The Knights

 We walked towards town, my hand in his as he told me stories about the old house on the corner. My great-grandfather built the home as a gift to his wife, he said. As we approached the fire station, he waved to the firefighters washing their big red fire truck, the only one for that part of town. Ahead lay the Catholic church, where we attended on Sundays and confessed our sins. We should stop, don't you think? He asked me. But we kept walking into town on our way to the Knights of Columbus. Down a flight of stairs, leading to the basement of a department store that leased it to them, was a dimly lit bar room complete with a pool table, dart boards, and plenty of room to have a stool at the bar.

On Fridays, they served up the best fish fry in town and were usually sold out an hour after opening. My Dad would help me up onto a stool and order me an orange Crush soda pop and a bowl of stale, chewable pretzels, which I could soften by swishing the soda around in my mouth.

The Knights was a gathering place for many veterans and other men of status around town, and it was common for them to acknowledge me with a never-ending supply of soda pop. If the place wasn't busy, I could play a game of pool, usually by myself, as Dad and others tried to solve the world's problems one drink at a time.

As years passed and I was in my early teens, we would still walk from home to the Knights together, and on my seventeenth birthday, he bought me my first bottle of beer. I was still a year early, but Dad said if I was old enough to serve my country, I could definitely have a beer. You see, I graduated from high school by the grace of God, and my grades weren't college-worthy, so he signed my enlistment papers, permitting me to join up at seventeen.

When I came home on leave, we'd meet up at the Knights, where he'd make a fuss about his son, the sailor, and when I was in uniform, my money was no good. When I was discharged after serving eight years, I blinked, and my Dad was old. He drank himself to sleep and awoke to another to get him going. He became a janitor at the Knights, and every morning before opening, he would mop floors and stock the bar, taking a nip whenever he pleased. By the time his work was finished, he had a good start at becoming drunk and often found himself loud and boisterous towards other members. It was all too common for someone to give him a lift home and make sure he was okay, and hopefully wouldn't start a fire with a cigarette.

Years continued to pass, and he continued to do his job until the day came when he fell to the floor in pain. The fire department took him to the hospital, where I was told he had a stroke and a heart attack that left him unable to speak and with limited movement of his arms and legs. So I got him into a nursing home where he'd get the care he needed for the rest of his life.

I visited every day, holding his hand and telling him stories about the town he'd lived in and our walks to the Knights. I told him about his friends who always wished him well and a speedy recovery, even if they knew recovery was a long shot. My Dad passed away with me by his side, his old hand barely able to hold mine, and the look in his eyes as he smiled a little smile that said he loved me.

I'm older now and have a son whom I take to the Knights on certain Saturdays, propping him on a stool and ordering him an orange crush soda pop as my friends and I describe how we will fix the world's problems one drink at a time.

Mike 2025