Op/Ed
ALICE LEEDS
For the past two years, grocery shopping has become my weekly event. During the expanded time between these excursions, I ponder the joys of childhood shopping trips. At the heart of these memories are people and the space they occupied.
I was often sent down the street to Semmel’s, a grocery owned by an elderly couple. Mrs. Semmel ran the shop. Entering, I was surrounded by shelves lined with canned and packaged goods. Facing me, Mrs. Semmel stood silently, hands folded, all four feet, 10 inches of her. Only she could locate the evaporated milk, tomato juice and egg noodles I was sent for. I stated my needs, and Mrs. Semmel got to work, moving her step ladder to the correct locations and climbing up to gather what was needed. Any verbal exchange was minimal. Though I loved Mrs. Semmel’s Eastern European accent, I could not extract her message, and she must have noticed that.
She piled the items on her wooden counter and tallied their cost in pencil on a paper bag into which she then loaded my purchases. I read the amount, handed her a few crumpled dollars, received change, and headed home with my delivery.
Down the street from Semmel’s was a penny candy store where my friends and I ran with our allowance. Leaning into the glass shelves, we surveyed our choices — Tootsie Rolls, long licorice lace in black or red, sweet and sour Pixy Stix in all flavors, Bazooka bubble gum with comics inside, Pez for our open-mouthed dispensers, miniature wax soda bottles filled with colored sugar water, tiny Almond Joys and Reese’s Cups. The sight of this display made us salivate and imagine a world filled with treats. Our eyes widened and our breath collected on the glass as we deliberated and discussed each option.
The shopkeeper left us alone unless the store got busy, and then she became impatient for us to make our choices. We spent the few coins in our pockets and skipped off, savoring our goodies all the way home. If one of us had enough money to buy a pack of paper-coated candy cigarettes, they shared them around. We held them between raised fingers, pretending to smoke and waving our arms flamboyantly.
Another shop I frequented was the used book store owned by Mr. Ornstein, a bespectacled man with a fringe of disheveled white hair. He sat at a desk near the entrance, where he greeted customers while also, I imagined, guarding the coveted stack of comic books behind him, a collection I regularly browsed. I ventured in when I was assigned a grade school research project.
As I greeted Mr. Ornstein, a musty scent enveloped me. Standing beside him, I asked if he had any National Geographic articles on tropical fish or penguins or sloths. Mr. Ornstein slid up his glasses, narrowed his eyes and gazed up in thought. He consulted an index, then wove his way through the maze of books to a shelved collection of National Geographic magazines, where he came up with two or three issues.
He carried them to his desk, me trailing all the while, and thumbed through each one, leaving it open to my requested topic. I gazed at the images of fish or penguins or sloths, reading captions and mentally filing this information with what I already knew. Then I scanned the whole edition for more, the magnificent women in exotic clothing, the other-worldly landscapes, the children with delicate pierced earrings and sea green eyes. In Mr. Ornstein’s used bookstore I decided that taking photographs for National Geographic would be my career choice.
The physical objects of childhood held a magic that intertwined with relationships to the people and places of an era. Today, as I gather the grocery list and shopping bags and head out for another weekly run, I pause to anticipate the opportunities this outing will offer.
Alice Leeds, of Bristol, taught in a variety of private and public schools and colleges for 40 years. Presently retired, she tries to engage in some useful endeavor each day. She enjoys hearing from readers at aleeds@gmavt.net.
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