A Trip To The Store

August 9, 2016sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Family, Humor, Nostalgia, The 1950's, The 1960's 12 Comments

I recall accompanying my mother shopping
in the late ‘50’s and early 1960’s.

This wasn’t Saks Fifth Avenue, mind you,
just local retailers, independently owned.

Upon entering the premises, a sales associate
immediately offered assistance.

The clerk queried to determine customer needs.
Items were pulled and brought to the dressing room.
The sales associate checked back regularly to clear
unwanted merchandise and bring additional sizes or styles.

A seamstress was ready with tape measure and pins in hand.
Basic tailoring of apparel was complimentary.
Items purchased were neatly bagged, boxed or placed
on hangers, once wrinkles were removed with a steamer.

Regular customers were addressed by name.
Sales associates became familiar with the individual
preferences of customers and often gave a heads up
when new merchandise arrived which might suit
their particular needs.

Fast Forward to 1985

My mother needed a new spring jacket. I accompanied her
to a local mall. It took a few minutes, but we finally located
the coat department.

Two sales associates were busy straightening and
stocking merchandise. Neither greeted us or asked
if they could be of help.

My mother was short on energy and patience. I started
browsing the racks, picked up some items, ushered
her back to the dressing room and helped her on and
off with jackets.

Another trip to the floor found both sales associates absent.
I gathered up more items and… BINGO… found a winner.

When we exited the dressing room, the sales associates
had magically reappeared and were standing at the register
chatting away.

When I caught their attention, they began arguing about
whose sale it was. Although ready to blow a gasket,
I calmly explained the obvious…I had done all the work
helping my mother and the sale was rightfully mine.

Jaws dropped in unison.

The transaction was completed forthwith and we were
on our way. (I never received my commission check.)

Fast Forward to 2016

A trip to a big box retailer is easily a half-marathon event
that requires navigating an arena-sized facility where
unsuspecting customers can spend the rest of their lives
unless they leave a trail of bread crumbs behind them.

And don’t count on those employees decked out in matching headsets to acknowledge your existence.

The best I can determine, they only communicate with each other… or maybe Mars.

Meanwhile, brick and mortar stores wonder why more and more people choose to shop online.

It’s quite simple.

We prefer to be ignored in the comfort of our own homes.

Transported

June 27, 2016June 28, 2016sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Nostalgia, Poetry, The 1950's 18 Comments

I opened the door Saturday
into a wall of humidity so dense
it took my breath away…
reawakening memories of
those sultry, sticky summers
growing up in St. Louis

Fireflies captured and held hostage
in jars with holes in the lids
to keep them glowing longer

Chocolate covered ice cream bars
dripping slowly down the stick,
along my wrist, right onto my
third pair of clean shorts for the day

Seeking refuge under the lush
green canopy of the forsythia bush
where, magically, the ground
always stayed cool and damp

Pitchers of lemonade and an
arsenal of salt tablets to stave off
dehydration

After taking a bath, making a
beeline for the swing set…a great
outdoor hair dryer

Sleeping on the screened-in porch
to soak up the fresh night air

The endless days of summer
lazily ticking away, one by one

When Billboards Reigned Supreme

September 16, 2015June 26, 2016sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Nostalgia, The 1950's

One of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s
enduring legacies
was the development of
the Interstate Highway System.

Eventually joining the two coasts
and all points in-between,
it provided a thoroughfare
to move commerce and
travelers, alike.

Motels, restaurants, gas stations and
tourist attractions
sprung up at every bend in the road.

And following close behind were
billboards…
the latest and greatest way
for businesses
to put their message out there…
roadside
to lure in customers.

One of my favorite advertisers
was Burma-Shave,
famous for posting their message
on multiple small sequential signs
along the side of the highway.
There was always a clever
punch line:

Does your husband
Misbehave
Grunt and grumble
Rant and rave
Shoot the brute some
Burma-Shave

Past
Schoolhouses
Take it slow
let the little
Shavers grow
Burma-Shave

Of course, more is not always better.
Billboards proliferated like weeds
until the visual eyesore
began to obscure the countryside.

Lady Bird Johnson
took the lead in applying ‘Round-Up’
to the billboard infestation
by promoting passage of the
Highway Beautification Act in 1965.

While a few still remain,
their numbers continue to
dwindle
as other forms of communication
have rendered billboards
increasingly obsolete.

Now, GPS navigation systems in cars
and smartphone apps
keep us informed of exactly
where we are 24/7
and what amenities and attractions
lie ahead,
without the roadside clutter.

Score one for technology.

Testing…Testing…One-Two-Three

July 22, 2015June 26, 2016sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Nostalgia, The 1950's

Anyone of my vintage
is well acquainted
with this iconic image
from the early days
of television.

The graphic of the Indian
and each of the various
patterns on the chart
served a specific purpose.

They allowed for
adjustments to cameras,
as well as studio and
home monitors.

The Indian-head
test pattern
often would appear after
the formal television station
sign-off, following
the playing of the
national anthem.

