The Vet’s Hall is right across from Sud’s ‘N Soda (Jimmy McKenzie’s place) at the first traffic light the board of trustees voted to install. I was 9 years old.
“Why do they make us stop, Ma?” I asked.
“Lot’sah people got smacked up and died heeyah.”
It would’ve helped if I’d learned right then that there’s no stopping getting punished for other people’s mistakes. Unfortunately I tried to be above the law for a lot more years after they put that traffic light in.
That Vet’s Hall though. A little one room brick building, the old schoolhouse my grandfather went to. The Vet’s had imported Christmas trees leaning up against wooden forms out in the parking lot, starting at 15 bucks apiece. Wind had come through and knocked a few over, but no one was too concerned. Christmas was five days away, the Vet’s had cleared $9,000 profit on the five hundred trees trucked in, and Charlie, who was manning the lot, was keeping warm inside sipping on brandy he’d brought from home.
When my Dad and I showed up to collect the hams for the food bank Charlie was just coming out of the toilet and he right away offered us a drink. He had the combination to the lock on the liquor cabinet and was happy to spread the reason for the season around.
I had a Seagram’s Seven and Ginger Ale. The clear plastic cup, the ice cubes in the plastic bag torn open and tossed in the freezer, the American flag draped from a pole above me. I was in America, the country these men fought and died for. When your Grandfather died to free you, it’s easy to laugh at his stupidity for going to war. When your peers fight for a less clear reason, you think a little more about your grandfather, and freedom. Still, America is standing. Christmas tree lots around this country are staffed by guys drinking on the job, just getting out of the house, making a few extra bucks, keeping busy.
They sell wreaths too. 