A Dollar in 68

By David J Walker

Snow was always welcomed. Somehow, it was settling for students and teachers…junior high school teachers welcome anything settling. Perhaps it was the transformation of the bleak, grey February sky over the south plains of Texas into an almost blinding white storm. Snow made everything different, and different was good.

This snow storm was heavy. Six inches fell from the time the first bell rang at 8:20 till noon. The blustery north wind brought more snow, heavy and fast.

That was not a problem for me. Winters in my native Colorado would produced as much or more on a given winter day. The problem was the wind; it was relentless and unmerciful making the cold much colder than I had been used to.

Since I walked to school I expected to walk home…only 8 or 9 blocks. Both Mom and Dad worked. There was no reason to expect anyone to drive up in front of the school and rescue me.

I walked out of class with my friend Stanley…same home room, desk mates in science. I didn’t know it at the time but his Mom would be waiting at the curb, in a warm car. He lived much further.

The humid heat of the ancient radiators was snuffed out instantly as an icy blast of wind and swirling snow met us as we left the shelter of front door. …much colder, much harsher than expected. We were both cold…really cold. And the hike home for me no longer seemed so much of an adventure than it did a challenge of survival.

Being friends enough…bold and cold enough I asked. “So you suppose your mom could give me a ride too? It’s on your way.”

“Sure.” He was confident, didn’t give it a second thought. And like all thoughtless kids we both piled in the car without question.

“Ma...this is David. He lives on the way home…can we drop him off?”

“27th street” I chimed in.

A hot huff of grey cigarette smoke blew from her mouth. There was a slightly P.Oed look in her eyes in the rear view mirror. We both instantly recognized it. She was not really happy about the unexpected passenger, but felt obligated by her sons invitation. If I could have gracefully gotten out…I would have. But the blowing snow and the cold…and the sudden movement of the car kept me in.

“I’ve got an errand first” she announced. And then totally ignored me for the rest of the trip.

It wasn’t until then I noticed the other passengers. Another grown woman in the front passengers seat… his mom’s friend I surmised. Two of her kids and tow of Stanley’s siblings …and me crowded into the back seat. Somehow we all fit into the 1959 Chevy with monster fins protruding from the trunk. The rusty body, shredded seats and clunking sound of the engine added up to what we would call “a bomb.” Stanley’s Mom ground the gears as she shifted into second…then to third, cigarette dangling from her mouth. The “bomb” slowly plodded through the storm going the opposite direction from home…off on the errand.

I learned a lot about my friend on that trip…more than he would ever want anyone to know. I’m sure he felt the invitation was a mistake. In fact, I don’t remember speaking to him again after that…I don’t remember him back at school.

My 14 year old eyes and ears caught everything.

Things I learned: Stans Mom was a frosted blond who wore lots of make up. Cheap. The faux fur coat was open revealing tight clothes stretched over her chubby body.. I had never heard anyone’s mother used the F word before…a little shocking for me. She cussed a lot, had a cynical laugh as she chain smoked.

She and her friend talked about what seemed to be an endless number of boyfriends…and men they wanted to be boyfriends. I didn’t really understand the meaning of “he was really good” at the time.

Stanley, his mom and a brother and sister all lived in a one bedroom garage apartment. She apparently entertained her friends while the rest of the family slept on a fold out couch in the main room.

The first stop was a service station. In 1968 service stations were on every corner selling gas, oil, tires, and repairs of all kinds. Men would come out and check oil levels and tire pressure as the filled the car with either regular or “ethyl” gasoline. Not today…

A reluctant bundled up attendant came to the window. She cracked it and let a cold blast of winter air into the car offering a moments relief form the smoky air.

“Filler up” the shivering man asked”

“Two dollars worth of regular” was the reply. It would by 6 to 7 gallons, all she needed at the time but hardly worth braving the storm for the frozen man pumping the gas.

The dollars exchanged hands and we left…still moving away from my house.

“Where ya headed Ma?” asked Stanley.

“One more stop” she barked back.

She drove two blocks and pulled into the lot of a 7-11. Stanley’s eyes lit up. I thought nothing of it.

As she returned she pulled a fresh pack of Salem’s from a small brown paper sack. There was another inside. Cigarettes were about 50 cents a pack in 1968. She slapped the tp against her hand, as I had seen so many people do to a fresh pack, open it took one out and lit it up.

“You got more cigarettes?” Stanley shouted with anger.

“I was out…what did you want me to do?”

“You could have got us something to eat…there’s nothing in the fridge.” I could tell by his tone that nothing meant Nothing. Not like when I stared into the fridge at home complaining that there was nothing in the fridge. There was plenty…just nothing I wanted at the time. He really meant there was no food in the house.

“I only had a dollar…you can’t get nothing for a dollar.”

Stanly stared angrily and silently out the window for the rest of the trip. Slowly we made our way through the blowing snow and creeping traffic. I thought “I could have been home a long time ago...even in this storm..” The car was hot and crowded and smoky.
His mom and her friend smoked and blabbered on about men and women and ….what ever.

Stanley remained silent.

Finally 27th street. “Right here on the corner” I lied and Stanley knew it. But I was ready to get out and walk the half block to my house.

I felt sorry for Stanley. My home, however humble, was warm and secure. I had both a Mom and Dad. And even though Dad smoked, there was always plenty of food in the house. And everyone had their own bed.

As I piled through the front door the warmth of my home was overwhelming. I’d survived the storm and the ride. The smell of spicy potato soup and cornbread cooking in the kitchen filled the house. On a cold day there was nothing better.

I dropped my books and coat at the dining room table and followed the aroma to the kitchen. Out of habit I opened the fridge and stared. But this time I wasn’t hungry, I was taking inventory.

Two half gallons of milk, carrots, celery, two half filled jars of pickles, some left over casserole that looked better today than it did yesterday… eggs, bacon...a new roll of sausage, butter, hot dogs, canned biscuits ..all kinds of stuff.

“Get out of the fridge…we’ll have supper in a while…” my moms voice from somewhere in the house… “Put your books and coat away.” How did she know???

As I did as I was told…I though about the fridge and what things might have cost. I had gone shopping with my folks many times in my youth, so I had some idea. What could she have bought with that dollar?

I’ve often thought about it. In 1968, a carton of eggs and two or three cans of biscuits..ring up a dollar and get change… Any kind of cereal and milk… a package of hotdogs and buns…. Ten boxes of macaroni and cheese, lots of tuna, at least four cans of pork n beans… or a huge bag of dried pinto beans or rice...two whole chickens…. The combinations were endless.

That evening we ate as a family, safe from the storm in a warm house. I wondered what Stanley had…if anything.