Paddy Eger's Blog - Posts Tagged "1950s"
Capp’s Corner Store
As I grew up, the corner store played an important role in the neighborhood. Our last minute needs: coffee, butter, bread and cigarettes were purchased from the family-owned Capp’s Grocery. Parents sent kids to retrieve phoned-in orders or hand-scribbled lists. (Yes, we even picked up our parent's cigarettes.)
From age six to twelve I walked the two blocks: up a hill and across one semi-busy street. The wooden building had a small painted sign over the swinging doors and several half windows across the front. A single gas pump stood by a one-door garage on one side of the building. Out front, the gravel parking area held three to four cars.
The store had a hanging light fixtures, a low, messy counter and rows of shelves organized by product type: canned goods, bread, paper products, and such. It smelled of a mixture of dust, cardboard and ground meat. The wooden floor creaked in several places, especially along the route from the front door to the cooler in back which held milk, cream, butter, cheese and eggs.
Along side the cash register were the colorful packs of gum: yellow Juicy Fruit, green Wrigley’s Spearmint, blue Beman’s Pepsin, white Clove and blue Black Jack. Penny candy stood on the counter in open glass bowls. The ice cream treats filled a nearby free-standing freezer with a clear plastic top that let me see everything inside. To select a treat I’d slide open one side and reach in.
Mr. Capp, a short man with a receding hairline, wore a soiled butcher apron that covered his pants and shoes: one size did not fit all. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he tolerated kids pawing through the penny candy and opening the ice cream treats slider, letting the cold air escape.
When I arrived to pick up Mom’s order, he had it bagged on the counter. If I had permission, I bought a Dixie cup of orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream. Once every week or so, one of my parents walked up and settled the bill.
Mr. Capp’s fresh produce arrived in crates in open-backed trucks and consisted of carrots, yellow onions and potatoes grown locally or from nearby Seattle or Tacoma. Most shriveled before being purchased . Seasonal produce: apples from eastern Washington, oranges from California and bananas from South America disappeared on the day each arrived.
The canned food labels I remember are S&W, Campbell’s, Van de Camp, Del Monte and Hormel canned Spam. Milk and Coke came in glass bottles; the dreaded Vienna sausages peaked out from their small glass jars. There were no frozen or ethnic foods.
Bread arrived in small delivery trucks. Sunbeam used bright yellow trucks with the face of a smiling blonde girl painted on each side. The colorful Wonder bread trucks were painted to mimic the bread wrapped; red, yellow and blue circles over a white background. Both breads tasted like fluffy air and folded easily in small hands.
A small meat counter took up one wall. When we bought hamburger, Mr. Capp ground our order behind his glass-front his meat counter. He’d grab a handful of beef, push it through his grinder, weighed it and wrapped it in white butcher paper. Same for pork sausage.
We seldom bought Mr. Capps’ meats. Instead we picked up meat on our Saturday treks to the A&P (Atlantic and Pacific). Dad toted the heavier bags along the five-block walk leaving the lighter ones for Mom and me.
Mr. Capp’s store and the A&P were vastly different. At Mr. Capp’s we gathered arm loads of items and placed them on the counter and he bagged them. The A&P had shopping baskets to gather up purchases and people bagged them for us. At Capp’s, we paid down our bill weekly; at A&P you paid for every item you bought on the day you bought it. Mr. Capp sat on a stool behind his counter where he tallied our purchases in scraps of paper. The A&P had a box near the front of the store where the manager stood to oversee the store as well as the cashiers who rang up purchases and handed us paper receipts.
Capp’s store stood on my school route. After school, many classmates bought treats on their way home. Since my Mom made my snacks, I never stopped in. But, sometimes, if I was sent to the store, I’d be allowed to spend five cents for a Dixie cup or I’d spend my own twelve cents and buy a deluxe Raspberry or Chocolate ice cream sundae. When I only had a penny, I brought a Lick’em-ade straw and sucked or coughed down the Jell-o-like powder.
When Mr. Capp sold his store to a convenience franchise, we stopped shopping there. The new owner wasn’t from the neighborhood so he didn’t talk with kids. Also, he wanted to be paid as each purchase was made. He brought in packaged meat and new counters. By then we owned a car, so going to the A&P or driving to the locally-owned T& M (Ted and Mel’s) was just as easy, plus it had a greater selection, lower prices and friendlier faces.
From age six to twelve I walked the two blocks: up a hill and across one semi-busy street. The wooden building had a small painted sign over the swinging doors and several half windows across the front. A single gas pump stood by a one-door garage on one side of the building. Out front, the gravel parking area held three to four cars.
The store had a hanging light fixtures, a low, messy counter and rows of shelves organized by product type: canned goods, bread, paper products, and such. It smelled of a mixture of dust, cardboard and ground meat. The wooden floor creaked in several places, especially along the route from the front door to the cooler in back which held milk, cream, butter, cheese and eggs.
