My father worked for a large European automobile manufacturer for most of my childhood. His job was to organize the unloading and distribution of cars to dealers all over the US. The ships arrived at eastern seaboard ports and from there the cars were unloaded onto trains and trucks. At times, he had to show up in Wilmington, Delaware when there was a Teamster strike. My mother would wonder, “Who knows if your father is going to make it home tonight?” The Mob and Hoffa: that shit was real.
With would-be vendors vying for his business, all sorts of things arrived at our house in late fall. We kids could count the days between Thanksgiving and the moment when exotic gifts would begin to appear at the front door. The UPS truck rumbled down our long driveway as no driver would drag hand trucks on the gravel and snow. They brought them right to the door: cases of Johnny Walker Scotch, boxes of Harry & David sumptuous edibles, crates of ruby red grapefruits from Texas, Asian pears, you name it. Gifts from Hickory Farms, purveyor of artificially preserved delicacies; sausages, cheeses, cheese balls, and glorified cheese whip. Crackers, mustards, more sausages, more jams, more spreadable cheeses. It was relentless. We snitched a few bottles of the scotch, as neither of my parents drank, and made dreadful cocktails with anything we had on hand like coke or apple juice. The ruby red grapefruits (from the Lone Star State!) were a real…
