(Memory brought back by hunting up stationery items today.)
Some of my fondest childhood memories involve taking the bus downtown. We’d do it at
least once during Christmas, winter, and Easter vacation, and at least
twice during the summer, and it was always something to look forward to,
despite declining fortunes (as a cynical teenager I used to refer to
taking “the bus UP Cranston Street to watch the neighborhood run DOWN”).
In the early sixties there was a chirpy radio jingle about Providence
being “Southern New England’s largest shopping center”; by the late
seventies “downcity” looked like a once proud dowager gone to seed.
These
excursions always started the same way; we’d be up to have breakfast
with Dad, who rose at six and left the house by twenty past, after
gulping a homemade eggnog and hot coffee. I drag myself out of bed at
six these days, but on those downtown days was dressed, washed, and into
the kitchen in a flash. I usually had an eggnog, too (it was the
only way I would eat eggs willingly), for breakfast on other mornings, but not on
these. We would hustle to get dressed, make the bed (heaven forbid we
left the house without making the bed!), and walked the three blocks
past Berkeley, Doane, and Clarendon Streets, on the corner of the last which was Tom's Superette, crossed the WPA-era
concrete railroad bridge past the junkyard, walked past Harold Crook’s
garage, the Hideaway Inn, and Cleary’s Dry Goods to wait for the bus on
Cranston Street. On winter mornings the bus was invariably late and
you’d stand there stamping your feet and sticking gloved hands deep in
the pockets of your winter coat, the wind always finding a way down your
coat collar despite a scarf. Later we had a bus stop across the street,
and if we didn’t hustle we had to make the walk. This is how I learned
to make a bed, complete with tucked sheets and rolled pillows, with no
wrinkles under the spread, in 2 minutes and 14 seconds!
The bus
chugged its way into Providence with many starts and stops, past the
looming dirty brick walls of the old trolley barn on one side and the
Narragansett Brewery on the other (trolley barns seem to have
proliferated in Cranston; the Taco company was also located in an old
trolley barn and my dad remembered another on Webster Avenue); under the overpass which was Route 10, through an old neighborhood of peeling triple-deckers and beer-sign dotted taps with their round
brick windows, and the only A&P nearby; past the crenellated,
fantasy-inspiring structure of the Cranston Armory and the sprawl of Central High School where Mom had gone back in the 1930s; and finally taking a
sharp left at the Saints Peter and Paul Auditorium (I still recall a
heart-stopping hard left there when they were building the auditorium,
riding on a school bus going to the annual Rhode Island Philharmonic
concert for the schoolchildren, where we were all certain we were going
to be tossed into the maw of the building excavation), before trundling
into downtown and getting off at Weybosset Street.
We hadn’t
eaten breakfast because we were going to confession at St. Francis
Chapel, then in an old brick building owned by Johnson & Wales
business school. I preferred confession at St. Francis because they
still let you do it the old way, where you said “Bless me, Father, for I
have sinned,” rather than the new way we had learned in Catechism class
where the priests asked you questions. We didn’t usually stay for the 7
a.m. Mass, but it was comfortable when we did, only a half-hour service
in the small chapel downstairs, the air pleasant with the scents of
incense and candles (in the winter wet wool coats and mothballs tended
to be added to the mixture), older people who attended Mass daily around
you, murmuring silently to themselves as they knelt with deeply bowed heads under kerchiefs or trilbys as they fingered beads while
saying their Rosary.
Now that the solemn part of the day was
over, we were free to have a rare treat: breakfast out. Today when I eat
out each weekend it is hard to remember how very special this really
was. Dad worked in a factory; later Mom went back to work, also in a
factory—there wasn’t much money for dinners out. Big formal dinners
at a restaurant where you dressed up in Sunday clothes, the kind with white tablecloths, wine glasses, and cloth napkins, were confined to holidays:
Thanksgiving, Mother’s Day, Mom’s birthday. Occasionally on a Sunday we
might grab a hot dog from a truck at the beach, get a burger at Burger
Chef or go to Aunt Carrie’s or Rocky Point for clam cakes, or Gus’s at
Oakland Beach for doughboys, but this was chiefly confined to summer.
