The Owl Club had a bar where groups of men with sunburned necks
huddled together over beers and cigarettes. They all knew Dad, and
whenever he walked in, they insulted him in a loud funny way that was
meant to be friendly. "This joint must be going to hell in a handbasket if
they're letting in sorry-ass characters like you!" they'd shout.
"Hell, my presence here has a positively elevating effect compared to
you mangy coyotes," Dad would yell back. They'd all throw their heads
back and laugh and slap one another between the shoulder blades.
We always sat at one of the red booths. "Such good manners," the
waitress would exclaim, because Mom and Dad made us say. "sir" and.
"ma'am" and. "yes, please" and. "thank you."
"They're damned smart, too!" Dad would declare. "Finest damn kids ever
walked the planet." And we'd smile and order hamburgers or chili dogs
and milk shakes and big plates of onion rings that glistened with hot
grease. The waitress brought the food to the table and poured the milk
shakes from a sweating metal container into our glasses. There was
always some left over, so she kept the container on the table for us to
finish. "Looks like you hit the jackpot and got something extra," she'd
say with a wink. We always left the Owl Club so stuffed we could hardly
walk. "Let's waddle home, kids," Dad would say.
The barite mine where Dad worked had a commissary, and the mine
owner deducted our bill and the rent for the depot out of Dad's paycheck
every month. At the beginning of each week, we went to the commissary
and brought home bags and bags of food. Mom said only people
brainwashed by advertising bought prepared foods such as SpaghettiOs
and TV dinners. She bought the basics: sacks of flour or cornmeal,
powdered milk, onions, potatoes, twenty-pound bags of rice or pinto
beans, salt, sugar, yeast for making bread, cans of jack mackerel, a
canned ham or a fat slab of bologna, and for dessert, cans of sliced
peaches.