![]() As a fifteen-year-old son of a German mother and an American father who had recently moved from Manchester, Ohio, to St. I remember what led me to Swan’s Nursing Home. Tomas and the guys had gotten used to the donuts and coffee over the last six months, and though I only made $20.00 a-week working at the Varsity Drive-In, I hated to disappoint the guys. I stopped at the Krispy Kreme and grabbed a box of jelly donuts. “Impeding the flow of traffic.” she bitterly complained to my mom and anyone else who would happen to listen. She’s okay, I guess but Bob and I still had a good laugh when we heard she got pulled over last year and was given a ticket for going too slow. She’d always smile and wave as the young kids drove by, only to call parents complaining about excessive speeding the moment you passed. Jones, the Neighborhood Watch double-agent. I was soon pulling out of the driveway and the Buick was in third gear before I had made it to the end of the street always on the lookout for the dreaded old eagle-eye, Mrs. “Yeah, don’t forget to pick up your brother, Bob, from the Y.M.C.A.,” Mom answered. “Pinochle,” I answered grabbing the spare set of keys from the hallway key hook for the white and tan ’59 Rambler that had more than a passing resemblance to a New York taxi cab. “Pinochle with your buddies at Swan’s?” Mom called from the kitchen. Pepper’s,” stopping only long enough to finish my coffee before heading downstairs. I grabbed my deck of Bicycle playing cards and a Beatles 8-track tape, “Sgt. I always liked to get an early start on Saturdays.
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