Streetwalker

Often I go mind strolling through streets I once knew. Quiet streets with ordinary names. Main. Franklin. Pearl. Commerce. Belonging to an old, old town whose history reaches back to native people and forward to mine. No longer my home, it resides comfortably in my heart, its streets a map to my past.

Come with me on a nostalgic journey. Visit the scenes I never recognized as special until they were merely memories, precious and permanent.

With most of the stores vanished, I'll walk past their ghostly shapes, peer into smudged windows, and see my younger self. On any given afternoon, I might wander from one dime store to another. Why there were three of these businesses in a place barely big enough to earn the name 'town,' I never knew. I patronized them all. Anchoring a corner, Kress has a special allure. The soda fountain serves burgers, fries, Coke floats, shakes and other childhood staples. Nearby, a riot of candy spills from large glass jars. I believe I need some orange slices.

Half a block away, Sterling is a darker space, crammed in-between a tiny magazine/popcorn store and a sometime grocery store. I'll buy some buttons, though I don't need them.

Around the corner, two blocks south, the newest five and ten cent store seems fresh, inviting. Then I remember how their Santa roamed the aisles, talking to children and their parents. I was terrified of him and hid whenever I saw him coming my way.

Maybe I'm looking for an Easter dress or new outfit to impress some young man. Across the street, Cole's department store's staff is ready to assist me. In the basement, I could buy fabric and make an outfit. Are you kidding? Me, sew? I once hemmed a dish towel in order to pass Home Economics, a required course. I'm headed upstairs where already made clothing awaits.

Need a bit of jewelry, a wedding or graduation gift? Stop by Dixon's where Mr. Dixon will help select just the right bracelet, silver pattern, monogrammed bookmark. I still have many items bought in that store. Each is unique, has a story, remains a treasure.

I remember one day while I browsed past the cases filled with splendour, I recognized a young lady of striking loveliness. Accompanied by her brother, she was dressed in a rather plain black skirt, white blouse, and soft lavender sweater. Miss America 1960. Our hometown queen. Gracious and soft spoken, she gave me an autographed photo.



Walk a bit further, cross the street, going south. The aromas lure me to Home Bakery. This time I'll only buy a few Mexican Wedding Cookies.....and one or two petit fours. Maybe one of each icing color. Taste the difference. Scrape the crumbs from the bottom of the small white paper bag.

This is Commerce Street. It's a particular favorite. Amble by the Italian (pronounced languidly, "Eyeeeee Talian") Kitchen. Meatballs and spaghetti, made old style. Smothered in fresh Parmesan cheese. No cholesterol or calorie worries. Who'd know as I devour the meal sitting in a dark red booth behind a wall of translucent glass bricks?

I'm skipping now. Two doors away is The Ideal Shop. Yes, it was. Featuring clothes only teen girls would want, have to possess, this dress shop devoured nearly every cent I made working at the public library. The owner and her son knew me well. Trusted that I'd make the payments on my lay away card. They allowed me to take my purchases home prior to receiving full payment. Sort of like a credit card today. No interest. No expectations except that final remittance. Eventually. My sweaters matched my skirts in glorious colors I no longer wear. Stitched-down pleats, incredibly itchy rabbit fur tops.

Over there is the Ritz Theater. It's being renovated. Slowly. The iconic box office from which I purchased countless tickets has survived. The theater has lost its roof and its reason to exist. Do I still see the movie posters in glass cases alongside the steps leading to the entrance? Is a western playing today? Perhaps a romantic comedy or some unsettling tragedy? I didn't care. Inside, I can escape, be transformed. I've never lost that feeling about movies.

Shoes speak to me. Not really, but they do usually make me happy. Lots of shoes. Case's sells the best. Mr. Case knows my size (7 1/2 N), sets new styles aside for me. I'm a good customer, maybe too good. I still am.

Am I hungry again? If I'm working the late (6-8 pm) shift at the library, I'll need food. Top's Grill offers an open-faced hot roast beef sandwich. White bread, slices of meat, lots of gravy, mashed potatoes. Washed down by a large glass of Pepsi. No room for dessert though the pie is tempting.

Perhaps Daddy will be picking me up after work. He wants a cup of coffee and the Eola Hotel Coffee Shop beckons. Inside, we greet Miss Postlewaite. She sits at the counter all night, every night, reading various papers. I'll order pecan pie and eat every bite. Daddy's content with his black coffee.

