When I was a little girl I loved to go downtown (or uptown, depending on who you were talking to). Aunt Marjie would get all dressed up, complete with hat, gloves and heels. I would wear my Sunday best, right down to a flower in my hair and shiny patent leather shoes.
Generally the first stop would be fifty-two cartoons at the Warner theater, or maybe a Bette Davis flick at the Shea's. Second stop, lunch (hot turkey) at Grant's or a hot fudge sundae at Kresge's. Then it would be time to shop, a stop at the milliner's for Aunt Marjie and the toy department at Woolworth's for me. Then it was on to the Boston Store.
I wish there was a style of printing to reflect the reverence I had for the Boston Store. Going through the revolving doors, one entered into the magic world of six floors (not counting the sixth floor which housed the dining room and offices) of everything under the sun. You could grocery shop at Rudy Voss, book your vacation plans through Cappabianca Travel. You could buy paint or carpeting, get stamps, have your shoes repaired. I was the happy recipient of more than one rose from Rosebud Floral. All this plus clothes in every price range, jewelry and furs, make-up and records, books, candy and toys. I wanted to get locked in there at night so I could look at the pretty dishes, hug the beautiful dolls, try on the fur coats without anyone saying, "DON'T TOUCH!"
It was only a few years later when I got my first real job writing advertising copy for the Boston Store. The big thrill of being there when the store was closed had come true. I wrote ads for those pretty dishes and fur coats. I got to touch all the jewelry. No one told me to leave it alone. I was able to go into all those secret halls and locked rooms. I watched, even helped, put up the bouquets of fantasy flowers, the crystal chandeliers and the window mannequins. What a wonderful time that was.
But the best thing was, and still is, the Boston Store clock. Everyone met everybody under the clock. Everyone knew where it was. You met your date there, or your mother. Today there is a restaurant called Under the Clock. I haven't been there yet. It wouldn't be right to go with just anybody. It has to be a special day with someone who understands what it means to meet under the clock.
The Clock was a four-sided, huge, somewhat Victorian monstrosity that hung from the ceiling near the "down" escalator. It had no chimes, just big Roman numerals to announce the time. It was so big it could be seen from every entrance. You could see the whole first floor and all the activity while under that clock. I still get a lump in my throat when I remember seeing someone I cared about looking for me under the clock. I remember, in the days before cell phones, planning to meet someone there. In the excitement of planning, we had forgotten that the store didn't open until noon. I wonder what might have been. It was hours later that Mom remembered to tell me that he had called. Another time, the girls I worked with thought it would be funny to set up a "chance" meeting with somebody they knew I liked. They wrote to him and didn't tell me. Talk about a tongue-tied, embarrassing moment. It didn't turn out well. I wish I would have said something then, because today I can't. I wonder if they even remember those days. There were other times and other friends. I hope there will be again.
The bustle of the Boston Store is gone now, replacing the cosmetics department with a restaurant, the men's wear with radio stations, the polished wood display tables with a security desk. The clothing and fur coats and pretty dishes are now apartments that bear the Boston Store name. I have been in there many times. The glory is gone. The Clock remains. There are too many memories to cover in one essay. I will visit the Boston Store again.
If I had one wish to restore one thing of the past, it wouldn't be the Dock, now Dobbin's Landing. It wouldn't be the old library or the shoe shine parlor. It would be meeting under the clock at the Boston Store.
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