Nana loved to shop at the better stores but she had a weak spot for Filene's Basement.
Before Sears discarded Roebuck - a name not very many even remember these days - Nana turned up her nose at the suggestion that we shop there. Certainly not, she would say, It's a place for hardware and peasants. She favored the likes of Jordan Marsh and Filene's, Lord and Taylor and Saks, and the newly built and very upscale Bloomingdale's in Chestnut Hill. But in weaker moments, her thriftiness triumphed and we would make the trek to downtown Boston, through the Combat Zone, a place of prostitutes and low collar crime, through the glitzy theatre district, and to Filene's Basement. Once inside, she became transformed - my meticulously put together grandmother joined in the fracas of shrieking women tearing through the boxes of scarves and discounted shoes, flinging rejects here and there and pushing and shoving through linens and hats and designer dresses. She would fight with the best of them for a purchase, claws outstretched and teeth bared in an effort to reach the racks first, to snatch greedily at a box of stationary she might never use or a towel set that would never match. From the sidelines I watched in awe as she shouldered and elbowed her way through the mob of frantic women shoppers, mad with bargain hunting fever and offensive as quarterbacks in the last minutes of a critical game. She would emerge with her purchases clutched to her chest, often a run in her stocking and her careful hairdo in shreds, and battle her way to the chaos of the checkout counter, dizzy with success and pride and victory. At her lowest, she was not a woman to be trifled with and on those Saturday mornings in Filene's Basement, she was a force of nature, a mixture of grim determination and iron will, an unstoppable power.
Afterwards she was often bewildered by what she had bought, wondering aloud what possible use "this" would be or why in heavens name had she fought for "that". She would wrap her purchases and usually consign them to a closet with a resigned and weary sigh and she kept a small notebook on the inside of the closet door with a detailed list of the contents. One Sunbeam Mixmaster, I read, One Hat With Veil And Artificial Flowers, Two Pair Silver Slippers
(Size 6), One Pair Mittens, Three Boxes Blue and White Stationery, One Bathroom Scale, One Set Silk Sheets, One Set of Six Mini Pool Cues, and so on. She valued accuracy and organization in all things. Now and again, certain items would reappear as last minute birthday gifts or stocking stuffers but for the most part, the gift closet simply seemed to mutate and reproduce on it's own, bringing forth toys or lace handkerchiefs or A Tiny Tears doll at her command. Think ahead, she told me, ( One Lionel Electric Train Set, marked Guy's 40th and a question mark), Be prepared for anything, ( One "Virtue is it's own Reward" Satin Pillow With Fringe , One Pair Pewter Candlesticks,
One Deck of Fortune Telling Cards, One Uncle Wiggley Game, One Complete Set of Nancy Drew, Six Thanksgiving Door Wreaths With Indian Corn), a cardboard glider in it's original cellophane flew by my head as she continued searching for some particular item - it was followed by several packages of assorted buttons and a Glenn Miller record album - Here! she exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a fisherman's cable knit sweater, I knew it was in here somewhere! She carefully backed out of the closet, sweater in hand, and crossed it off the notebook list with a sharp nod of satisfaction before we proceeded to the gift wrap closet. The next morning, the sweater was on it's way to it's destination, usually with a card reading some variation of "Thinking of you" and signed "Love, Alice".
Before Sears discarded Roebuck - a name not very many even remember these days - Nana turned up her nose at the suggestion that we shop there. Certainly not, she would say, It's a place for hardware and peasants. She favored the likes of Jordan Marsh and Filene's, Lord and Taylor and Saks, and the newly built and very upscale Bloomingdale's in Chestnut Hill. But in weaker moments, her thriftiness triumphed and we would make the trek to downtown Boston, through the Combat Zone, a place of prostitutes and low collar crime, through the glitzy theatre district, and to Filene's Basement. Once inside, she became transformed - my meticulously put together grandmother joined in the fracas of shrieking women tearing through the boxes of scarves and discounted shoes, flinging rejects here and there and pushing and shoving through linens and hats and designer dresses. She would fight with the best of them for a purchase, claws outstretched and teeth bared in an effort to reach the racks first, to snatch greedily at a box of stationary she might never use or a towel set that would never match. From the sidelines I watched in awe as she shouldered and elbowed her way through the mob of frantic women shoppers, mad with bargain hunting fever and offensive as quarterbacks in the last minutes of a critical game. She would emerge with her purchases clutched to her chest, often a run in her stocking and her careful hairdo in shreds, and battle her way to the chaos of the checkout counter, dizzy with success and pride and victory. At her lowest, she was not a woman to be trifled with and on those Saturday mornings in Filene's Basement, she was a force of nature, a mixture of grim determination and iron will, an unstoppable power.
Afterwards she was often bewildered by what she had bought, wondering aloud what possible use "this" would be or why in heavens name had she fought for "that". She would wrap her purchases and usually consign them to a closet with a resigned and weary sigh and she kept a small notebook on the inside of the closet door with a detailed list of the contents. One Sunbeam Mixmaster, I read, One Hat With Veil And Artificial Flowers, Two Pair Silver Slippers
(Size 6), One Pair Mittens, Three Boxes Blue and White Stationery, One Bathroom Scale, One Set Silk Sheets, One Set of Six Mini Pool Cues, and so on. She valued accuracy and organization in all things. Now and again, certain items would reappear as last minute birthday gifts or stocking stuffers but for the most part, the gift closet simply seemed to mutate and reproduce on it's own, bringing forth toys or lace handkerchiefs or A Tiny Tears doll at her command. Think ahead, she told me, ( One Lionel Electric Train Set, marked Guy's 40th and a question mark), Be prepared for anything, ( One "Virtue is it's own Reward" Satin Pillow With Fringe , One Pair Pewter Candlesticks,
One Deck of Fortune Telling Cards, One Uncle Wiggley Game, One Complete Set of Nancy Drew, Six Thanksgiving Door Wreaths With Indian Corn), a cardboard glider in it's original cellophane flew by my head as she continued searching for some particular item - it was followed by several packages of assorted buttons and a Glenn Miller record album - Here! she exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a fisherman's cable knit sweater, I knew it was in here somewhere! She carefully backed out of the closet, sweater in hand, and crossed it off the notebook list with a sharp nod of satisfaction before we proceeded to the gift wrap closet. The next morning, the sweater was on it's way to it's destination, usually with a card reading some variation of "Thinking of you" and signed "Love, Alice".
People like to be remembered, she told me, even the ones we'd like to forget.
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