Saturday with Dad
Two Saturdays a month I got to spend with my dad. Why only two? Well, that's when we got our hair cut. The year was 1958, and Dad was home from the war a while ago, but he still carried the hidden scars he'd live with forever. He didn't talk about it with us, but when he went to the VFW and had a few beers with other veterans, he seemed to calm down inside for a few days anyway.
After our haircuts, we'd sometimes go to the drugstore where he'd test the fuses on a machine that would tell you if the fuse was bad or still good. Another stop was at the hardware store owned by our neighbor, a WWII veteran. I loved that store, with dozens of wooden boxes filled with any screw, nut, and bolt you could ever want. The walls were lined with tools hanging by hooks all the way to the ceiling, which the owner would reach with a long pole, hooking it to a hook and pulling the tool down to the floor. I can still smell that store, mostly the wood that lay in bins, cut to size, and the open cans of house paint being mixed by a shaker machine the owner himself designed. In the very back of the store were bags of fertilizer, seeds, and manure that smelled like the ground, if there is such a smell.
My bi-monthly Saturdays also meant having lunch with Dad at the soda fountain that he told me was where he proposed to my mom. Each booth had its own tabletop jukebox where, for a dime, you could play a record. Dad would play a couple he liked, saying they brought back beautiful memories. Lunch was a greasy cheeseburger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake, and when we left, he'd pick out a small box of Mom's favorite chocolates, then let me give it to her as she kissed his cheek and then mine. The rest of our Saturday we spent tossing a ball or working on his car, which always seemed to need some work. He would teach me how to change a flat tire and remove a radiator cap so that I wouldn't get burned by the hot steam. After supper, he'd sit in his chair reading the evening newspaper while I sat close by reading the latest adventures of Superman he bought for me at the drugstore. Then it was bath time and time to get ready for bed. I hated saying goodnight because I never wanted our day together to end. He'd pick me up onto his lap and whisper how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Then he brushed my cheek with his unshaven face, which got me off his lap and running for the safety of Mom's arms.
I remember all of those Saturdays as if they were yesterday, and although he's been gone for a long time, I try to carry on traditions today with my son. The barber shop is still where it's always been, but the owner gave it to his son, who is pretty old but keeps on cutting hair and still has the old wooden pony he uses for kids getting their first haircut to sit on. The smell of Wildroot and talcum powder fills the air, and just like his dad, every kid got a nickel to get a gunball on the way out. The old hardware store closed its doors, as competing with the big-box stores was impossible, but we'd stop in front and look in through a dirty window at a small selection of hand tools that would probably end up in the town's historical museum.
One thing that never changed is the soda fountain where I'd take my son just like my dad took me. We'd have greasy cheesburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake, and stop on the way out to pick up three boxes of chocolates for my two girls and my wife. It's the simple things in life that matter to me, and as I look at my son with chocolate on his young face, I set the napkin aside and hope he will always remember this day with a chocolate smile. Mike 2026
After our haircuts, we'd sometimes go to the drugstore where he'd test the fuses on a machine that would tell you if the fuse was bad or still good. Another stop was at the hardware store owned by our neighbor, a WWII veteran. I loved that store, with dozens of wooden boxes filled with any screw, nut, and bolt you could ever want. The walls were lined with tools hanging by hooks all the way to the ceiling, which the owner would reach with a long pole, hooking it to a hook and pulling the tool down to the floor. I can still smell that store, mostly the wood that lay in bins, cut to size, and the open cans of house paint being mixed by a shaker machine the owner himself designed. In the very back of the store were bags of fertilizer, seeds, and manure that smelled like the ground, if there is such a smell.
My bi-monthly Saturdays also meant having lunch with Dad at the soda fountain that he told me was where he proposed to my mom. Each booth had its own tabletop jukebox where, for a dime, you could play a record. Dad would play a couple he liked, saying they brought back beautiful memories. Lunch was a greasy cheeseburger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake, and when we left, he'd pick out a small box of Mom's favorite chocolates, then let me give it to her as she kissed his cheek and then mine. The rest of our Saturday we spent tossing a ball or working on his car, which always seemed to need some work. He would teach me how to change a flat tire and remove a radiator cap so that I wouldn't get burned by the hot steam. After supper, he'd sit in his chair reading the evening newspaper while I sat close by reading the latest adventures of Superman he bought for me at the drugstore. Then it was bath time and time to get ready for bed. I hated saying goodnight because I never wanted our day together to end. He'd pick me up onto his lap and whisper how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Then he brushed my cheek with his unshaven face, which got me off his lap and running for the safety of Mom's arms.
I remember all of those Saturdays as if they were yesterday, and although he's been gone for a long time, I try to carry on traditions today with my son. The barber shop is still where it's always been, but the owner gave it to his son, who is pretty old but keeps on cutting hair and still has the old wooden pony he uses for kids getting their first haircut to sit on. The smell of Wildroot and talcum powder fills the air, and just like his dad, every kid got a nickel to get a gunball on the way out. The old hardware store closed its doors, as competing with the big-box stores was impossible, but we'd stop in front and look in through a dirty window at a small selection of hand tools that would probably end up in the town's historical museum.
One thing that never changed is the soda fountain where I'd take my son just like my dad took me. We'd have greasy cheesburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake, and stop on the way out to pick up three boxes of chocolates for my two girls and my wife. It's the simple things in life that matter to me, and as I look at my son with chocolate on his young face, I set the napkin aside and hope he will always remember this day with a chocolate smile. Mike 2026
Mike 2026
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