I remember how my dad took his children to Schroeder’s, despite a lack of ready cash. Screen door slamming; tall, work-slim body striding across the yard, he yelled to any of us within hearing, “If you want to go, climb aboard. I’m on my way.”
Word spread, “He might be going to Schroeder’s.” Deserting chores, we scrambled into our dilapidated jeep, jockeying for position. Dad gunned the engine, shot away and, singing that he’d take Kathleen home again, paid no mind to his passengers caught in mid-scramble.
A fast five miles of irrigated farmland flashed by, dotted by an occasional house hunched beneath massive outbuildings. The finger-smeared windows through which we peered softened the countryside and gentled farmyard clutter. Dad, more interested in his vibrato than our battles, bounced the jeep along rough roads in tempo to his tune, until, gravel flying, he executed his usual abrupt stop. “Whoa there, old boy, whoa there,” he shouted to our great amusement as he flamboyantly pulled back on the wheel and stomped on the brakes at Schroeder’s Auto Repair.
The single, rusted-out gas pump reflecting long departed prices isn’t tempt us; nor did the garage’s shadowed interior with its thick air smelling of rubber and oil. We didn’t stop to examine Schroeder’s grease-begrimed tools or the fly spotted glass case holding PayDay bars, Juicy Fruit gum, and hide-a–key containers. Instead, clutching unfamiliar dimes Dad distributed from a near-empty wallet — an act our money-worried mother wouldn’t approve — we ran to the rectangular soda machine sitting like a dusty treasure chest in a far corner, burbling moistly to itself.
While Dad discussed man things — lay-offs, unemployment checks, failed crops — with big-voiced, thoroughly dirty Schroeder, we circled the red machine and argued best flavors: orange and strawberry being top contenders. Then, decisions made, we clinked our dimes into the coin slot. The machine’s scratched red lid sighed reluctantly as we lifted it, exhaling cold air that washed over our peering faces.
Inside the rectangular chest, icy water bathed cold bottles that we slowly worked along notched metal rows until we could each lift our choice clear, remove its crimped cap with the built-in opener, and take the first sweetly stinging swallow.
Carolyn, a teenager, assumed a pose of nonchalance and sophistication, drinking as though it was almost more than she could manage. Bob threw his head back and drank like the rowdy boy he was, pausing only to burp. I sipped, savoring and saving. Barbara, who had yet to grasp the science of swallowing, let orange liquid flow down her throat in an uninterrupted stream, plugging it with her tongue when she needed to breathe.
As we drank and laughed, Dad looked over at us and grinned.
If the total of a man is made of small acts, our dad was a giant.
This post was adapted from my book, A Seasoned Life Lived in Small Towns
That was beautiful I felt like I was alongside you taking a ride. Memories like that one are worth millions 🌹
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I am always surprised by the power and importance of small memories as opposed to the big events of life. Thank you for your kind comment.
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Small memories mean so much more. Unfortunately I think of my Dads last fathers day when he was in hospital, I bought him some lovely smelling deodorant, my sister said she would get him something when he got home. Unfortunately he never made it back home. I was so pleased I took him something 🙂
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There is peace in knowing we responded with care and love as you did.
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Yes, I agree. Grandpa was a giant, even to his Grandkids and Great Grandkids.
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He was, Dawna, and I appreciate your letting me know the younger generation viewed him that way as well.
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That is sooooo true!!! Both Tucker and Tyree still laugh at the stories that Grandpa told. They also laugh when they think of mom’s reaction to Grandpa’s actions!!! PRICELESS!!!
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Good to hear from you, Kathleen.I enjoyed hearing that Dad had an impact on his great grandchildren as well. And I, too, used to get a kick out of your mom’s reactions to him. I think seeing others react motivated him to continue his shenanigans.
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What a lovely throwback/snapshot. ❤
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Thank you for reading and enjoying my words, karenlee.
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❤
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A very sweet memory of your father, Janet. All fathers should be so much fun. Thank you for sharing your treasure. By the way, I had forgotten those pop treasure chests. It’s fun to be reminded of the way we did things so long ago.
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He was fun, Laurel, and when he discovered something that amused his children, he remembered to repeat it; and we remembered to laugh. I don’t think a soft drink has ever tasted as good as when it was pulled from the icy bath of those machines.
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Those were the days, Janet. My brothers and I were avid collectors of bottle caps, especially at littered picnic areas on long road trips to summer family reunions. Thanks for the memories! 😍
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Oh those ever-present bottle caps. My 4-H club did a project where we crocheted around them to make a trivet that looked like a cluster of grapes, though mine turned our more like a clump of raisins.
