In the summer of 1963, my fervent goal was to walk to Shelby’s
drug store by myself. Although David
and Wayne were generous escorts, I wanted to go alone. My developing brain had fused my brothers
into one unit, “DavidandWayne”.
DavidandWayne was the entity that teased me. David and Wayne were my tattlers; they were my ball and chain,
respectively. Both being years older
than I was, Gran called them, “Grown.”
We loved Gran; she giggled all the time. Gran had a backbone, however. The incredulous sight of her character
change while ripping a stick from a bush, lunging, and broadcasting, “I’ll take
this hick’ry to you!” was enough to dispel the worst kind of behavior. Consequently, I did not fuss when I asked
Gran if I could walk to Shelby’s by myself and she said, “No, you’re not grown
yet.” During that sticky Chattanooga
summer, at age five, I wanted nothing more than to be “grown”.
The brothers were not entirely without heart. During our group walk to Shelby’s, my
squires attempted to honor my craving for independence by walking thirty feet
behind me. Patiently, they waited and
maintained their position when I stopped and spent time using my big toe to pop
hot tar bubbles that had risen from cracks in the sidewalk. (Hot tar bubble-popping is oddly satisfying;
occasionally the brothers joined me.)
Having had my fill with the tar, I positioned my patent leather purse
with the pink flower clasp into the crook of my arm, adjusted my yellow-rimmed
sunglasses, and skipped up the sidewalk with one black toe. Shelby’s drug store was just ahead. We could see it.
Shelby’s was a relic, even for 1963. A cool, plank floor was the first thing to greet us, magically
drawing the heat from our bare feet.
Glass, wood, and marble were everywhere. Crowning the store was a soaring ceiling from which four pipes
descended; each pipe grasped an enormous ceiling fan with black blades as large
as the rotors on a helicopter. The
store was a hungry labyrinth of shelves, display cases, and magazine racks, but
what held our fascination was the soda fountain.
Behind that counter was everything necessary for a banana
split, sundae, or cherry Coke. We sat
and sipped cherry Cokes while twirling on the counter stools. Shelby never rushed us. We had the luxury of innocence and
childhood’s simple contentment - we lingered.
That night, even before I fell asleep, I dreamt of going to Shelby’s by
myself.
As I woke up the next morning, my determination filled the room
like a blazing, hot sun. Displayed on
the pillow next to me was my headless doll, decapitated by DavidandWayne, no
doubt. Strangely, I felt little anger;
I was thinking about things more important.
I had decided that this was the day of my quest. Throughout breakfast, the brothers hungered
for my tirade concerning Judy’s severed head; instead, I served them
silence. The longer I protracted my
chilling silence, the farther and farther away they became; eventually, they were
six streets gone, and playing with friends.
Alone at last, I gathered my purse, donned sunglasses, and set off to
Shelby’s.
The realization that I was taking an unescorted walk was so
intense that I did not stop, not even to pop tar. I felt dignified knowing that my purse was no longer a toy; it
was necessary. I remembered to
bring money: one quarter, two nickels, and a penny. Taking off my sunglasses and squinting, I could read the oblong
sign ahead, Shelby’s Drug Store.
I walked faster, my feet a drumbeat on the concrete.
I entered Shelby’s, and the wood floor saluted me. Feeling like a queen on a chessboard, able
to move to any space, power washed over me like hard rain. I immediately marched to the candy case to
purchase a five-cent candy necklace, inspecting each strand as if I were buying
rare pearls. Shelby was kind enough to
allow me the honor of “Queen for a Day” by carefully presenting them to me, one
by one, for my royal discernment. Having
found the best necklace, I undid the tiny flower clasp on my purse, reached in,
and gave him a nickel. I had used
money! I had used mathematics! I felt “grown”! With new jewelry adorning my neck, I decided to celebrate at the
soda fountain.
I sat on a counter seat and ordered a cherry Coke, again
relishing the process of entering my purse and handling a sophisticated
business transaction. (Never was there
a sweeter drink, before or since.) To
further expand my sovereignty into proper adulthood, I decided against twirling
on the stool; adults do not twirl.
Later that afternoon I cooled off under Gran’s porch, nibbling
on the candy necklace. With every back
and forth creak of the porch swing, juicy memory slices of my vital journey
replayed in my mind. I never told Gran
or the brothers what I had done that day; I did not have to.