With the arrival of
color TV in the 1960’s,
an alternate test card
of color bars became
the one of choice.

As much as I enjoy
the Hi Def, high tech
of today’s television,
I still wax nostalgic for
my Native American
friend of long ago.

I can’t help but
wonder
how the chief would look
on a 55” screen.

You’re Stepping On My Toes

June 8, 2015June 26, 2016sandyjwhite Autobiographical, Nostalgia, The 1950's

There was a dance studio located
in a suburb
just a few miles away
from Kirkwood.

A rite of passage for preteens
involved learning
the basics of ballroom dancing,
while hopefully
picking up a few social graces
along the way.

Let’s face it,
there’s nothing quite like herding
a gaggle of giggling girls
and a bevy of
bashful, bumbling boys
onto the dance floor
to go toe to toe for an hour
week after week.

The roster of dance steps
included such archaic
all-time favorites as the
waltz, foxtrot, and cha-cha.

In short order, it became clear
there wasn’t a future
Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers
amongst us.

While the dance moves
have long faded from memory,
a slight tinge of
embarrassment
from those days
lingers still.

One, two…cha-cha-cha
Three, four…find the door.

I recall accompanying my mother shopping in the late ‘50’s and early 1960’s.

This wasn’t Saks Fifth Avenue, mind you, just local retailers, independently owned.

Upon entering the premises, a sales associate immediately offered assistance.

The clerk queried to determine customer needs. Items were pulled and brought to the dressing room. The sales associate checked back regularly to clear unwanted merchandise and bring additional sizes or styles.

A seamstress was ready with tape measure and pins in hand. Basic tailoring of apparel was complimentary. Items purchased were neatly bagged, boxed or placed on hangers, once wrinkles were removed with a steamer.

Regular customers were addressed by name. Sales associates became familiar with the individual preferences of customers and often gave a heads up when new merchandise arrived which might suit their particular needs.

Fast Forward to 1985

My mother needed a new spring jacket. I accompanied her to a local mall. It took a few minutes, but we finally located the coat department.

Two sales associates were busy straightening and stocking merchandise. Neither greeted us or asked if they could be of help.

My mother was short on energy and patience. I started browsing the racks, picked up some items, ushered her back to the dressing room and helped her on and off with jackets.

Another trip to the floor found both sales associates absent. I gathered up more items and… BINGO… found a winner.

When we exited the dressing room, the sales associates had magically reappeared and were standing at the register chatting away.

When I caught their attention, they began arguing about whose sale it was. Although ready to blow a gasket, I calmly explained the obvious…I had done all the work helping my mother and the sale was rightfully mine.

Jaws dropped in unison.

The transaction was completed forthwith and we were on our way. (I never received my commission check.)

Fast Forward to 2016

A trip to a big box retailer is easily a half-marathon event that requires navigating an arena-sized facility where unsuspecting customers can spend the rest of their lives unless they leave a trail of bread crumbs behind them.

And don’t count on those employees decked out in matching headsets to acknowledge your existence.

The best I can determine, they only communicate with each other… or maybe Mars.

Meanwhile, brick and mortar stores wonder why more and more people choose to shop online.

It’s quite simple.

We prefer to be ignored in the comfort of our own homes.

One of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s enduring legacies was the development of the Interstate Highway System.

Eventually joining the two coasts and all points in-between, it provided a thoroughfare to move commerce and travelers, alike.

Motels, restaurants, gas stations and tourist attractions sprung up at every bend in the road.

And following close behind were billboards… the latest and greatest way for businesses to put their message out there… roadside to lure in customers.

One of my favorite advertisers was Burma-Shave, famous for posting their message on multiple small sequential signs along the side of the highway. There was always a clever punch line:

Does your husband Misbehave Grunt and grumble Rant and rave Shoot the brute some Burma-Shave

Past Schoolhouses Take it slow let the little Shavers grow Burma-Shave

Of course, more is not always better. Billboards proliferated like weeds until the visual eyesore began to obscure the countryside.

Lady Bird Johnson took the lead in applying ‘Round-Up’ to the billboard infestation by promoting passage of the Highway Beautification Act in 1965.

While a few still remain, their numbers continue to dwindle as other forms of communication have rendered billboards increasingly obsolete.

Now, GPS navigation systems in cars and smartphone apps keep us informed of exactly where we are 24/7 and what amenities and attractions lie ahead, without the roadside clutter.

Score one for technology.

Anyone of my vintage is well acquainted with this iconic image from the early days of television.

The graphic of the Indian and each of the various patterns on the chart served a specific purpose.

They allowed for adjustments to cameras, as well as studio and home monitors.

The Indian-head test pattern often would appear after the formal television station sign-off, following the playing of the national anthem.

With the arrival of color TV in the 1960’s, an alternate test card of color bars became the one of choice.

As much as I enjoy the Hi Def, high tech of today’s television, I still wax nostalgic for my Native American friend of long ago.

I can’t help but wonder how the chief would look on a 55” screen.

There was a dance studio located in a suburb just a few miles away from Kirkwood.

