2001-04-11 - 0:01 MDST

THE WONDERING JEW

Whoopee

Oh, lets see, I was probably five or six years old when Mom or Aunt would take me downtown, riding the trolley car. How I enjoyed the ride, seeing the different houses and stores as we rode by, listening to the howl of the wheels as they came around a turn.

We would arrive and alight. Then just a short walk and we would go into a building which had show windows with nice clothes and accessories arranged prettily. There were fake men and women with clothes on in there.

I had been warned beforehand that I was not to pester with questions. So Mum was the word, but the questions were there, blazing from my eyes.

On entering, a very pleasant aroma surrounded me. Something I later found to be a typical department store perfume, you could call it that I guess. I could be led in blindfolded and know what I was in.

As we went through the departments I noticed that each one had its own smell. Clothing, shoes, womens unmentionables, the furniture department had a wonderful boquet of aromas, I could usually smell what they called banana oil somewhere along with smell of the furniture polish it was mixed in, the different merchandise had its own smell. Bargain basement had a quite different smell, sort of like open paint cans, greasy metal and dust.

Upstairs lights shone on the good stuff, Bargain Basement mediocre wares were not in the limelight but very handy on shelves or on display one way or another.

Back then the sales clerks were quite attentive and courteous, they cared. Quite different than now. I haven't been anywhere these years that had someone in the shoe department who would wait on me, measure my foot, bring different shoes out in my size, put one on my foot, lace it up so that I could do a bit of walking to see if I liked them. If I didn't, then other shoes would be brought out from the back -- cheerfully. Finally the choice made, the purchase was accomplished and were thanked and bid a cheerful goodbye by that clerk. Wow.

Everything was so genteel and civil back then. People walked in dignity and assurance. Men automatically held doors for women, would allow women to go ahead of them, would walk at the curbs edge so the woman would not be endangered.

Every trip to one of those museums of life we would end up in the yard goods department. I was fascinated with the spools of thread on display, there were cabinets with shallow drawers holding spools of different color and thicknesses. I even remember the name -- Clark ONT -- a myriad of the spools of thread were held in those drawers.

I would slither off and wander through the fancy fabrics on display feel them and see how light shone on them, look at the scissors and sewing machines and their attachments which were laid out. There was a place I could spend time, trying to guess what on earth each sewing machine gadget did.

Eventually my trail would take me back to the counter to see what was being bought. I would watch the clerk pull out bolts of cloth and put them out to be looked at and felt. Prices were discussed and finally a decision would be made. So many yards were asked for and the clerk would deftly run the edge of the cloth through a measuring device mounted on his side of the counter.

Sometimes if we weren't in a hurry Mom would take me to the toy department to look around and drool. Through the year except at Christmas, the toy departments were small but still had NEAT STUFF !

If I had behaved well and helped carry the purchases we would stop at the lunch counter in Woolworth's and have a bite to eat or an ice cream soda. Finally I would drowse as the trolley took us homeward. Happily back home again I would delve into my toys. Hell most of them were just about worn out, but my imagination made them shiny, sparkling new again and magnificent to my eyes. Later, or maybe another day I would witness Work In Progress as something would be cut and sewed. All under my eyes a straight, long piece of fabric would have patterns laid out and pinned, then would come the cutting. Later I would watch as the pieces were sewn together.

As I saw material shape up into a shirt my size my excitement would make me shivery in delight that something new was being made, just for me.

Mom could make her White Rotary sewing machine hum, the cloth swishing by under the stabbing needle a mile a minute.

I knew that if I became what the grown folks called, "bored," it was my fault, because there was too much to do, too much to watch, too much to think and dream about.

Although it has been many years since I could smell what was smeared on my upper lip, the smell of the department stores of my day is still lurking, something like the phantom leg that plagues an amputee. The old smell taunts me and says, "That's the way it was when I was young."

On April 11, 1921 I made my way into the world, crying and howling, pushed out into the unfamiliar world, assulted by light without real sight, noises other than the heartbeat of my mother bashed my ears, and the gurgles associated with Mom's innards drowned out by noise, and the sensation of being handled, those things are not in my memory -- but observed by me when our kids came along.

There has been a blizzard of birthday e-cards coming in here for days. What fun it is to get them and know that someone cares enough to go through the procedure to choose and send them. And the party is Saturday, Whoopee . . . . . . .

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