The White Spot Tradition

The White Spot Tradition

The acrid smoke of the Lucky Strike straight
wafts its way into the backseat of the old car

My sister and I stand on the bench behind him
as he makes the short drive from the store

We get out of the car and make our way past
the heavy door into the dark, smoke-filled room

Music I don’t know plays on the jukebox and competes
with loud talking and the clacking of billiard balls for my attention

Greetings are made, big hands shake, orders are placed
including a cold beer for Grandpa and pops for my sister and me

I sit on a stool high above the sticky floor and watch
as they play pool, smoke cigarettes and drink glasses of yellow beer

Soon our name is called and big white bags are passed over the bar into Grandpa’s hands, money is exchanged and we move outside into the bright sunlight and smokeless air

Again we’re in the car and soon we’re climbing the back stairs of the store,
golden fried fish, crispy French fries, sweet Cole slaw and warm rolls grace our table

Grandma, grandpa, brother, sister start to eat a Friday night Catholic dinner
as the summer sun begins its descent after another memorable visit to Pete’s White Spot