One mile down Fernberg Road <br />across the road from a resort <br />was Jerry’s 3.2 joint. <br /> <br />A humble tumbledown <br />one room shack with a laquer bar <br />and wobbly stools at the end of the room. <br /> <br />Every footstep <br />across the dull wood floor echoed. <br />Tables and chairs were designed <br />somewhere around <br />the beginning of the nineteenth century. <br /> <br />Jerry was a big red faced guy <br />who sounded kind of grumpy <br />when he asked with a sigh <br />“what can I do for you? ” <br /> <br />We spent summer weekends barefoot and feral <br />drinking orange soda from glass bottles <br />while mom and dad drank beer <br />with the locals. <br /> <br />Dad’s friends gave us fifty cents <br />for our dimples, we spent it on chips <br />and salted peanuts. <br /> <br />A loud woman my mom called <br />“french whore” scared my little sister <br />pretending to be a wicked witch. <br />She sent my dad to the couch <br />for not defending us properly. <br /> <br />Mom picked the fights and dad <br />was supposed to finish them. <br />Dad was a peaceful soul, <br />and chose his battles carefully. <br /> <br />He loved her no matter how <br />feisty she was. <br />I vowed not to raise my children <br />in 3.2 bars.<br /><br />Joyce Chelmo<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-days-in-the-north-woods/