A rite of passage for preteens involved learning the basics of ballroom dancing, while hopefully picking up a few social graces along the way.

Let’s face it, there’s nothing quite like herding a gaggle of giggling girls and a bevy of bashful, bumbling boys onto the dance floor to go toe to toe for an hour week after week.

The roster of dance steps included such archaic all-time favorites as the waltz, foxtrot, and cha-cha.

In short order, it became clear there wasn’t a future Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers amongst us.

While the dance moves have long faded from memory, a slight tinge of embarrassment from those days lingers still.

One, two…cha-cha-cha Three, four…find the door.

I recall accompanying my mother shopping
in the late ‘50’s and early 1960’s.

This wasn’t Saks Fifth Avenue, mind you,
just local retailers, independently owned.

Upon entering the premises, a sales associate
immediately offered assistance.

The clerk queried to determine customer needs.
Items were pulled and brought to the dressing room.
The sales associate checked back regularly to clear
unwanted merchandise and bring additional sizes or styles.

A seamstress was ready with tape measure and pins in hand.
Basic tailoring of apparel was complimentary.
Items purchased were neatly bagged, boxed or placed
on hangers, once wrinkles were removed with a steamer.

Regular customers were addressed by name.
Sales associates became familiar with the individual
preferences of customers and often gave a heads up
when new merchandise arrived which might suit
their particular needs.

My mother needed a new spring jacket. I accompanied her
to a local mall. It took a few minutes, but we finally located
the coat department.

Two sales associates were busy straightening and
stocking merchandise. Neither greeted us or asked
if they could be of help.

My mother was short on energy and patience. I started
browsing the racks, picked up some items, ushered
her back to the dressing room and helped her on and
off with jackets.

Another trip to the floor found both sales associates absent.
I gathered up more items and… BINGO… found a winner.

When we exited the dressing room, the sales associates
had magically reappeared and were standing at the register
chatting away.

When I caught their attention, they began arguing about
whose sale it was. Although ready to blow a gasket,
I calmly explained the obvious…I had done all the work
helping my mother and the sale was rightfully mine.

The transaction was completed forthwith and we were
on our way. (I never received my commission check.)

A trip to a big box retailer is easily a half-marathon event
that requires navigating an arena-sized facility where
unsuspecting customers can spend the rest of their lives
unless they leave a trail of bread crumbs behind them.

One of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s
enduring legacies
was the development of
the Interstate Highway System.

Eventually joining the two coasts
and all points in-between,
it provided a thoroughfare
to move commerce and
travelers, alike.

Motels, restaurants, gas stations and
tourist attractions
sprung up at every bend in the road.

And following close behind were
billboards…
the latest and greatest way
for businesses
to put their message out there…
roadside
to lure in customers.

One of my favorite advertisers
was Burma-Shave,
famous for posting their message
on multiple small sequential signs
along the side of the highway.
There was always a clever
punch line:

Does your husband
Misbehave
Grunt and grumble
Rant and rave
Shoot the brute some
Burma-Shave

Past
Schoolhouses
Take it slow
let the little
Shavers grow
Burma-Shave

Of course, more is not always better.
Billboards proliferated like weeds
until the visual eyesore
began to obscure the countryside.

Lady Bird Johnson
took the lead in applying ‘Round-Up’
to the billboard infestation
by promoting passage of the
Highway Beautification Act in 1965.

While a few still remain,
their numbers continue to
dwindle
as other forms of communication
have rendered billboards
increasingly obsolete.

Now, GPS navigation systems in cars
and smartphone apps
keep us informed of exactly
where we are 24/7
and what amenities and attractions
lie ahead,
without the roadside clutter.

Anyone of my vintage
is well acquainted
with this iconic image
from the early days
of television.

The graphic of the Indian
and each of the various
patterns on the chart
served a specific purpose.

They allowed for
adjustments to cameras,
as well as studio and
home monitors.

The Indian-head
test pattern
often would appear after
the formal television station
sign-off, following
the playing of the
national anthem.

With the arrival of
color TV in the 1960’s,
an alternate test card
of color bars became
the one of choice.

As much as I enjoy
the Hi Def, high tech
of today’s television,
I still wax nostalgic for
my Native American
friend of long ago.

I can’t help but
wonder
how the chief would look
on a 55” screen.

There was a dance studio located
in a suburb
just a few miles away
from Kirkwood.

A rite of passage for preteens
involved learning
the basics of ballroom dancing,
while hopefully
picking up a few social graces
along the way.

Let’s face it,
there’s nothing quite like herding
a gaggle of giggling girls
and a bevy of
bashful, bumbling boys
onto the dance floor
to go toe to toe for an hour
week after week.

The roster of dance steps
included such archaic
all-time favorites as the
waltz, foxtrot, and cha-cha.

In short order, it became clear
there wasn’t a future
Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers
amongst us.

While the dance moves
have long faded from memory,
a slight tinge of
embarrassment
from those days
lingers still.

One, two…cha-cha-cha
Three, four…find the door.