In today’s world, little girls are
sometimes shot, or kidnapped or whatever.
It is important then for the parent to be constantly vigilant concerning
them. It was really not always that
way. There was a time when such
atrocities, though maybe committed from time to time, as the boy in the box can
attest, were not the thing of headlines and constant news. There was a time when it was okay for little
girls to manipulate their way through a large store without fear or
suspicion. In those days exploration of
an environment was safer for a child, but still the security and warmth of
family mattered.
Growing up in a safe, suburban
community was the ideal of the last century, mid-century to be exact. In the 1950’s and ‘60’s a child of a certain
age could walk to the corner store, walk to her friend’s home or even move
around a mart without worry or concern. This
was such the case with me. Every Friday
night, my parents would observe their weekly ritual by going to Butch’s
Auction/mart to buy the needed food for a growing family. While I was not quite of an age to be left
home alone for that extended time, I was allowed to stroll through the store,
meeting up with a parent from time to time and then going off again. Of course, I had to tell them where I would
be, but that was not a problem because they would have guessed anyway.
Butch’s was the quintessential
farmer’s market of the day. It stretched
out for what seemed the length of several blocks with dirty floors and rows of
booths or stands where people hawked produce, meats, junk and a variety of
other necessary and unnecessary items for sale.
There was a very distinct odor to the place; it had the mixed aromas of
cooking grease, fresh vegetables, old tires, and sweets. It was certainly a cacophony of scents that teased
the taste buds and roamed off into the air once again. The sounds of Butch’s also mingled like an
out of tune chorus consisting of altos, sopranos, tenors and bases and other
varying voices without the benefit of a maestro to untangle the melee of
resonances reverberating throughout the mart.
There was a book stand, where my mother always gravitated, the meat
stand where my dad placed his order to be picked up before leaving and at the
end of both aisles one and two the infamous toy area where my sister and I
generally meandered. I knew where each
interesting booth was situated, and I knew where my parents would be as
well. Often I chose to avoid those
areas, but other times I would chose to visit them for a brief minute of
begging and nagging for a new Barbie Doll.
Sometimes I would amble along with
my older sister, sometimes I marched on alone strictly to my own tune, but I
would always head for one of two places.
First, most assuredly was the toy section where I would seek out the aforementioned
Barbie Doll that I would eventually earn the money for and buy. Next, would be the ice cream stand at the end
of aisle one, where I would use the dime I had been given for either a soft
serve chocolate cone or an orange ice.
In some cases, I could calculate when Dad would arrive there and con my
way into a hot dog and orange aid. It
was heaven.
Towards the end of the evening, I
always knew where Dad would be, either at the meat counter or in the auction
hall. Many times after scoping out the
desired doll, while licking the wonderful treat, I would head to the largest
room at the very end of the mart to see what my father was up to. Usually, his eyeballs with more stuff than he
needed or wanted but it was always fun nonetheless. Dad often purchased tools which he would use,
or junk which he would not use. He loved
the game though, and the song of the auctioneer was music to his ears, “Goingoncegoingtwicegoingthree…Bang it belongs to the gentleman in the
back.” I believe that he purchased his
beloved Anniversary clock at one such auction, but I am not sure if it was
Butch’s or not. Most likely though. That was his crowning glory, he loved clocks,
but I digress.
It was fun to sit with Dad while he
listened to the auction and watched the people buying and selling the things of
Americana; the items cast off by one and coveted by another. The benches were
hard and the auction was always crowded.
Once I spied him, I would squeeze in past the other ardent auction
lovers excusing myself as I stepped on one toe after the other, to the seat
next to him. The people, mostly portly
men and women and a few buttoned up children, would move and sway to the
undistinguishable syllables from the front and at times raise their hands into
the air. The boundaries of the room were
jammed with old brown furniture, piles of yellowish boxes and plastic whatnots
from floor to ceiling. The room was
always hot and sticky no matter the weather outside and the odor of cigarette
or cigar smoke and old dinner wafted from the rafters and back down to the
hordes of folk transfixed by the auctioneer.
Dad would explain to me what the
gavel bearing man was saying and point out different items in the gallery. He would show me the items that he was
interested in and often exclaimed that he only needed one, not the twelve dozen
offered. So he would hold his bid for
another item, perhaps one that would bring him joy. When I would exclaim that there was something
of interest to me, he would look over the treasure and decide if it were of any
value or not. Most often what I liked
was not valuable or really any good. I
listened to him because I understood that he knew if this was a thing to be
considered or if it would disintegrate into uselessness before the wrapper was
taken away. There weren’t many things
that I wanted from that auction or many that I actually got but there was one
perfect thing; sitting, nestled close to my dad and enjoying a Friday
evening.