Along side the cash register were the colorful packs of gum: yellow Juicy Fruit, green Wrigley’s Spearmint, blue Beman’s Pepsin, white Clove and blue Black Jack. Penny candy stood on the counter in open glass bowls. The ice cream treats filled a nearby free-standing freezer with a clear plastic top that let me see everything inside. To select a treat I’d slide open one side and reach in.
Mr. Capp, a short man with a receding hairline, wore a soiled butcher apron that covered his pants and shoes: one size did not fit all. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he tolerated kids pawing through the penny candy and opening the ice cream treats slider, letting the cold air escape.
When I arrived to pick up Mom’s order, he had it bagged on the counter. If I had permission, I bought a Dixie cup of orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream. Once every week or so, one of my parents walked up and settled the bill.
Mr. Capp’s fresh produce arrived in crates in open-backed trucks and consisted of carrots, yellow onions and potatoes grown locally or from nearby Seattle or Tacoma. Most shriveled before being purchased . Seasonal produce: apples from eastern Washington, oranges from California and bananas from South America disappeared on the day each arrived.
The canned food labels I remember are S&W, Campbell’s, Van de Camp, Del Monte and Hormel canned Spam. Milk and Coke came in glass bottles; the dreaded Vienna sausages peaked out from their small glass jars. There were no frozen or ethnic foods.
Bread arrived in small delivery trucks. Sunbeam used bright yellow trucks with the face of a smiling blonde girl painted on each side. The colorful Wonder bread trucks were painted to mimic the bread wrapped; red, yellow and blue circles over a white background. Both breads tasted like fluffy air and folded easily in small hands.
A small meat counter took up one wall. When we bought hamburger, Mr. Capp ground our order behind his glass-front his meat counter. He’d grab a handful of beef, push it through his grinder, weighed it and wrapped it in white butcher paper. Same for pork sausage.
We seldom bought Mr. Capps’ meats. Instead we picked up meat on our Saturday treks to the A&P (Atlantic and Pacific). Dad toted the heavier bags along the five-block walk leaving the lighter ones for Mom and me.
Mr. Capp’s store and the A&P were vastly different. At Mr. Capp’s we gathered arm loads of items and placed them on the counter and he bagged them. The A&P had shopping baskets to gather up purchases and people bagged them for us. At Capp’s, we paid down our bill weekly; at A&P you paid for every item you bought on the day you bought it. Mr. Capp sat on a stool behind his counter where he tallied our purchases in scraps of paper. The A&P had a box near the front of the store where the manager stood to oversee the store as well as the cashiers who rang up purchases and handed us paper receipts.
Capp’s store stood on my school route. After school, many classmates bought treats on their way home. Since my Mom made my snacks, I never stopped in. But, sometimes, if I was sent to the store, I’d be allowed to spend five cents for a Dixie cup or I’d spend my own twelve cents and buy a deluxe Raspberry or Chocolate ice cream sundae. When I only had a penny, I brought a Lick’em-ade straw and sucked or coughed down the Jell-o-like powder.
When Mr. Capp sold his store to a convenience franchise, we stopped shopping there. The new owner wasn’t from the neighborhood so he didn’t talk with kids. Also, he wanted to be paid as each purchase was made. He brought in packaged meat and new counters. By then we owned a car, so going to the A&P or driving to the locally-owned T& M (Ted and Mel’s) was just as easy, plus it had a greater selection, lower prices and friendlier faces.
Marta and Me: Wash Day and The Clothesline
One way I shared my life with my POV character:
Each wash day Mom separated clothes from the hamper in the bathroom. She carried the laundry basket of whites to the garage as the first load.
Mom rolled the wringer washer into position beside the smooth, deep-sided cement utility tub. She pulled the short hose on the faucet into the washer and turned on the hot water. While the tub filled, she added Ivory Flakes (99 and 44/100th % pure like the ad said)and Chlorine bleach and sloshed them around. Next she plugged in the power cord and added the clothes.
The agitator gyrated like someone doing The Twist. Clothes appeared and sank in the bleach-smelling frothy water. Our clothes wore out from bleaching, but they didn’t have stains.
When every stain was gone, Mom set the washed clothes aside, drained the water into the utility tub and started over with the medium colored clothes. That water would be left in the tub to wash the dark clothes next. After all, the clothes weren’t filthy; we’d just worn them three or four days. They mostly needed ‘freshening’.
Rinsing came next. Whites then mediums and darks took turns in the washer. After a few good swishes, each item was removed and hand-twisted before being put through the wringer, two rubber-coated rollers on the top of the wash machine. Mom turned a crank which flattened the clothes. Excess water dropped away into the utility tub. The squash-me-all-flat clothes were placed in the laundry basket and taken to the clothesline.
When clothes overloaded the wringer the two rollers sprung apart. Mom had to stop, reset the rollers and latch them back into place. I was never allowed to use the wringer for fear I’d get myself caught up in the rollers.
