It's a Long Way to the Pup-N-Taco
Post-Script: There's another story pertaining to the future site of the Pup-N-Taco worth telling, when it was being graded up and mounds of dirt were plentiful, which is that my brother and I discovered these dirt clods, that if hurled with sufficient force, would make wonderful splatter marks on the side of grandpa's house. One Sunday afternoon (obviously church that morning having little impact on our souls) we spent several hours in revelry with our dirt clods, but the fun was eventually spoiled by my dad, who was not amused; I suspect it had to do with the fact that as a teenager he and his dad had their problems; he even ran away from home to an uncle's farm for a year. So I think dad was hoping that his sons would make a better impression upon grandpa than did our dirt clods upon his house.
It took several weeks for the strap marks to disappear from our behinds; spare the rod, spoil the child, and all that. I always felt that we earned what we got, and never had hard feelings toward my dad because of the punishment meted out. One thing's certain: we never did that again!
In later years the drive-thru was renamed "Pop-N-Taco," probably due to an ownership change; there was eventually three locations, but they're all now gone.
Recently the Special Collections Library was closed for a remodel. I'm going to have to place a visit again, and maybe with it make another pinhole picture.
Grandma died in the late 1960s, and grandpa turned sick in the early '70s (family legend placing blame on the car exhaust from the Pup-N-Taco next door), whereby grandpa sold the house and moved out of town to spend his remaining years with his daughters. The house and entire neighborhood underwent the Federal Urban Renewal program, and was eventually remodeled and sold to a lawyer's agency, which it remains to this day. It had been in my family's ownership since 1903, when my great-grandparents came out west from Indiana in a covered wagon.
Typecast via Smith-Corona Silent.