[dropcap]G[/dropcap]rowing up, my television restrictions were lifted on Saturday mornings. It was like cotton-picking Christmas at the Dietrich’s. I watched the same programs every blessed Saturday: Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Star Trek.
Always in that order.
On weekends, my mother worked and my father slept until ten. Before Daddy woke, I ate breakfast. Rice Krispies with sugar and whole milk. Extra sugar, extra milk, extra Krispies. Then, I’d clean my bowl and place it back in the cupboard.
I didn’t want Daddy to know I’d eaten. I wanted him to think I was still hungry when he got up. Because if I was hungry, good things happened.
The service station up the road had donuts. They weren’t hot, and they tasted so-so, but they did just fine. Daddy would buy a dozen, along with coffee, and the paper. He’d make small-talk with the woman behind the counter, and I’d nearly die of starvation, waiting.
When he finished chatting, we’d eat on the back of his tailgate, watching traffic whiz by. A few folks poked arms out of car windows when they passed. Others would pull over and have conversations. But then, some Saturdays, he’d sit and check the scores in the newspaper, and never say a single word.
Afterward, we’d return home and eat something inappropriate for lunch. Maybe root beer floats, or pancakes and Paydays.
I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You couldn’t possibly care about something so mundane. I suppose the older I get, the more I miss those Saturdays.
And I miss the one I spent them with.