(Later Mom tired of lingering fish scent and she and my dad started
getting fish sandwiches at McDonald’s on Friday. I despised fish,
especially battered and fried, and would either have “rice and
gravy”—white rice with Mom’s tomato sauce on it—or pork fried rice from Empress of China.)
But our special downtown breakfasts were always at the Crown Coffee Shop, in the lobby of the
Crown Hotel. The waitresses wore little white caps and starched white
aprons, and I had toast with real butter instead of the margarine at
home. The seats were revolving stools which Mom would have to admonish me to stop spinning on. We’d be among mostly businessmen having a coffee and
some eggs and toast before going to work, and professional women with
their alligator purses and high heels. In the wintertime all would be hunched in woven
overcoats, the ladies with fur collars, everyone with some sort of a hat. You might even see someone in a mink collar or a fox stole.
Breakfast
was almost too leisurely, since we had to wait for the Outlet Company
to open; they were the first store available, at 8:45 on the button, not
a minute earlier, to my chagrin. If it wasn’t cold, we would go stand
at the brass-and-glass doors with the other early shoppers, and I would
press my nose on the glass like a kid in a candy store.
Once in
the store I’d make a beeline to the book department while Mom did her
shopping. Mom did something that would horrify parents today: she left
me alone, at first in the toy department, then when I got older and had no interest in toys, in the book department, of
department stores. I was not to move out of that department, nor talk to strangers,
nor go anyplace with anyone unless it was a policeman. I didn’t move
and didn’t talk, and it suited me just fine. I despised tagging after Mom
as she shopped for clothes or shoes; I despised shopping for clothes and shoes
for myself, even as a teenager, and did it only under duress—watching someone shopping for clothes or shoes was even more coma-inducing. Better in
the book department at the Outlet, which was on the first floor next to
the café, running caressing hands over hardback books we couldn’t
afford, or spending three weeks squirreled allowance on a
Get Smart book.
We
had a regular route worked out. From the Outlet we would go to the
Paperback Book store across the street. I can close my eyes and see the
store exactly as it was—like Ebenezer Scrooge in the town he went to school in, I could “walk it
blindfolded”—dark brown shelves tall enough to be over my reach, posters
of everything from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones to psychedelic
Peter Max rainbows and glowing unicorns papering the ceiling end-to-end, books being
sunned in the display window, the clerk in an elevated booth on the
left, the mystery books in the far back right corner and the media-based
books to the left under the clerk’s nose, the scent of bookprint
everywhere. It was there I saw my first fanzine, out for sale with the
regular books; it was pretty obvious the clerk was fannish.
We might
stop at Read-All, a narrow bookstore/card shop , or later at
Strawberries, the record store, on Union Street on the way to
Westminster Street, which, during most of my teenage years, was a
no-traffic mall area, and here there were riches indeed. Until it closed
in 1968, my favorite venue there was J.J. Newberry. The main level had a
coffee shop, sundries, and stationery, and there was an upper level
with clothes, but I made a beeline for the basement: toyland, children’s
books, and hardware. Newberry’s main appeal was the Whitman books,
cheap (29 cents in the 1960s) hardbacks with glossy covers that were
either classic children’s books like
Heidi, Call of the Wild, Little Women,
etc. , serial books like Donna Parker, Ginny Gordon, the Timber Trail
Riders, Trixie Belden, and more, or media-based tie-ins. All my Lassie
books came from Newberry’s. (It was not the eldest of the “dime stores”
downtown: a very shadowy, almost sepia recollection of the downtown Kresges, which
closed when I was small, remains: a dim interior, with the
old-fashioned wood-and-glass display cases and the shelves upon shelves
behind the counters. If you wanted to see something, you asked the
salesperson to get it down for you. The “toy department” was a
collection of windup tin painted toys and rigid dolls and teddy bears.)
