I REMEMBER WHEN.....
When I was a child in the 1950s, the downtown square and it’s many stores were the focal point of our community. On harsh winter days, old men gathered around the wood stove at the local train depot to play a heated game of dominoes. During fishing and hunting seasons, men found their fishing and hunting supplies at Roach Feed and Seed. Relief from the summertime heat came in the form of a homemade milkshake from the soda fountain at McKnight’s Drug Store. When families needed new furniture, Baker’s Furniture offered an easy-payment purchase plan. Come September, back-to-school clothes and shoes were purchased at Cole’s Dry Goods. Our downtown square had everything a 50’s family needed including a two-screen movie theater and an A&P Grocery Store.
When Mother shopped for our groceries at the A&P, my brother and I were each given a quarter and permitted to cross the street and, unsupervised, browse through Nicholson’ Variety Store. My brother immediately headed for the candy display buying penny candy to munch on while riding the mechanical pony stationed in front of the store. I, on the other hand, delighted in wandering around the store, enamored with the sound of its creaky wooden floors and mystified with the contents of the glass display cases. I ambled down crammed aisles filled with sewing notions, bolts of fabric, patterns, and thread. I fiddled with the household gadgets; smelled the perfumes, shampoos, and deodorants; fingered the bobby pens, handkerchiefs, and various sundry items; and quickly glanced away as I rushed past the women’s “unmentionables” before lingering at the toy and doll aisle.
On one such excursion through Nicholson’s, I saw her—a 43-inch, rosy-cheeked doll donning a blue frilly dress, fancy black patent leather shoes, and lacey white socks. Her green eyes blinked “hello,” and her lips seemed to murmur, “Please take me home with you.” From that moment on, I envisioned her as the sister and playmate I didn’t have and desperately wanted to take her home with me. But my parents were struggling to make ends me, and I knew I had very little chance of actually owning her. So, every Saturday while Mother grocery shopped I rushed over to Nicholson’s and visited with her, naming her Alice after Alice in Alice in Wonderland.
Mrs. Nicholson took pity on me and occasionally removed Alice from her box so I could stand next to her and chat with her. I looked forward to my Saturday visits with Alice, but one Saturday I hurried across the street, flung open the door of Nicholson’s, and scurried to the toy aisle only to find that Alice was gone.
“Where’s Alice?” I asked Mrs. Nicholson with panic in my voice.
“I’m sorry, darlin’. A mother came in the store just the other day and bought her for her very special daughter.”
“But…but…” Tears welled up in my eyes.
“I know you’re disappointed,” she said in a soft, comforting tone, “but Alice found a good home.”
“But…but…we were friends.” I buried my face in my hands and sobbed, running across the street into Mother’s arms.
“She’s gone, Mama! She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“Alice, my friend Alice.”
“Oh, I see. There will be other dolls,” she said stroking my hair in an attempt to console me.
But I was upset and inconsolable. “I don’t want another doll. I want Alice.” I threw myself into the back seat of the car and pouted all the way home. For days I moped around the house, eventually resigning myself to the fact that I’d never again see Alice. Weeks passed until the morning of my 8th birthday. Bleary-eyed I stumbled to the kitchen table and found Alice sitting in a chair next to mine.
“It’s about time you got here. Your friend, Alice, has been waiting for you,” Mother said.
“Alice!” I squealed and sat down next to her. I looked over at Mother, tears of joy streaming down her face. At that moment I realized that the mother who’d bought Alice at Nicholson’s was my mother, and Mrs. Nicholson had been part of Mother’s secret scheme. Mrs. Nicholson was right, of course. Alice had found a good home.
For days and years thereafter, Alice was my steadfast and constant companion. She stood next to me while I jumped rope on our front porch and sat in the chair next to me while I did my homework. At night she slept in a pallet on the floor next to my bed and frequently joined Mother and I in the kitchen and watched us while we cooked dinner for the family or made holiday pies and cookies.
I eventually grew up, left home, and forgot about Alice, Mrs. Nicholson, and the downtown square. Some years ago, I returned to my hometown and discovered that Nicholson’s and the other stores in the downtown square had long since disappeared, replaced with newer, sleeker store fronts with modern names. At my parents’ house, I also found Alice. Mother had carefully wrapped her and stored her in the attic along with the many outfits Mother created for her.
When I unwrapped her, I found Alice, like downtown, had also changed. Her once thick, curly, auburn-colored hair had thinned much like mine had, and she wore a wig. One of her legs was loose at the hip joint, and she could no longer stand comfortably on her own. But her cheeks remained rosy, and her eyes still sparkled. She had a ready smile, the one she bore during the Christmas season while wearing the holiday dress Mother made for her.
