The evening stars are just beginning to wink in the increasing dark as we roll to a stop in front of the door to the tiny building. It is Friday night and we are returning home from grocery shopping, but we have stopped here along the way.
My parents and I exit the boat-sized 1971 Bel Air Chevrolet and enter through the screen door. The door creaks on its spring hinge, and clamps shut behind us as a wave of warmth greets us. The smell of french fries and burgers permeates the Star Canteen.
Matilda bustles around in the kitchen behind the counter. A middle-aged, matronly woman, she wears a house-dress covered with an apron. She catches sight of us and grins broadly. "Hev a seat. What'll ya hev?"
"Oh nothin' big," Dad says. "Got any pie left?"
"Yep - apple. With some ice cream?"
Dad chuckles. "You're too good to me."
"How 'bout you?" Matilda looks at Mom and me.
"We'll share a milkshake. Coffee."
As we wait for our food, and the whirring of the milkshake machine makes conversation almost impossible, I tug on Mom's sleeve. "Can I?"
She hands me a few dimes and rolls her eyes. "Oh, all right."
The milkshake is almost done. Matilda serves Dad his pie and ice cream.
Gratefully I take the precious coins and turn toward the silver and glass box just behind the row of barstools we had been sitting on. I slide off the stool and feel my feet hit the linoleum tile floor. I peer through the glass at the row of 45 rpm records, insert a dime and make a selection, and watch the dance of the record arm as it scans over the records and stops - always at the right one - just above the record I chose to play. I watch it, mesmerized, as it brings it forward, rotates it and places it on the turntable, which starts to turn as the play arm lifts and makes the trip to the beginning of the record.
A few short seconds later and Elvis Presley is singing, "In the Ghetto," and I climb back onto the stool. Mom has given me the milkshake glass, while she has taken what was left over in the metal mixing container - to save Matilda having to wash another glass. We sip our drink and listen to the music together while Dad tucks into his pie and ice cream. Nobody says a word.
The chores that await me at home, the expectations, the misunderstandings, the disappointments, the uncertainty of never knowing what rules applied today - these all melted away in those few minutes, even if only for a few minutes - like an oasis in the desert, like a refreshing rain during a drought before the dust reclaims its prize. In this one place, there was no judgement, criticism didn't exist, and each of us soaked up the strength to face another week, each in their own way.
It might have lasted a half hour. I might have played four songs from the old jukebox - all my favourites at the time, from Elvis to Wayne Newton. And it didn't happen every week - just once in a while. But when it did, it was like magic, a great way to kick off a weekend.
Even though the canteen was eventually sold and became a single family dwelling, I always glance at it on the way past, when we go back to the old homestead to visit. It's a glowing, wonderful memory - a jewel in the mire of yesteryear - one I hope I will never forget.
My parents and I exit the boat-sized 1971 Bel Air Chevrolet and enter through the screen door. The door creaks on its spring hinge, and clamps shut behind us as a wave of warmth greets us. The smell of french fries and burgers permeates the Star Canteen.
Matilda bustles around in the kitchen behind the counter. A middle-aged, matronly woman, she wears a house-dress covered with an apron. She catches sight of us and grins broadly. "Hev a seat. What'll ya hev?"
"Oh nothin' big," Dad says. "Got any pie left?"
"Yep - apple. With some ice cream?"
Dad chuckles. "You're too good to me."
"How 'bout you?" Matilda looks at Mom and me.
"We'll share a milkshake. Coffee."
As we wait for our food, and the whirring of the milkshake machine makes conversation almost impossible, I tug on Mom's sleeve. "Can I?"
She hands me a few dimes and rolls her eyes. "Oh, all right."
The milkshake is almost done. Matilda serves Dad his pie and ice cream.
Gratefully I take the precious coins and turn toward the silver and glass box just behind the row of barstools we had been sitting on. I slide off the stool and feel my feet hit the linoleum tile floor. I peer through the glass at the row of 45 rpm records, insert a dime and make a selection, and watch the dance of the record arm as it scans over the records and stops - always at the right one - just above the record I chose to play. I watch it, mesmerized, as it brings it forward, rotates it and places it on the turntable, which starts to turn as the play arm lifts and makes the trip to the beginning of the record.
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| Photo "Jukebox" by Phil at www.freedigitalphotos.net |
The chores that await me at home, the expectations, the misunderstandings, the disappointments, the uncertainty of never knowing what rules applied today - these all melted away in those few minutes, even if only for a few minutes - like an oasis in the desert, like a refreshing rain during a drought before the dust reclaims its prize. In this one place, there was no judgement, criticism didn't exist, and each of us soaked up the strength to face another week, each in their own way.
It might have lasted a half hour. I might have played four songs from the old jukebox - all my favourites at the time, from Elvis to Wayne Newton. And it didn't happen every week - just once in a while. But when it did, it was like magic, a great way to kick off a weekend.
Even though the canteen was eventually sold and became a single family dwelling, I always glance at it on the way past, when we go back to the old homestead to visit. It's a glowing, wonderful memory - a jewel in the mire of yesteryear - one I hope I will never forget.
