treasure.
Sunday visits to Betty Ann’s became a family ritual. Two dozen donuts—primarily jelly and hot varieties—would be our purchase. The experience involved patience: waiting in line while hoping fresh batches emerged from behind the counter before the customer ahead claimed the last half dozen.
Carefree years of childhood unfolded. Then adulthood arrived, bringing with it concerns about waistlines and moderation.
Betty Ann’s remained special nonetheless, though limited to occasional indulgences—a tangible link to my younger self.
Years passed before I returned. Taking my youngest son there in first grade while we waited for a plane at Logan Airport seemed like the right moment to share this experience. His introduction to the “sinker” proved transformative. and he was hooked as everyone has been for more than 80 years. Seeing the sugar covering the donut, he went wild. He savored every bite and finally announced that he should bring the donuts to his class because his friends would love them but maybe not the teachers.
That was more than seven years ago and in the years between then and now, he would always make me feel guilty if I drove home through East Boston and did not stop at Betty Ann’s. Another link to my past is gone, but at least my son was able to enjoy a real “sinker” as I and countless other children had discovered in that magical time of our childhood and innocence. Perhaps when he reaches my age and encounters imitations, he’ll recall that carefree period—when life’s greatest concern was simply: who ate my “sinker”?
(Stephen Quigley is the President of the Independent Newspaper Group).