"The Big Boy"
"We're going to the Big Boy for dinner."
Just after I graduated from high school, I lived with my dad in his one-bedroom apartment in Cadillac, Michigan. I slept on a futon in the living room, so you can probably figure out what the expectation was for my future living arrangements. The writing was kind of on the wall, wasn't it? He had left my hometown of Mesick after his fourth divorce, and moved 20 miles away to where he had gotten a new job. I stayed behind to finish my senior year of high school, living with my friend, Ken LaFountain. Ken's mom was a foster mother, and had a big farmhouse west of Mesick. I paid $40 a week to stay there, which I earned by working at Crystal Mountain ski resort on weekends. I wanted to be truly independent from my father, and I was. He still came to my sporting events, so I'd still get to see him a couple of times a week.
Right after I graduated, I got a job working at my dad's place of employment, Four Winns Boats in Cadillac. They're everywhere now, but this was fairly early in their history, because my employee number was 150. I worked the night shift while he worked the day shift that summer, But on weekends, it was the same every time. He'd call my grandma, who lived in the building next to his, and ask almost rhetorically, "You want to go down to the Big Boy?" Like there was another option. Big Boy was down at the end of the street, and Grandma loved the broccoli cheese soup, which they almost always had. We ate there virtually every night we were home at the same time. There were other restaurants, but that one got all of our business.
When my parents first divorced five days before my seventh birthday, my dad struggled with visitation. He had a new family and so it was awkward for us to spend quality time with him and his new wife. After she left him high and dry, though, it was easier for him to take my brother and me out to do things. One of my happiest memories of childhood was being taken to see The Apple Dumpling Gang at the movies. And following that, a trip to the Big Boy for dinner. Each booth had its own jukebox back then, and we would get to choose three songs to listen to, Every moment felt special because even though my dad had monthly visitation rights, he seldom saw us. That was a constant source of consternation for my mother, who had no compunction against roasting my dad in front of us. But I can't really say that I blame her. When you live only two and a half hours away, and you don't even go to see your kids once a month, what does that say about you as a father? This was on a summer trip, when we would stay with him and my grandparents for two weeks of glorious relief from our abusive home. So to say that Big Boy was a fond memory may not be worded strongly enough. Every time we ate at the Big Boy was a fond treat for us because it was a rare meal that we got to share with our father.
There were decent sandwiches and such at Big Boy back then, but I tired of the hamburger that was essentially a Big Mac before there was a Big Mac. So I started to explore the menu, and it wasn't long before I found "my jam," as the kids say. I loved the Mexican omelet. Now, the Mexican omelet was about as Mexican as I am, but it was a different time. It was eggs wrapped around chili and American cheese, topped with fresh diced onion and tomato. It was love at first bite (George Hamilton lives!). From that point on, I only ordered that omelet unless there was New England clam chowder, on the soup and salad bar, which was usually only Friday. When I got to college and was a short order egg cook in the dorm cafeteria, I spent weeks trying to perfect the omelet. I finally did it, and when Magi and I first met, I made it for her. So, yeah, the Big Boy has a lot of great memories.
One thing that I always associate with my dad was the hot fudge ice cream cake. He always ordered it. It sort of became my thing after a while, too, especially after he died, 10 years ago next week, on Father's Day. I have to tell you, to lose your dad on Father's Day can be pretty rough. The first several Father's Days after that, I didn't even want to celebrate, but that wouldn't have been fair to my daughter.
So where were we going to eat last night on our way home from Ann Arbor? There was only one choice. We don't have Big Boy restaurants near us anymore, but there are still several in Michigan. This time, though, I didn't eat the Mexican omelet. It isn't even on the menu anymore, but you can still make one using their custom omelet options. And I didn't order the hot fudge ice cream cake, either. Because for the first time in 10 years, Father's Day was about me and the wonderful kid who calls me "Dad," and not just about my own dad and the happier memories that I have of him. My dad was there with me, but this time he wasn't the star of the show.
