two nickels

I remember when a nickel meant something. My father used to walk to work and home again just to save a nickel each way. Ten cents a day. I imagine the walk home was longer than on the way in since his work was the hard labor type of work. My mom would tell him to take the bus instead of walking the half hour there and then another half hour home, sometimes in the rain. He would often just say it was worth it to save the money even if it was only a little.  Sundays back then were exciting to me, although, I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t because it was my dad’s only day off and it wasn’t because of the time he would spend with me. It was because just about every Sunday I got have a root beer. My dad would take me on his regular Sunday trip to the same place where he would buy one beer for himself and a root beer for me. I always sat by him as we drank our drinks but we didn’t talk much. He was quiet and so was I as I didn’t have much experience talking with grown-ups on my own. I never thought much of the sixty cents he would leave to pay for our drinks until years after our ritual had run its course and unceremoniously ended. I really don’t know if my dad needed to save those two nickels a day just so we could have our Sunday drinks but I do know things were scarce. Food was rationed, clothes were mended and luxuries were nonexistent except for one root beer and one beer each week.  Maybe when my dad told my mom it was worth it, maybe he wasn’t referring to money or even the drinks.  And now, despite my heartache for all the things I never said to him as we sat there side by side so many Sundays, I pour over as many details as I can from those moments together and hope it really was worth it for him.