The booze runner

As mentioned in a previous column, military social life in the 1950s and ’60s revolved around weekend cocktail parties. My parents’ participation was no exception.

Their circle of friends and professional associates took turns hosting Friday and Saturday night events on a regular basis. When it was Dad’s turn, he assigned me as young teenager to help with his covert supply operation.

You see, we lived in Montgomery County, Maryland, and it was “dry.” Residents could buy liquor, but it had to be from a state-sponsored store. Prices were high. Driving by one these operations usually meant one elderly lady could be spotted buying a bottle of brandy.

However, cruising a handful miles down Wisconsin Avenue and crossing the state line into the District of Columbia meant folks could buy whatever they wanted at bargain prices. People were lined up at the front door. A glance at the parking lot revealed mostly Maryland license plates.

At the time, state law frowned upon residents doing this. Now and then, officials would follow cars with Maryland tags back across the state border and issue citations.

That’s where my role came in.

Dad and I would carry the cases of booze (mostly wine) out of the store and pile them into the trunk or backseat of our yellow Dodge sedan. But instead of turning right toward Maryland, he would turn left and drive through Washington for a few blocks.

My job was to keep an eye out and make sure we were not being followed. Dad’s friends in the FBI taught me how.

(Apparently, they were doing the same thing!)

After few twists and turns in the city, my father would enter Maryland from a different location and head home.

Looking back, were we successful? And why would Pop take the risk?

The answer is “yes,” to the first question, and the reason for the second is he did everything he could to save money. Dad had three kids to put through college and stretched every dollar.

I guess you could say my “cop-spotting” skills came in handy throughout life.

But also you could say my “criminal” activity got me a college education as well.

The Dude

“I want all of you to dress up,” my mother ordered me and my two sisters.

“Today, we are going to the U. S. Capitol, and I want you kids to look your best. That means putting on your dark blue suit, Steve.”

“What?” I protested in my best junior high voice. “But Mom, There’s nothing but goofy-looking tourists there in Hawaiian shirts, kaki shorts and straw hats with Argus C3 cameras hanging around their necks. Why do I have to put on my “monkey suit?”

I hated dressing up. As far as I was concerned, the more casual the better. (I guess I was just years ahead of my time.)

“Do what I ask, and you’ll see why,” she answered. Mom was a White House reporter and knew the ways of the “system.”

When we arrived, I was ready to do my “Aha! I told you so!” thing.

And there they were — just as I predicted: Tourist roaming the place in flip-flops looking like herds of beach bums and derelict divas.

But Mom ignored my observations. Instead, we marched over to the Russell Senate Office Building Subway, which was reserved for Senators — unless they were not present. Then tourists could ride.

The operator immediately spotted us in the crowd and gave my mother permission to move to the front of the line. We were the only ones allowed on the subway for that particular run.

I had my mouth open in awe for most of the way, as I could not believe the royal treatment we had just received.

When we arrived at our destination, we were hustled inside individual offices with the utmost courtesy — along with invitations to have lunch in the Senate Dining Room.

Now some may argue it was my Mom’s credentials that got us past the crowds. But the truth is, she was not displaying any — nor was she recognized by anyone we met that day.

I guess my mother was trying to teach us a lesson: If you want to be respected, you have look the part. Maybe that’s always been my problem. Today, I still dress like a slob. But my wife is another story. She’s always the best dressed person in the room.

I suppose that’s why she gets all the favors.