Two
other “five and tens” were on Westminster Street, Woolworth and
W.T. Grant. Woolworth I can remember as if it were yesterday, as it was
the first thing I saw after walking down the stairs of the Alice
Building wearing my new glasses at age nine. I looked at the classic brilliant red
sign and exclaimed to my mother “Mommy, I didn’t know the world was so
bright!” (I had been living in a watercolor nearsighted haze for some years
and didn’t realize it, until my best friend spilled the beans: “Linda
can’t read the blackboard at school!”) Woolworth’s was a sensory
experience at any time of year—the scent of coffee and tuna sandwiches
from the lunch counter at left, the wonderful odor of fresh popcorn, the
bright candy in bins right up front, the shrill chirping of the
parakeets from the rear of the store, bright seasonal geegaws from sand
pails and plastic sunglasses to Easter baskets and stuffed rabbits to
Hallowe’en pumpkins and noisemakers—but came into glory at Christmas
with tinsel swags, ornament boxes, candy canes and multicolor “Christmas
candy,” peppermint scent and sample perfumes, inexpensive toys,
tissue-paper honeycomb bells, and Christmas carols playing in the
background. Each of the five and tens at Christmas, especially Grant’s,
had bins in the seasonal area where you could pick out individual
figures for your nativity set: start with a base of the Holy Family, add
the ox and the ass, some shepherds, the Three Kings, and then more
figures: sheep, others offering gifts, the shepherd boy, the camels, the
camel driver, a sheepdog…the possibilities and arrangements were
endless.
At Grant’s, another lunch counter—all the stores had
them at this time—and cosmetics, cream rinses, hair dye, toiletries,
first aid. They had the best price on Crayola crayons, and each year I
bought myself a fresh box with the distinctive Crayola odor paired with a
Woolworth’s blank calendar pad to make and illustrate my own calendar
for the year.
Westminster Street held more boring stores that I
was obliged to tag into occasionally (clothing stores, of
course)—Gladdings, Peerless, Cherry and Webb, Kennedys when dad needed a
shirt—but there was one place I was never reluctant to go: Shepards.
The big Shepard’s clock on Westminster Street was a meeting place to
many, and Mom went to Shepards when she couldn’t find it anywhere else, a
“dressy dress” for a wedding, pretty lingerie, stockings, a new purse,
whatnot. Their book department was a nook on the first floor where I
could peruse all the Marguerite Henry hardbacks to my heart’s content,
wishing we could afford them, while I waited for Mom.
Invariably
we would need to make a “pit stop,” and we did that in Shepard’s, for
they had, not a tiny rest room perpetually out of toilet paper with stalls puddled with water, but a big ladies’ room that must have been something spectacular
when the store was built, and was still impressive, especially to a kid
from a tiny house in the suburbs. It even had an attendant. The
dividing walls were made of glass bricks, and there were long counters
with mirrors behind them where you could put your shopping bags down and
fix your hair instead of at the sinks where you would get everything
wet. People still “dressed up” to go downtown back then and you might
even find older ladies adjusting fur stoles and replacing hatpins in big
picture hats that you only saw in old magazines, checking their
stocking seams.
We might go into Richleys, the little card shop
that also sold gift items and small stuffed animals, or Pier Linen,
where Mom coveted the cut crystal but never bought any, or Garr’s
Fabrics. Garr’s was another place that had not changed in years; the
walls were hung with satin drapery and formally dressed women helped you
select thread and cut cloth for you. At Christmas I would go to Garr’s
to buy ribbons as gifts for my stuffed animals.
One of my
too-brief discoveries was a bookstore called Dana’s, which was very
close to one of my other favorite stores, E.L. Freeman’s, the stationery
shop. I used to wander Freeman’s in a happy daze, imagining all the
stories that could be written on their different composition books, and I bought my diary, a red date-book, there every year.