All backyards had clotheslines, mostly homemade ‘T’ posts with taut lines. Dad made ours to cross the backyard from the grape arbor to Mr. McManus’ fence gate. The sturdy six by six beams were painted white to match the arbor. Twice a year Dad cut back grape tendrils that hitched a ride along the wires, planning an escape into Mr. McManus’ fence.
On sunny days Mom pegged the wash outside. She stuck wooden pegs or clothespins in her mouth to save picking them up one-by-one. Sheets hung furthest from the house, unmentionables hung on the middle clothesline and towels flapped close to the kitchen window.
When Mom thought they were dry, I was sent out to feel them. I’d walk my face ran against the towels, by-pass the ‘underthings’ and walk my body with outstretched arms against each sheet testing for dryness. Dried clothes smelled like fresh air; towels were crunchy and stiff like hair with blue Dippity Doo slathered on it.
Until I was tall enough to reach the pegs, Mom took down the laundry. If I yanked them down, the wire springs in the clothespins flew out and became lost in the grass to be ‘found’ by bare feet or tossed about by lawn mowers in the summer. Neither a comforting event.
Rainy days the clothes hung in the garage. I let Mom decide when they were dry; it wasn’t as much fun testing them inside. They always felt damp to me.
When the clothesline was empty in the summer, Mom helped me hang blankets and large, worn tablecloths or bedspreads along the clotheslines to make forts. The dull brown wool Army blankets and my old pink chenille bedspread were my favorites. They hung close to the ground so when I sat down, my head remained out of sight. Even though my legs and bottom were only partially concealed, I felt hidden. The sun warmed the blankets as I sat in the fort with my crayons and color books, imagining other worlds.
If the neighbor kids came over, we’d run under and around the blankets playing chase and keep away. But the clothesline house was mostly my quiet backyard place on the cool grass each summer.
Each wash day Mom separated clothes from the hamper in the bathroom. She carried the laundry basket of whites to the garage as the first load.
Mom rolled the wringer washer into position beside the smooth, deep-sided cement utility tub. She pulled the short hose on the faucet into the washer and turned on the hot water. While the tub filled, she added Ivory Flakes (99 and 44/100th % pure like the ad said)and Chlorine bleach and sloshed them around. Next she plugged in the power cord and added the clothes.
The agitator gyrated like someone doing The Twist. Clothes appeared and sank in the bleach-smelling frothy water. Our clothes wore out from bleaching, but they didn’t have stains.
When every stain was gone, Mom set the washed clothes aside, drained the water into the utility tub and started over with the medium colored clothes. That water would be left in the tub to wash the dark clothes next. After all, the clothes weren’t filthy; we’d just worn them three or four days. They mostly needed ‘freshening’.
Rinsing came next. Whites then mediums and darks took turns in the washer. After a few good swishes, each item was removed and hand-twisted before being put through the wringer, two rubber-coated rollers on the top of the wash machine. Mom turned a crank which flattened the clothes. Excess water dropped away into the utility tub. The squash-me-all-flat clothes were placed in the laundry basket and taken to the clothesline.
When clothes overloaded the wringer the two rollers sprung apart. Mom had to stop, reset the rollers and latch them back into place. I was never allowed to use the wringer for fear I’d get myself caught up in the rollers.
All backyards had clotheslines, mostly homemade ‘T’ posts with taut lines. Dad made ours to cross the backyard from the grape arbor to Mr. McManus’ fence gate. The sturdy six by six beams were painted white to match the arbor. Twice a year Dad cut back grape tendrils that hitched a ride along the wires, planning an escape into Mr. McManus’ fence.
On sunny days Mom pegged the wash outside. She stuck wooden pegs or clothespins in her mouth to save picking them up one-by-one. Sheets hung furthest from the house, unmentionables hung on the middle clothesline and towels flapped close to the kitchen window.
When Mom thought they were dry, I was sent out to feel them. I’d walk my face ran against the towels, by-pass the ‘underthings’ and walk my body with outstretched arms against each sheet testing for dryness. Dried clothes smelled like fresh air; towels were crunchy and stiff like hair with blue Dippity Doo slathered on it.
Until I was tall enough to reach the pegs, Mom took down the laundry. If I yanked them down, the wire springs in the clothespins flew out and became lost in the grass to be ‘found’ by bare feet or tossed about by lawn mowers in the summer. Neither a comforting event.
Rainy days the clothes hung in the garage. I let Mom decide when they were dry; it wasn’t as much fun testing them inside. They always felt damp to me.
When the clothesline was empty in the summer, Mom helped me hang blankets and large, worn tablecloths or bedspreads along the clotheslines to make forts. The dull brown wool Army blankets and my old pink chenille bedspread were my favorites. They hung close to the ground so when I sat down, my head remained out of sight. Even though my legs and bottom were only partially concealed, I felt hidden. The sun warmed the blankets as I sat in the fort with my crayons and color books, imagining other worlds.
If the neighbor kids came over, we’d run under and around the blankets playing chase and keep away. But the clothesline house was mostly my quiet backyard place on the cool grass each summer.
