The Curse of the Junior Rifle Squad

When I was growing up, my parents had my brothers and I join the Jr. Rifle Squad at the VFW Post 3484 in Saddle Brook NJ. I can’t say how it was when my eldest brother Frank was a member but by the time my brother Brian and I were drafted it was a rather loose organization. At least the girls were rather loose. The boys were a bit on the nebbish side. My sister, Annemarie was exempt from the draft somehow.

We would have practices on Sunday afternoons in the big hall above the bar were veterans and their wives got drunk on 50 cent beers. Basically it was a precursor to Al- A-Teen. Children of alcoholic parents. We would do marching drills, twirl dummy rifles and learn how to smoke cigarettes.

There were practices for parades and installations of officers at the VFW. We’d march in circles, twirl dummy rifles, toss them to each other, and drink sodas and smoke cigarettes.
We’d march wherever we were asked. The uniform was a light blue shirt with the flag and VFW patches and a braid over the shoulder. Navy Blue pants with yellow gold stripes on the sides, and SPATS.

On top of all that, we wore cowboy hats made out of felt. It was almost like were the cavalry, sans horses of course. Memorial Day was the big parade down Market Street in Saddle Brook past the VFW where the parents of the Junior Rifle Squad were in front of the glass curved wall, next to the dummy missile on the small front lawn pointed at the dentist office on the corner of Market St and Saddle River Road.

We also marched on the Fourth of July, usually in Ridgewood which was exotic at the time, coming from Lodi. But it was always a drag. One time my family had to head out of Wildwood Crest earlier from our vacation so my brother Brian could march in the parade in the neighboring town of Rochelle Park. I had sun poisoning at the time which made everything painful. But I couldn’t be left alone and I guess someone had to witness Brian marching in the parade so I was lying on the grass off Rochelle Ave while the parade passed me by. My mother took some pictures of Brian as he marched.

I know he didn’t want to be there, and almost quite sure that the other members of the squad wanted to desert also. But the promise of sodas and smokes at the end of the march was enticing enough. Brian didn’t really smoke though. I saw him with Sharon Mullins and Susie Schaffer and he puffed a cigarette which was about it. It must have been the sodas.

I bonded with my fellow children of alcoholics. While our parents sat at the bar in the dark basement of the VFW, drinking 50 cent beers and the kids would run around trying to have some fun. We’d play shuffle board on a parquet table, play an out of tune piano or just run around sugared up by the over syruped cokes.

Behind the VFW were some woods next to Riverside Cemetery. We would run around and throw rocks at each other. Or sit in some parents’ car and act like we were driving. Just sitting n the parking lot, trying to turn the steering wheel, waiting till our parents had their fill and would drive us home. I didn’t think it was odd to be spending some Sunday afternoons in a bar. My friends in the squad would be hanging out too. I don’t think any of us had a desire to drink alcohol.

Our parents liked to drink, but didn’t want to spend anything on a sitter and we were too young to be left alone so we were dragged to the bar. We’d pester our parents for quarters to play whatever could be considered current on the jukebox. Occasionally someone would play ‘The Stripper’ and as if on cue, friends of my parents, Pat and Vinnie Crowley would do a striptease together to much applause and laughter.

This happened often and no one seemed to be tired of it, at least not the adults. Most of the members of the VFW were World War Two or Korean War veterans. There were one or two Vietnam veterans, but they didn’t really fit in. An age difference of 25 years usually caused that. The Vietnam vets were probably responsible for songs like ‘Jumpin Jack Flash’ or ‘Bad Bad Leroy Brown’ on the jukebox.

I sometimes wonder who wound up in Al-Anon, or Al-A-Teen, or Alcoholics Anonymous. And then again, sometimes I don’t. I still smoke and occasionally drink.

Judy Foglio pulled her car in front of her parent’s house. It had been a few weeks since she’d been there, now everything was quiet. Her last visit wasn’t too pleasant. Lot’s of screaming and finger pointing ending with Judy peeling driving away like a maniac in her Monte Carlo. Her mother, Lorraine stood in front of her house screaming for her to come back.

Now, weeks later, she was back at her parents house. It was dark and quiet. No one home. She called out, but no one answered. She wondered about going across the street to ask Marie Natale and thought against it. No fucking way.