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At least you can crochet. I’m all thumbs in that department. lol 😂
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I have trouble imagining you being all thumbs at anything, Gail.
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I tried knitting once. I was 10 years old. I made a pink scarf, which I was so proud to finish. My teacher pointed out 2 spots that were imperfect stitches. I laid it down and never tried knitting again. I learned to embroider instead. Years later, I taught myself to cross-stitch and perfected the technique to the point it became framed art. lol 🦋
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I am so sorry when adults look for flaws rather than the beauty in children’s work: sorry that the adult must have little to be joyful about and sorry that the child might become discouraged, as you did. I imagine you would have been a champion at crochet as well.
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That’s okay. I went on to love cross-stitch as well as cooking. Perhaps my talents were better suited in those areas. 🦋
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What great childhood memories Janet. I can picture the entire scene, even to perhaps hot dry weather and how nice it was to grab a cool drink. When I was 1 You0 we lived in an apartment above a store which had a box of sodas on the front porch where you could grab an occasional orange crush.You did your Dad proud. I hope I did as well.
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I’m certain you did your Dad proud as well, Kayti. My favorite soda flavors were Nehi orange and A&W root beer in those marvelous frosted mugs.
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well, that made me cry-what a perfect description of a daddy and childhood! just loved it!
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Thank you, Michele. My memories of my father are mostly small moments like those I included: nothing grand like in the movies, just consistently positive.
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me too- it was that kind of time-simple and not cluttered up as childhoods are now. Make no mistake-it was grand, just not elaborate. It was wonderful really.
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And we were lucky to experience it with the families we had.
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yes- and maybe, families were so close in heart, with less distractions in a smaller world?
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Yes, I think so, Michele.
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Ah yes. I remember piling into the car. 5 or 6 of us in the back seat, smaller ones sitting on laps, some standing. Thanks for reviving that memory with your lovely story.
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Weren’t those car trips, whether short or long, something, Shelley? I remember how my two youngest brothers crawled here and there, testing out the various laps. Though they preferred Mom’s, they were often willing to settle for mine.
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I have never experienced such an ice chest dispenser, but am imaging the icy manipulations only heightened the experience as you each waited your turn. Loved the imagery of you all piling into the jeep, still hauling the doors shut as your dad took off. A precious memory.
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Dad never said no when we asked if we could go with him when he wasn’t going to work. Though once he shook his head woefully at me when Mom told him I went for a ride with him rather than completing my chores for her.
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What a beautiful tribute, Janet. I can relate to the gas station, the soda machine and a very similar sounding man. I enjoyed reading this.
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I don’t know what it says about me that I remember Schroeder’s garage much better than the other small businesses where I was raised. I don’t think it was just the soda machine; I really liked how the entire murky place smelled.
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For me it was Cevitini Brothers Esso – Ron and Bob. Murky smell and all that. When the interstate interchange was built, they built a brand new station at the exit. It just wasn’t the same.
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When on a road trip, I watch for old stations and swivel my head when I see them. Rarely do I see one still functioning as a business.
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We had a couple around here, but they were split. The gas station owner sold gas and convenience items and rented the service bays to a mechanic. They had the look, but not the feel.
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Did you see me out behind the gas station, looking for my brother who’d taken off across the field? ❤
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No, I neglected to do that, Martha, but I can picture it.
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😊
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Reblogged this on I'm a Writer, Yes, I Am! and commented:
This is just very beautiful. I felt like I was there and I may have been. ❤
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Thank you so much. I liked this piece because I felt I took an common, insignificant event and brought it back in its entirety with telling details. I’m glad you like it as well.
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I love it❤️
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Such a lifelike retelling. It was as if I was there.
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Thank you. I’m glad my words carried you along with me.
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I love your description of how to remove a soda bottle from the big chest. I guess that antique stores are the only places you’ll find one of those these days.
Enjoy the weekend,Janet. And don’t drink too much soda!
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Sadly, I lost my taste for soda many years ago, Neil; perhaps because it doesn’t compare to a good glass of wine.
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Beautiful, Aunt Beulah. Totally, bewitchingly, fabulously beautiful.
I was with you, like a silent unseen member of the gang, squidge into the space …. and with you at the machine… feeling all the feelings you described.
A truly wonderful bit of writing which captured me and held me spellbound until the last word.
