Friday nights routinely found us participating in the family swim at the local YMCA. This tradition started before our parents divorced, and it continued with our new stepbrother and stepsister. The four of us would be splashing around with great delight. I’m still not sure where our stepmother Beatrice was on these family nights.
After vigorous swimming, we would head to a local place called Fisher’s and pick up sacks filled with greasy burgers, fries and sometimes even milkshakes. Then we would head for home looking forward to our delicious dinner.
Once back at the house we kids jokingly called “the museum,” we grubbed up on the food like we had never seen burgers before. Swimming does stimulate the appetite and we knew if we didn’t eat our portion, someone was always waiting in the wings to eat it.
After our weekly allotment of grease (so we would all have shiny coats) we were exhausted and ready to rest. This was not exactly the way Beatrice had envisioned spending time with her new husband.
Wouldn’t you know it! Friday night swims became a part of history when Beatrice decided she wanted some alone time with Dad. They would go out for dinner every Friday night and leave us at home with money for our food fest.
It was actually a pretty good system for all involved because we had consumed so many carbs that we were very docile when they returned.
But a problem arose – and became a huge one, no pun intended – as we piled on the pounds eating all that coma inducing food and since we were no longer swimming, our new name was obvious: the Chow Hounds.