When I look at Alice, I remember a simpler time when everything I needed was in the quarter-mile radius known as downtown. I remember when walking through the downtown variety story was the most wonderous thing I could do. I remember when Alice was the greatest companion a little girl could have. When I see Alice, I remember Mother and the lifetime of memories we made together. More importantly, I remember Mother was and still is a far greater friend than Alice ever was.
When Mother shopped for our groceries at the A&P, my brother and I were each given a quarter and permitted to cross the street and, unsupervised, browse through Nicholson’ Variety Store. My brother immediately headed for the candy display buying penny candy to munch on while riding the mechanical pony stationed in front of the store. I, on the other hand, delighted in wandering around the store, enamored with the sound of its creaky wooden floors and mystified with the contents of the glass display cases. I ambled down crammed aisles filled with sewing notions, bolts of fabric, patterns, and thread. I fiddled with the household gadgets; smelled the perfumes, shampoos, and deodorants; fingered the bobby pens, handkerchiefs, and various sundry items; and quickly glanced away as I rushed past the women’s “unmentionables” before lingering at the toy and doll aisle.
On one such excursion through Nicholson’s, I saw her—a 43-inch, rosy-cheeked doll donning a blue frilly dress, fancy black patent leather shoes, and lacey white socks. Her green eyes blinked “hello,” and her lips seemed to murmur, “Please take me home with you.” From that moment on, I envisioned her as the sister and playmate I didn’t have and desperately wanted to take her home with me. But my parents were struggling to make ends me, and I knew I had very little chance of actually owning her. So, every Saturday while Mother grocery shopped I rushed over to Nicholson’s and visited with her, naming her Alice after Alice in Alice in Wonderland.
Mrs. Nicholson took pity on me and occasionally removed Alice from her box so I could stand next to her and chat with her. I looked forward to my Saturday visits with Alice, but one Saturday I hurried across the street, flung open the door of Nicholson’s, and scurried to the toy aisle only to find that Alice was gone.
“Where’s Alice?” I asked Mrs. Nicholson with panic in my voice.
“I’m sorry, darlin’. A mother came in the store just the other day and bought her for her very special daughter.”
“But…but…” Tears welled up in my eyes.
“I know you’re disappointed,” she said in a soft, comforting tone, “but Alice found a good home.”
“But…but…we were friends.” I buried my face in my hands and sobbed, running across the street into Mother’s arms.
“She’s gone, Mama! She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?”
“Alice, my friend Alice.”
“Oh, I see. There will be other dolls,” she said stroking my hair in an attempt to console me.
But I was upset and inconsolable. “I don’t want another doll. I want Alice.” I threw myself into the back seat of the car and pouted all the way home. For days I moped around the house, eventually resigning myself to the fact that I’d never again see Alice. Weeks passed until the morning of my 8th birthday. Bleary-eyed I stumbled to the kitchen table and found Alice sitting in a chair next to mine.
“It’s about time you got here. Your friend, Alice, has been waiting for you,” Mother said.
“Alice!” I squealed and sat down next to her. I looked over at Mother, tears of joy streaming down her face. At that moment I realized that the mother who’d bought Alice at Nicholson’s was my mother, and Mrs. Nicholson had been part of Mother’s secret scheme. Mrs. Nicholson was right, of course. Alice had found a good home.For days and years thereafter, Alice was my steadfast and constant companion. She stood next to me while I jumped rope on our front porch and sat in the chair next to me while I did my homework. At night she slept in a pallet on the floor next to my bed and frequently joined Mother and I in the kitchen and watched us while we cooked dinner for the family or made holiday pies and cookies.
I eventually grew up, left home, and forgot about Alice, Mrs. Nicholson, and the downtown square. Some years ago, I returned to my hometown and discovered that Nicholson’s and the other stores in the downtown square had long since disappeared, replaced with newer, sleeker store fronts with modern names. At my parents’ house, I also found Alice. Mother had carefully wrapped her and stored her in the attic along with the many outfits Mother created for her.
When I unwrapped her, I found Alice, like downtown, had also changed. Her once thick, curly, auburn-colored hair had thinned much like mine had, and she wore a wig. One of her legs was loose at the hip joint, and she could no longer stand comfortably on her own. But her cheeks remained rosy, and her eyes still sparkled. She had a ready smile, the one she bore during the Christmas season while wearing the holiday dress Mother made for her.
When I look at Alice, I remember a simpler time when everything I needed was in the quarter-mile radius known as downtown. I remember when walking through the downtown variety story was the most wonderous thing I could do. I remember when Alice was the greatest companion a little girl could have. When I see Alice, I remember Mother and the lifetime of memories we made together. More importantly, I remember Mother was and still is a far greater friend than Alice ever was.
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