Thank you for sharing the joy.
love ~ Cobs. x
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What a lovely, detailed comment you left for me, Cobs. I’m glad I was able to take you with me into my childhood world, which was mostly good.
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I loved this story! Of course, I remember the thrill of a cold drink of soda on a hot summer’s day, more precious because it was so rare! I’m always amazed at the way we all share such similar memories!
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You are so right, Diane. I doubt I would have such a strong, happy memory of soda at Schroeder’s If it was something that happened all the time. It was a rare treat, indeed.
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You described beautifully the life I knew. Looking for your book now!
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I enjoy hearing that I have dropped into the lives of others with the things I write. Let me know if you get my book, and I’ll send you a personalized book plate of some such thing to put in it.
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What a fun story. I often wish I’d been born sooner. What a fun time to grow up.
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It was fun. But I think anyone of any age who had two loving and nurturing parents had a mostly fun time growing up. My experience tells me that siblings also add to the fun.
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Agreed. Though I miss that simpler time with less technology and more playing outside.
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I agree, especially the playing outside with neighborhood friends.
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Yes!
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Indeed, the small things in life add up and make unforgettable memories. My fondest memories about my father are when he would come home from an overnight, wait for me to get ready for school and then escort me to the bus stop. Thank God for loving and caring fathers
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Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. Your father sounds loved, concerned and committed as well. Lucky us.
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The memory that you talked about is very easy for me to imagine, even though I don’t know what any of the faces there look like. It sounds like a great day and shows that the little things in life really do matter. It’s also got me thinking if I have any memories like this too.
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I’m glad my words made my memory come alive for you, Jeffrey. Do you have any similar small memories?
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I remember a few things here and there with my dad but unfortunately I don’t remember it with too much detail 😦
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My advice to an intelligent and thoughtful young man like you, Jeffrey, would be to start observing more carefully, to soak up the details, because when you reach my age, memories will be among your most treasured possessions.
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I definitely do have to observe more, I usually take things in and think of the meaning much later. Memories are very valuable, I’ve seen that it’s something that can be used to connect with others.
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You’re so right, Jeffrey. Nothing can connect two people faster than a shared memory.
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Loved this Janet. We never forget the good stuff our dads did, because we knew he loved us all. Hugs. ☺☺
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And those of us who had dads like that were blessed.
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Truly. xo
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Think our minds crossed as I just wrote about how good that icy cold pop tasted on a hot day from a real cooler- though not as well as you.I remember my dad taking me in the truck, buying me a huge horseshoe lollypop- rootbeer. Love the small stories, thank you Janet.
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My memory tells me the soda was much colder coming from the old-style coolers, but maybe that was just the cold water dripping from the bottle and running down my arm. I’m always happy when you drop by, Sheila.
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Thank you for sharing such a treasured memory, Janet!
I just love slipping into your past. Such tactile memories especially Barbara’s dress with orange sticky residue. Great descriptions and your Dad sounds a hero. ❤
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I like your feeling that you slip into my past. It is about the best thing you could say to a memoirist. I always viewed my dad as having the qualities of a hero, though all he did was work hard and take care of his family.
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He also sounds a if he had a great sense of fun!
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He did. Laughter was a staple in our house, though from my mom it was sometimes exasperated laughter.
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Once again, Janet, your evocative writing took me along with you on that summer outing to Schroeder’s. And right now, at almost 10:00 p.m., I’m salivating over all those wonderful old soda pop flavors.
Oh, and BTW, I’m a “sipper” too!
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I’m glad you enjoyed this simple story, Rita, and happy as well that you understand the fine art of sipping.
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“As we drank and laughed, Dad looked at us and grinned.” You must have felt so loved, Janet, knowing he delighted in his children’s happiness. Your words paint such a vivid picture of those old soda coolers that I felt I could be standing there swirling my hand in the icy water. The cold glass bottle made the soda taste bettter than a can ever could. My Dad kept an ice pick in the glove compartment and would punch a hole in the cap so we could sip as we rode in the car.. You again pulled wonderful memories from the past.
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I’m glad my words brought you a memory of your father, Mary. You are right about the cold glass bottles; never since have I tasted a soft drink as good. You are also right that I felt loved. I think I’ve told you that my dad never told me he loved me, but the fact of his love for me was a constant every minute of my life. I love hearing from you.
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I love that this is what you remember. These small moments are always the most precious ones, right?
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Yes, Kay, the small moments do count more than the grand gestures.
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