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Tiny Dime Store Memories
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Tiny Dime Store Memories |
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1slick_lady Member Ascendant
since 2000-12-22
Posts 6088standing on a shadow's lace 
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Tiny Dime Store Memories You want a story…here is one for you…one I have never told. In the space of a childhood, is a tiny dime store memory. The kind you stick between the shelves of velvet. Now so neatly folded next to the plastic high hills, the thin glass wind chimes from china, and paddle balls. I am whisked back to a time when I thought the stink of “Evening in Paris”, in its cobalt blue bottle, was the only perfume in the world. My father would give me a dollar to appease me and keep me out of his hair as he talked to the Mississippi minds on the sidewalk outside the store. I would stand there for awhile looking like a southern princess, all ruffled and rolled, watching my father as in a chess game, moving men to places he wanted them. Even then, I easily grew bored of things that didn’t interest me and would fidget, so out came the dollar and off I would go. The world of the dime store was decisions, decisions. And loved the fact that anything in there could be mine, at the price of a dollar. How I loved the dime store. It had waxed bottles with juice inside to stain dresses, bald headed men to make mug shots of with a magnet on a stick, punching balloons as thick as yard balls with rubber bands to tie on the end to knock your sisters down with. Special un-say-ables with the days of the week on them so you wouldn’t get mixed up and Mamaw would know you changed, loose power that women wore, to make their faces as white as their reputations. Round spun peppermints as large as your mouth that looked like moth balls but tasted so much better. Blue tins of cookies that fashionable ladies only got out for bridge games and gossip- that children were never allowed touching. The floors in that place were hard wood, shiny and slippery. I can still see “Rooster” with his broom and dust pan singing as he worked with rags hanging from pockets to wipe anything that dare touch his hallowed ground. Overalled and starched, a loving wife had prepared for him each day to look his best to sweep the floors. He was one man in my childhood I grew to respect, although I wasn’t suppose to, he looked me in the eye and made me laugh. He was married to Lucy, who cleaned my Papaw and Mamaw’s house. He made me feel comfortable, and he brought Lucy to me every day and I loved her. And as always, if he started spending too much time with me someone would come by and say, “Boy, what are you doing? Don’t you have somethin’ better to do?” and he would hasten off with a “Y’sss Sirrrrr’ ”. So many days in the dime store, my favorite prize was a pretend shaving kit. I knew each time I bought it my father would wince and say, “Girl that is a toy for boys”. He didn’t know of its secret. And it was a secret I only knew. As a child, unlike now, I liked to wake before anyone else. My father was also an early riser and it became a special time, between he and I. I never saw my father, in my whole life, in any state of disrobe. After my mother was gone and he had three girls to raise alone, I guess he thought it would be improper, and for the longest time, I thought he slept in those pants and white cotton dress t shirt (as he called them). My favorite time of the day was morning. My father and I had a routine down pat. We would meet in the kitchen that was all warm no matter what time of year it was. He would be sitting there reading the paper, smoking some of the sweetest smelling tobacco in a pipe. I would eat my breakfast in silence. I learned a long time ago interruptions during this, were unheard of, unless it was an emergency. When I was done, he would take my plate and his cup to the to the sink, pour out what was left of his, get a bone china cup down, place it next to his, pour himself a new cup and half a cup of coffee and half cup of milk in a cup for me. He would then sit back at the table shuffling papers that he needed for the day. I prayed every day I wouldn’t spill it as I placed 6 spoons of sugar in the cup. He never said a word just peered over his glasses watching me. After morning coffee was done, I would follow him as he marched in his brown shiny shoes to the hall, to deposit papers on the table by the front door, then down the hall to the bright hall bathroom where his shaving equipment waited. He would place a towel on the counter by the sink and lift me up so I could watch him shave. He did the same thing every morning. He would start the water, hot. Place a towel around his neck have a wash cloth next to me in reaching distance. As the mirror started to steam he would take a cup and splash water in it, then take a brush that he would first tickle my nose with and dip it in and make the smoothes bubbles you ever saw. He would stir and stir till it was perfect, then paint his face like Santa Clause. Dip the razor in the steaming water and glide. I would watch my father in awe, this man who grumbled yet never cussed. This act of shaving and the sharing of it, made my father bigger than life to me. He would finish up with a clean starched “Lucy” shirt, a big splash of Old Spice and it filled my day with sweet memories. He would lower me down and off to work he would go. No kiss but he would go. Every day after my father left, I would run to my room, get my shaving kit and run back to the hall bathroom. I would pull the stool next to the sink brush my teeth and shave with my pretend razor, just as my father had done. I wanted so much to be like him then, till I learned of his truths, and had to go out and find my own. I have never shared the secret of the dime store razors until now, as I tell you. And here is another secret. To this day when I smell old spice I think of my father and happy times and dime stores. |
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| © Copyright 2003 Helen Chambers - All Rights Reserved | |||
Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
Helen, This story flooded me with all kinds of emotions. From times past just as innocent. Of fathers and their children, of toys and their pleasure, of scents that have meaningful associations(Old Spice and dad) and of daughters and their fathers. Once again I could revel in the satisfaction of relationships now gone but still present. How you bless this aching heart. Thank you.  If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
You have captured the language of slow southern life here. And you managed to do that gracefully, without going for the obvious. There was some repetition here, but that's what editors are for (and I told ya I'm too lazy to do that for anyone else--smile) I liked the description of the dimestore fare--you truly did capture a child's wonder and feeling of infinite possibility, and the descriptions were priceless. You took your time here, and it worked well to add to the southern flavor. I loved the introduction of Rooster as well. It brought out the puzzling of the innocent--Mississippi prejudice implied compounded with the gulf of suspicion that is so confusing to a child who considers an adult a friend. I would like to see more of Rooster in the future too. You captured characterization quickly and deftly, but as always when something is good? I tend to want MORE.  Then there is the rituals between father and daughter. Again you take your time, and the details bring your story to life in the reader's mind. And? There is still more underlying issues in this part of the piece. Innocent love and daddy worship and curiosity--there is A LOT going on this seemingly simple piece. And no, I'll not parse your sentences, because my own stuff gives ME headaches--ha, but the content, is just delicious southern drawl, and oh I miss hearing that. Well done, Helen. And yes ma'am, I'd kindly like more along the lines of this: "loose power that women wore, to make their faces as white as their reputations" YES. As southern as green-fried tomatoes! Hugs you. And as for the memory of your self all dressed and ruffled? I swear I could feel that itchy thing they would make me wear, and how much I hated the white tights that never stayed up, OR stayed white on tom boy ME. sheesh. You've got ME remembering, and I have "blown" tons of money (and my liver) to NOT do that.  Loved this.  |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
I'll be back... and I'll bring my smile back with me. |
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Aenimal Member Rara Avis
since 2002-11-18
Posts 7350the ass-end of space |
God Helen you are a brilliant writer..I wish I had the words to do this or you justice but words fail..just know okay? |
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Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
:hugs  kisses:If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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Local Rebel Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-21
Posts 5767Southern Abstentia |
"He would finish up with a clean starched “Lucy” shirt, a big splash of Old Spice and it filled my day with sweet memories. He would lower me down and off to work he would go. No kiss but he would go." It reads like poetry Helen... reads like poetry.. |
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