Retail in the Old Days

Standing in line at a downtown store, an elderly gentleman unloads his items onto the counter, explaining to the cashier looming down at us from his disproportionately high seat, that his check was late this month but he can come back Monday to pay. From his authoritative post, the clerk responds "That’s $25 and I’ll see you Monday" bringing a smile to the customer’s face and mine, because it reminds me of the way local retail use to be.

Back in the day, I was even smaller than I am now, but so was Salem. It seemed like everyone who lived or worked here had been here forever. There were no strangers to be afraid of as we strolled around the neighborhood, little big shots being tracked by our watchful neighbors like a human GPS system. There was rarely a minute we were out of sight of someone who knew us, including the business owners who greeted us by name.

There was an Eaton’s drugstore near my house on Bridge Street, complete with an old-fashioned soda bar. I’d unscrew the seat to make it as high as possible, then sit at the counter with my legs dangling, reading Tiger Beat magazine and sipping on a root beer float or vanilla coke served in a fancy aluminum holder. I’d order a bottle of coke syrup to go (an old fashioned stomach ache soother), which would take its place on the refrigerator door next to the ever-present bottle of paregoric syrup, sold over the counter. Although I’m not exactly sure what it was for, it cured just about anything, if only by the threat of having to ingest the horrible concoction if you didn’t attest to sudden good health.

Pennies today are so undervalued we leave dishes at the registers for those who can’t be bothered keeping them. But when I was little, a penny could buy happiness. My friends and I would walk the streets scanning the cement for change, then head over to Kuzmar’s Market or Riley’s store near Collins Cove Beach for penny candy. We’d empty our pockets onto the counter, where the patient owner would separate our pennies from lint, candy wrappers and other tiny treasures. I could see candy nirvana through the glass, as I pointed to my favorites, which included wax soda bottles, fake cigarettes, pixie straws and bullseyes which I’d carefully unroll so I could eat the white middle first, caramel coating last.

I would buy things at Daniel & Low’s (now Rockafella’s) just because they had a payment system powered by a rocket ship- or so it seemed. All payments were sent to the office via a tube in a pipe that took off like a shuttle to the moon, rumbling through the building towards its distant destination- an accountant on the 2nd floor sitting behind a curtain, much like the Wizard of Oz.

Back to school shopping meant a visit to Almy’s department store in downtown Salem, where you could take a break for a seat and a snack at their lunch counter. It was common to see a long line of carriages full of merchandise to be put on layaway where it could be paid for over time. They even had their own discount warehouse store in Shetland Park, which also housed Duchess Shoe- open Saturday mornings only, to a long line of bargain hunters.

Eventually I upgraded my clothes shopping to Jack’s in downtown Salem, where I established my first charge account- a piece of cardboard paper on which they recorded your purchases and payments in pencil, interest free.

Long before leash laws existed, even our dog Chris had a neighborhood routine where everyone knew his name. His loop included a stop at Kuzmar’s Market on Bridge Street and Sobocinski’s Market on Webb Street, where they would toss him a bone- literally. I later found out that Sobocinski’s was actually named Tri Day Market, but as was customary back then, we referred to the business by the name of the owner, attesting to the close community bond we shared.

But growing up in a city where "everyone knows your name" was not always a good thing, as any mischief you were involved in would be promptly called in to your parents before you could run home to defend yourself. Reminding me that amidst even the best memories are some things we’d just as soon forget.

A Tribute at the Top

Thoughts of climbing Mount Washington started when running friends talked excitedly about entering the lottery for the Mount Washington Road Race- a brutal uphill climb of 7.6 miles which, admittedly, many participants walk at least a portion of. This led Doug to comment, "If I have to walk up Mount Washington, I might as well climb it." Before he could take it back, I signed us up to join local attorney and friend Carol Perry on her annual hike to remember her late husband Paul.

Paul Perry was a state trooper, killed in a helicopter crash on February 22, 1995 at the age of 39. An avid hiker, he had a strong affinity to Mount Washington, and prophetically asked Carol to spread his ashes there if he were to pass away first. Four months after Paul’s tragic death, Carol fulfilled this sad promise much too soon, as she hiked towards Heaven surrounded by family and friends and released his ashes over the landscape he loved, beginning what is now a 16 year tradition.

I did not know Paul in life, but if the saying is true that you can judge someone’s character by the company they keep, I know Paul in spirit as a man with great love for family, friends and nature. A love returned many times, over as the hike has expanded to over 80 climbers in its 16th year, including friends of friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, and the next generation of hikers, ensuring this tradition will continue even beyond our lifetimes.

We assemble at the bottom, and Paul’s good friend Ray speaks with great emotion as he pays tribute to the mountain and asks us to treat it with the respect and admiration it deserves. The same respect and admiration being paid to Paul on this day, whose spirit has become one with the awe inspiring landscape. We break into smaller groups based on goals and pace, and begin our ascent. Climbing Mount Washington is harder than I expect. There are no meandering packed dirt paths to leisurely stroll along. From the start you realize why it is lovingly referred to as "the rock pile", as you carefully navigate your feet from rock to rock, progressing to hand over hand boulder climbing during the ascent.

The analogies between climbing and life are everywhere. It speaks of difficulties made easier with the support of family and friends, pushing past our fears to achieve our goals, and forgiving ourselves when we stumble along the way. It’s a combination of enjoying the moment while planning our next move. As we climb, we learn- about ourselves and each other. We talk of things we’ve done, and things we’d like to do. We talk of others we have loved and lost, and discover we are connected in ways we never knew. A young girl I hike with shares memories of my late brother Stephen as a Little League coach, and another hiker and I share fond remembrance of our friend Danny Peterson, who lost a hard fought battle with cancer years ago. As hikers add and shed clothing layers, we chuckle to see an assortment of race shirts from Doug’s events over the years. Along the way, we learn more about Paul, in whose memory we hike, and whose spirit is felt all around us.

It’s an exhilarating experience to arrive at the top, turn around and see how far you’ve come. If only all of our achievements were so physically apparent, we’d realize how much we have accomplished in our lives. In a photo taken at the peak, I look relaxed and happy with no sign of civilization around me. In the background, the line between Heaven and earth appears blurred, as clouds hover over the tips of the mountain peaks.

Climbing back down to earth when you were that close to Heaven is difficult. There is less conversation as we spread out and hike at our own pace, and my pack seems heavier as it fills with thoughts of obligations and duties that wait at the bottom. Then I think of Carol and this closely knit group of family and friends, climbing back to their lives without Paul, talking already about visiting him again on this great mountain next year. Remembering what I learned on the mountain that day, I remind myself that life, much like hiking Mount Washington, is best lived one step at a time.