Victory Puppies Dad worked the second shift at Sundstrand Aviation in Rockford. Mom was working days at The Standard Brass Company in Belvidere. With school out for the summer, this meant that my brothers and I had better be quiet while Dad slept in. Some mornings we would sneak into their bedroom after Mom had left to raid Dads pants for loose change. We could usually get enough for candy and pop at the little store on Madison St. Before going to the store, we needed to get his permission, but that was easy. One of us would simply go back into their room and tell him we were going to the store, and he would mumble, Okay, never really waking up. Sometimes he would make us giggle with a nonsensical reply, such as, You guys know you cant ride three on a bike, and then resume snoring. This was our Monday through Thursday routine. Friday mornings were different. On Friday mornings, we were to awaken Dad about 8:00 AM, because he could go to the Sundstrand office to pick up his paycheck, instead of waiting until his shift started in the afternoon. This was the best day of the week for us, because we boys would ride to Rockford with him. The drive was usually pleasant, and because I was the oldest, I generally got to sit up front, unless Terry or Tim would whine about the seating arrangements. Dad didnt want to hear any whining, and I didnt argue if he told me to let one of them have a turn in front. The best part of the deal was after Dad walked out of the office with his check in his hand. Leaving Sundstrands we would go back to Belvidere. On the way home, headed east, on Harrison Ave., I would look for the sign, then at Dad, wondering if we were going to stop. Some days, he would just return to Belvidere and cash his check at the bank. On a good day, he would get a thirsty look in his eyes. That was the look I was hoping for. That meant wed be stopping at the sign I had been watching for, the sign for The Victory Tap. It was a small tavern, and at age eleven, my favorite watering hole. Dad could cash his check there, stashing all off the money into his wallet, except for a five dollar bill, which he left on the bar. He would get a bottle of Pabst and we would all get a pop. There was nothing special about the pop, nothing special about the building. The bartender was the special part. I wish I could remember her name. It made me a little nervous, but it was some kind of exciting when she would bend over to pull bottles out of the cooler in front of me, and I was treated to a thrilling view. My throat nearly swelled shut. I didnt know that ladies werent required by law to wear bras, and didnt she realize that her top three buttons had popped open? I suppose a gentleman would have advised her that shed come undone, but not one of the men sitting on those stools spoke up. After a few beers, Dad would say it was time to go, and wed pile into the Oldsmobile. On Route 5, right after Cherry Valley, Id say, Make it go a hundred, Dad! Bury the needle!! He did, and we zoomed along at a hundred, then a hundred and twenty miles an hour, while I watched the telephone poles fly by, and thought about those teacup sized puppies with their dark brown noses. Life was good. No one had even heard about seat belts. Dad was one hell of a driver. TWalker 12/02/14
Posted on: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 13:36:51 +0000
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