Sept. 06, 2007 - 21:55 MDT

DOWNTOWN AS A SCHOOL

When I got old enough to be a bit on my own and trusted enough to be allowed to ride downtown on the trolley, I used to ride to the loop and thence go to Larimer Street. In Pioneer and Gold Rush days Larimer was THE main street. But by the time I began navigating said street it was described by many as Skid Row.

And after repeal of Prohibition bars of various sorts proliferated. But when I first began going there it was a street of depressed trade and industry.

It got to the point that I had almost memorized all the things on display in the pawn shops, drooling over the fancy jewelry in the windows.

And then there were the workingman's pawn shops that had tools and equipment that craftsmen used in their jobs. Diffidently I would ask a clerk, "What is that ? What is it used for ?" There by learning what micrometers were for and how used. The clerks began to get used to me and my questions and, having time, were very obliging in helping me learn a bit. Having run the street to and fro, then I would move a bit up.

There were many bookstores in the downtown area, some of which Denver Public School students went to in order to buy their textbooks for the next term. But there were others and they handled used books. Musty, dusty and dim they were, but held a whole world of interest to this boy. I remember buying a huge (huge to me) tome, Kraft Ebbing's book Psychopathia Sexualis which gave me a pretty good bit of the "birds and bees" education, acquainting me pretty on the sub and ab normal ways of the human beast. I timidly approached the counter bearing the book, put my money on the counter and the transaction was complete, even being given a sack to carry the book.

One bookstore was reputed to be a nest of Communists, but their wares were much the same as other stores, the owners and clerks had a "foreign air" about them but had good English and were as polite as clerks in other bookstores.

One thing I loved about the used book stores was that people were left alone to browse, read passages and wander the store - no pressure to buy was exerted.

On my trips downtown I learned many things that were not really taught in public schools, as well as learning how to relate to folks of a different age than I.

Many years passed and Heather and I were raising our last child. Said child, a girl, who in Junior High School found a bookstore in the Cherry Creek District (fast becoming an elite shopping area) that she loved. She talked me into taking her one day and I entered the Tattered Cover World. A place that had chairs to occupy and clerks who were informative if questioned and helpful if it was needed - but otherwise just there doing their work, stocking shelves and such. While daughter was looking for her wants, I browsed, found a book, sat down and started reading. After while daughter came to me with her stash of books and said she was ready. She had her money that had been saved for her stuff, but I was essentially broke. I asked the clerk, "I have no cash, but a check book and a driver's license but no other identification can you take my purchase ?" The clerk said, "All I need is your check." And the deal was made. It became my home away from home, seldom was I there that I didn't make a purchase, albeit maybe just a small one, greeting card or such.

When the store moved over on First Avenue, the operating philosphy remained the same and the business prospered. One new thing was added, a character named "Charlie" would sit and read his newspaper, silently. About the second time I saw him in a different chair in a different part of the store I tumbled to the fact that he was a very cleverly made piece of scuplture, though of plastic - something easy to move place to place. He lent an ambience to the store and I guess he probably still does in the new store over near my old High School, East Denver High. Haven't been there yet, but plan on it to be soon.

So, the East High area is a bit uptown, but still I will feel that I am still in DOWNTOWN AS A SCHOOL . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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