Just after I graduated from high school, I lived with my dad in his one-bedroom apartment in Cadillac, Michigan. I slept on a futon in the living room, so you can probably figure out what the expectation was for my future living arrangements. The writing was kind of on the wall, wasn't it? He had left my hometown of Mesick after his fourth divorce, and moved 20 miles away to where he had gotten a new job. I stayed behind to finish my senior year of high school, living with my friend, Ken LaFountain. Ken's mom was a foster mother, and had a big farmhouse west of Mesick. I paid $40 a week to stay there, which I earned by working at Crystal Mountain ski resort on weekends. I wanted to be truly independent from my father, and I was. He still came to my sporting events, so I'd still get to see him a couple of times a week.
Right after I graduated, I got a job working at my dad's place of employment, Four Winns Boats in Cadillac. They're everywhere now, but this was fairly early in their history, because my employee number was 150. I worked the night shift while he worked the day shift that summer, But on weekends, it was the same every time. He'd call my grandma, who lived in the building next to his, and ask almost rhetorically, "You want to go down to the Big Boy?" Like there was another option. Big Boy was down at the end of the street, and Grandma loved the broccoli cheese soup, which they almost always had. We ate there virtually every night we were home at the same time. There were other restaurants, but that one got all of our business.
When my parents first divorced five days before my seventh birthday, my dad struggled with visitation. He had a new family and so it was awkward for us to spend quality time with him and his new wife. After she left him high and dry, though, it was easier for him to take my brother and me out to do things. One of my happiest memories of childhood was being taken to see The Apple Dumpling Gang at the movies. And following that, a trip to the Big Boy for dinner. Each booth had its own jukebox back then, and we would get to choose three songs to listen to, Every moment felt special because even though my dad had monthly visitation rights, he seldom saw us. That was a constant source of consternation for my mother, who had no compunction against roasting my dad in front of us. But I can't really say that I blame her. When you live only two and a half hours away, and you don't even go to see your kids once a month, what does that say about you as a father? This was on a summer trip, when we would stay with him and my grandparents for two weeks of glorious relief from our abusive home. So to say that Big Boy was a fond memory may not be worded strongly enough. Every time we ate at the Big Boy was a fond treat for us because it was a rare meal that we got to share with our father.
There were decent sandwiches and such at Big Boy back then, but I tired of the hamburger that was essentially a Big Mac before there was a Big Mac. So I started to explore the menu, and it wasn't long before I found "my jam," as the kids say. I loved the Mexican omelet. Now, the Mexican omelet was about as Mexican as I am, but it was a different time. It was eggs wrapped around chili and American cheese, topped with fresh diced onion and tomato. It was love at first bite (George Hamilton lives!). From that point on, I only ordered that omelet unless there was New England clam chowder, on the soup and salad bar, which was usually only Friday. When I got to college and was a short order egg cook in the dorm cafeteria, I spent weeks trying to perfect the omelet. I finally did it, and when Magi and I first met, I made it for her. So, yeah, the Big Boy has a lot of great memories.
One thing that I always associate with my dad was the hot fudge ice cream cake. He always ordered it. It sort of became my thing after a while, too, especially after he died, 10 years ago next week, on Father's Day. I have to tell you, to lose your dad on Father's Day can be pretty rough. The first several Father's Days after that, I didn't even want to celebrate, but that wouldn't have been fair to my daughter.
So where were we going to eat last night on our way home from Ann Arbor? There was only one choice. We don't have Big Boy restaurants near us anymore, but there are still several in Michigan. This time, though, I didn't eat the Mexican omelet. It isn't even on the menu anymore, but you can still make one using their custom omelet options. And I didn't order the hot fudge ice cream cake, either. Because for the first time in 10 years, Father's Day was about me and the wonderful kid who calls me "Dad," and not just about my own dad and the happier memories that I have of him. My dad was there with me, but this time he wasn't the star of the show.
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