Dana’s was a basement shop quartered in the 1920s (or earlier) Wilcox Building
with the lovely smoke-smutched white cornices and façade of that era. Once inside, the store
smelled delightfully of old books. These were not simply old paperbacks
as you would find in a used bookstore now, but vintage books, many of
them dating back to the 19th century. These books were always
fascinating, with their small size, colorful leather covers, and inlaid,
curving fonts in gold. There was one corner where all of Lucy Fitch
Perkins’ “Twins” books were lined up in a row; also glimpsed were bound
issues of
St. Nicholas and other children’s magazines. Alas, not a
year after I discovered it, a fire in the top story of the Wilcox
Building ruined Paradise. The books were untouched by fire, but the
water and smoke ruined them. Soon after the blaze I stood at the iron railing at
the sidewalk level, looking down into the bleak, locked, dark bookstore
where the books lay smeared across the floor of the shop. I could never
walk by there for years afterwards without wanting to cry.
One
occasional treat, at least until 1970, would be a movie. There were
still four movie theatres downtown during my elementary years, the big
Lowes State which got the blockbuster films like
Lawrence of Arabia and
Cleopatra, the Strand which showed more controversial flicks like
Butterfield 8 and
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,
the RKO Albee which had things like Jerry Lewis movies, Westerns,
comedies, and my favorite of all, the Majestic, which showed all the
Disney films. The Majestic was a big white marble-like building that had
started life as a vaudeville theatre; it still had the bathrooms
downstairs as in a stage theatre, with a small box office and vending
machines replacing most of the once-large lobby, but popcorn and candy
was still available at a small stand, and you went through curtained
arches to get to velvet-plush seats. A big red curtain opened just as
the movie started, giving the old blue Disney “Buena Vista” logo a
rippling, purplish cast. I saw
Mary Poppins there, and
Old Yeller, and
Three Lives of Thomasina,
and other wonderful Disney classics. Eventually the Loews became the
Providence Performing Arts Center, the Strand turned into a “dirty
movie” house and then died, the Albee became a parking lot; only the
Majestic survives as the Trinity Repertory Theatre playhouse.
The
final stop involved going past the Planters Peanut shop. I have
forgotten in what small corner of what side street it was in, but all
you had to do to find it was take a big sniff, as the roasting
peanuts—yes, they did it right in the store!—could be smelled for
blocks and led you directly there. Mom always bought peanut clusters for Dad and herself; I
preferred my peanuts directly from the shell.
We would wait for
the bus on the corner of Washington and Mathewson Streets, where my
godfather Armand Azzoli had his shoe shop. This was a long, narrow store quite typical of the shoe stores of the time, smelling of fresh leather and shoe polish, a cozy place
especially on a winter day, with a small room at the back where Armand could have his lunch or use the facilities. Tall ashtray stands were at either end of the leather seats with metal arms, since smoking was still popular in those days, and the shoeboxes went on shelves all the way to the ceiling. We’d go in to say hi, and
sometimes to have Armand put taps on the heels of my shoes, since I
tended to turn my ankle and wear them down on the sides. If it were very cold. Mom would stay inside, and I'd stand at the door craning my neck at the buses lining up outside.
I remember that we always crossed fingers for a certain bus. Before they instituted the Arlington #31 bus that
went directly past our house, there were three buses, 31-A, -B, and –C,
Oaklawn/Old Spring, one I’ve forgotten, and the Meshanicut bus. We would
try to catch the 31-C Meshanicut bus because occasionally, instead of making the sharp right turn onto Cranston Street toward Dyer Avenue when it reached Gansett Avenue, it would go straight up
Gansett instead and we could ask the driver to stop at Appleton Street. I
think the direction had to do with the time of day, but we never figured it out.
If it turned the corner, we just got out at the bus stop near DePrete’s
hardware and trudged back the way we came. We were hungry and
footsore—but it had been a glorious day nonetheless.
