Six uniformed waitresses pose with owner Stanley Durmas in front of the Four Leaf Clover Drive-In, Bernardston 1950. Contributed photo/Louella Atherton

Louella Atherton poses in her Four Leaf Clover waitress uniform in 1950. CONTRIBUTED PHOTO/LOUELLA ATHERTON

The Four Leaf Clover in Bernardston was a popular luncheon spot. In this file photo from 2009, Florence Thompson and Julia Quinn, both of Northfield, start their meal with chicken soup. Staff file photo

Holly Keith prepares to deliver some delicious meals to diners at the Four Leaf Clover in Bernardston in this 2009 photo. Staff file photo

Holly Keith prepares to deliver some delicious meals to diners at the Four Leaf Clover in Bernardston in this 2009 photo. Staff file photo

Diners peruse the menu in this 2009 photo taken in the Four Leaf Clover dining room in Bernardston. Staff file photo

The recent loss of the Four Leaf Clover Restaurant (more recently, Fall Town Grill) tore at the heartstrings of many. I was especially downcast since, along with the first owner, Stanley Durmas, we unlocked this Bernardston landmark on the opening day, May 1949 at 6 a.m. I was 14 years old, soon to turn 15. I lived diagonally across the street, in a house that was later torn down. I had watched the building of the restaurant during 1948-1949 and was pleased to be a part of this much awaited addition to our town.

Initially, I could only work weekends until school let out in late June. Then I worked a lot — always the morning shift, which was only counter service. Curb service didn’t start until the supper hour. Three wait shifts were in place: 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. , Noon to 8 p.m., and 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. From 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. the work crew cleaned the restaurant. The 2 a.m. closing accommodated the drive-in movie crowd, getting out at midnight, the Grange dancers who also came after midnight, and the indoor movie goers who were free by 11 p.m. Curb service was very busy between midnight and 1:30 a.m.

In the beginning, the night shift included Libby Denison, Virginia Callahan, May Barrett, Kit Raymond and soon Helen Skiathitis. They were young mothers raising their small children during the day and working long hours at night. I don’t know how they did it.

In a back building, young boys peeled potatoes throughout the day, which miraculously turned into French fries. Restrooms were also in that building (the dining area was not added until son Paul Skiathitis came on board).

Waitresses wore white uniforms wrapped around by a green-checkered apron with large four-leaf-clover pockets (see photo). On top of our heads was a tiara cap with a four leaf clover in the front. I thought I was the cat’s meow. I loved working the morning and lunch shift. Coffee was 10 cents a cup with free refills. Apple pie was 15 cents; with vanilla ice cream, 25 cents. According to my diary, a good tip day was $7. Usually, pies were homemade by Ida Hale Deane Read. She made a wide variety every day. Our aprons and caps were also made by a local seamstress.

Charlie Skiathitis joined his godfather in the business after a couple of years. Along with him came his wife, Helen, and two little boys, Paul and Jimmy (Angie arrived later). The house in the back area was built for his family. I couldn’t have asked for better bosses. Not only were they great chefs, they protected us from the occasional wise guy. One frightful experience comes to mind. An old man started bringing me gifts. First, a box of chocolates (I kept them there for all to share), the roses (they stayed at the restaurant), then a blue wool sweater. I was scared. Stanley and Charlie took over. They returned the sweater to him and told him to lay off. Then came the mushy cards, somehow mailed to my home. I showed them to my protectors. His name and number were in the phone book. A call to his wife stopped the stalking and he was told not to come to the restaurant again (I was still a young teenager).

Jukeboxes flanked the U-shaped counter. A wide variety of popular tunes could be played for 10 cents, later increased to 25 cents. One song was the bane of my existence. “Goodnight, Irene” was played over and over again, all day long. At the end of my shift, I wanted to bid Miss Irene goodbye by taking her around the corner to Silver Lake, for a good dunking.

The wait staff was given free meals, anything we asked the owners to make. My menu of choice was always an Eastern (fried ham and egg sandwich, no onions), French fries with tartar sauce, and a brown cow (a root beer dolloped with vanilla ice cream). The Four Leaf closed in the winter, so food for customers was free on the last day until the larder was bare. I ate until hot fudge sundaes were coming out of my ears.

Married at 18, I was still working at the Four Leaf part-time. We honeymooned at York, Maine. I had never been to the ocean before. I came home three days early, a red lobster with a Rudolph nose and stumpy, swollen purple legs. At work, customers would gasp at the sight of this walking zombie. I was being handed ice cubes wrapped in towels. I was laid up for days.

I worked during my teen years, going back after my third child was born. Now I was working the night shift, which meant curb service. Metal trays fitted over the lip, then a sliding bar underneath kept the try in place — hopefully. The trays were clearly numbered; this number had to be written on the order slip so we would know which order belonged to which car.

One Saturday night I was the only waitress to show up (an unusual occurrence). The yard was full of cars, waiting for service. A strong gusty wind blew the orders out of my apron pocket. I leapt around the parking lot trying to retrieve them, to no avail. I began running from car to car, weepingly asking, “What did you order?” Cars were leaving in disgust, after disengaging the attached trays. When food came out, I didn’t have the bill to give them. I had to add in my head what they owed. I still have nightmares about that evening.

I don’t mean to paint a negative picture. I loved working at the Four Leaf Clover. My employers were super, the customers were kind (I knew most of them) and some of my fellow waitresses became close friends. I looked forward to going into work each day.

Bless you all for the memories and good luck, Amy and Alex, as you rebuild a legacy. I’m sure Stanley and Charlie are looking down on you, wishing you well. As my mother was wont to say, “When a door slams shut, a new window opens.”

Lou (Louella) Atherton lives in Bernardston.

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