Prom was the night to celebrate the end of high school and the start of our lives as adults. And was it ever.  I raided my gran’s secret gin stash before supper.  Dad had rum and vodka in the kitchen cabinet but he marked the bottles. Gran kept her bottle in the parlour and no one knew how much she drank.

I topped up a half dozen nearly empty ginger ale bottles, squeezed the metal caps back on and headed out.  My mom sniffed me before she gave me the keys, but I was fine.  I only had a small sip and had opened a new pine tree freshener for the car to cover the smell.

I picked up Susie and we had supper with our friends Danny Hache and Tina Tozer at the Pizza Hut.  When we got to the gym we took the ‘pop’ straight over to the refreshment table, just like everyone else. The grad committee booked a band, so to save money someone (me) had suggested we all bring drinks to keep the cost down.  By bringing ginger ale, I knew no one would want our ‘pop’.

It worked. By 11 we were both wasted, so wasted that we snuck into a classroom to do the dirty.  After a little fumbling it was over and we went back to the gym. We had a few slow dances, but mostly sat around grinning at one another.

Susie’s dad was night manager at the Chickenburger and had promised us all combos if we left the party before 1 am so when the band started playing Stairway to Heaven we left, meeting Danny and Tina and driving up to Bedford.  

We made it t by 12:55 and rushed in.  Leaving early had paid off – there were plenty of tables open.  Mr Rice came over when he saw us and started to take our order. I knew he was a bit uptight so I tried to put on my best sober voice.  Susie did too, but he could see something was off.

Still we held it together and he headed back to the kitchen with our orders.  The drive in was picking up and other carloads of grads were coming into the place.  He was busy and we were in the clear. We finished eating and got up to leave as he came back to check on us.

“Food was free but how about a tip for the kitchen staff?”

Susie, eager to get out reached into her purse and dropped something on the table.  I saw her dads face fall and looked at the tip.  Five bucks and her pink panties.

We got engaged the next day.

Mr. and Mrs. Ames, the couple who own the place right now, are pleasant but not much for conversation. When I checked in, I got a weather report and an update on which farmers cows are calving.

I’m staying on the second floor – in the turret room. That’s what they call it, too. I thought Mrs. Ames said ‘turnip room’ at first, but she ‘set me to rights’. The rest of the locals seem a quaint lot. They live like Mennonites, but they have a less restrictive sense of fashion. Khaki with buttons, zippers and snaps. And no facemasks 🙂 !

I had trouble getting settled the first night I was here but I slept fine last night. I’m surprised how much I don’t miss the night time noises from home. Not that it’s quiet here, but it’s very different. No sirens or screaming drunks, just wind, an occasional train whistle and a lot of bugs. Oh and the odd moo. It actually sounds like moo!

This new low-key vibe has me feeling creative. I know first-hand how to use bucolic in a sentence and I’ve already written three stories. Sitting on the verandah. Writing on paper. Me. You were right – there’s no place to plug in a laptop in 1918.

Tomorrow I’m going to start buying the bank stocks you recommended. I’ll stash this postcard in the attic where we found it, and I promise to include the stock certificates this time.

Like so many of my generation, I headed to Toronto to make big bucks on an assembly line. The conversation at the bar was always the same; we liked the money in the city but missed life in our small towns.

When Consolidated announced the new paper mill, I was drawn back. I didn’t make the short list, but that was OK. I had a plan. I took a severance package from the car plant and went into the garage business. It made sense – since I had built Fords, I figured that anyone with a Ford would trust me to fix it. Finding a location was easy. There was no money left in farming, so I built on the field right off the main road.

Selling gas was a no-brainer – Cars only need fixing when they break but they always need gas (or at least they did back then). With the mill opening, and me being the first new garage in town in years, I got a sweet deal from Esso, thanks to my other offer from White Rose. I had the gas pumps installed in a week. It’s different today but back in 1960 there weren’t too many permits or environmental regulations to slow things down.

At the start, things played out pretty much as I had planned. Lots of folks got new cars – they bought their gas from me and I kept the old ones running for their kids. The pop machine and the chip rack did a good business too. I got married and we had two sons. Life was good.

About 10 years in, things began to change. The mill started cutting – a few guys each year but it added up. Young people were moving away again. Luckily my customers were holding onto their cars longer so I had more repair work.

Then in 73, OPEC stopped shipping oil. Prices went up, gas sales dropped and everyone started watching their dollars a little closer. After the second crisis, Esso decided that they wanted more profit so I got less. In 1981 the province built a new bypass. Trucks got past our town without slowing down and I lost my summer tourists. The boys enjoyed helping out, but I could see the writing on the wall.

The year my youngest left for university, I didn’t renew the gas pump contract. I still did tune-ups, oil changes and the odd engine repair, but even that was getting hard to do without a scope and a bunch of other expensive equipment.

At 60 I cashed out, knocked over the building and retired. If you’re ever driving by, take the local road through town. I bet you won’t even know I was there.