We were in Washington, Indiana for about two weeks. Dad didn’t like his job and he decided to move on. The next eighteen months were a blur. After much discussion with my family, we have not been able to figure out where we were after that and for how long. However, in late September 1983, we were on our way again. We arrived back in Loogootee for a third time, fully loaded down in our typical fashion.
Actually, just prior to arriving in Loogootee, we had stopped at a restaurant to get something to eat for lunch. We parked out front by the road and walked inside to eat. About half way through our meal, a police officer walked into the restaurant and spoke to the manager.
We all had grown leary of the police. Whenever they were around, we were likely to be in trouble and we feared their involvement in our lives. We all quietly, kept eating with our heads down hoping the cop would not see us. The manager spoke to the police officer for a couple of minutes and then pointed to our table.
My dad pretended not to notice, but I knew something was wrong. The police officer walked over to our table.
“Is that your car out there?” the policeman asked, pointing out the window to our car.
“Yes, sir. Is there a problem?” my dad asked politely. My dad knew his long hair, beard and moustache were likely to draw attention from the police, so he did his best to be respectful. He felt as if he had been treated poorly by cops because of these ever since he returned from Vietnam and got out of the military.
“You’re gonna have to move your car,” he explained.
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