Another stroll brings me to Franklin Street. I'm discovering rock and roll, especially a Mississippi boy named Elvis Presley. I'll stop at Tillman's and buy "Return to Sender." Its message is mournful and seems right for a high school senior whose boy friend if away at military school. Maybe I'll also select Jerry Lee Lewis' latest. Brother and I saw him at the Billups service station one Saturday night. He's an almost neighbor, born and raised across the river in Ferriday, Louisiana.

Am I late for work? Fisk Public Library is located in Memorial Hall. Books pour out of rooms never meant to house them. Responsible for returning volumes to their proper places as well as repairing torn and damaged books, I also read stories to the young patrons. For these multiple tasks, I'm paid fifty cents an hour. Enough to buy clothes and shoes.

Butts & Yootse, Ullmans, Famous and Price, Benoist, News & Noveleties, H.F. Byrne, Geisenberger Drugstore, Feltus Brothers Hardware, Britton & Koontz Bank--all gone.

I guess I'm street walking. Almost home.

Calamity's Kitchen

If you're Southern, you're born knowing how to make fried chicken, right? Something ingrained in the genes. After all, Southerners choose that entree more often than any other. At least that was the case when I was a child. Mamie, who lived with her family on our farm, and cooked most of the meals at my house, made the very best fried chicken ever. I ate plenty of it but never thought to ask about the recipe. It's almost certain that there wasn't one. She just knew how to create perfection with a bit of lard, flour and freshly killed chicken. Today those ingredients sound rather ghastly. Back then, they created nourishing nirvana.

My own mother never taught me to cook. Anything. When I asked about this obvious omission, she replied that I would get married and I'd need to cook whatever my husband wanted to eat. Therefore, why should she teach me to cook something else? Any logic is noticeably absent and the sexism is appalling. I remained cooking ignorant.

I married very young and that husband knew even less about a kitchen than I did. How hard could it be? People cooked all the time....and survived. So, being sure of my Southern heritage, I decided I'd make fried chicken for one of our first meals.

I bought chicken pieces, dunked them in flour, poured the Crisco (no lard) into the skillet and turned on the stove's burner. Once the oil was very hot, I began dropping chicken pieces into the bubbling liquid.

Disaster. The oil spattered, reached my face, and gave me two cheeks with serious burns. I did the only reasonable thing. Turned off the stove. Tossed the chicken and oil in the trash and went out to eat.

Gradually, I figured out how to make very simple meals. No more fried chicken. My Southern gene had deserted me.

The first Easter after my marriage, a guest was invited for dinner. I chose chicken as the entree but wisely revised the menu to focus on the roasted variety. No worries about oil mishaps and trashed meals.

The day was proceeding well until I became convinced I just couldn't entertain anybody. We called our guest and postponed the meal for several hours until I was able to calm myself, stuff the bird, and get it into the oven without suffering a total culinary breakdown.

Through the years, life has brought many cooking lessons. My mishaps have become more humorous, less life-altering. The family, especially my daughter, fondly recalls the Christmas when I absently covered the turkey in cinnamon instead of paprika. Maybe I had a secret yen for a more exotic flavor.

The most egregious holiday meal mistake involved forgetting to change the oven setting from 'pre-heat' to 'bake' for the entire 3 hour span required to cook a large turkey. With the rest of the meal ready to be plated, the turkey remained almost raw. My wonderful family was totally supportive and did not complain about a meatless meal. I gently dropped the uncooked turkey in a large trash bag and took myself to bed.

Maybe my travails in the kitchen are rooted in the lack of instruction I received from my mother regarding food preparation. No, that can't be it. It must be me. I distract easily. My mind wanders as I'm putting ingredients together.

Just tonight I was making Henry's favorite meal. It's very simple but quite enjoyable. Farfalle pasta, sweet turkey sausage, a bit of shaved Parmesan. Green peas on the side (only for me.) I like to provide a bit of color to the pasta dish and enhance the flavor with herbs. I liberally sprinkle Italian seasoning, black pepper, maybe a bit of oregano.

I looked at the skillet and suddenly realized that I've accidentally opened the 'scoop' side of the seasoning jar and dumped a mound of green herbs onto the pasta. Maybe it won't be too bad. So much better than if I'd been using salt. (Truly I don't put salt in anything except for a pinch or two when making mashed potatoes.)

It's been forty-five years since those initial clueless culinary months. I haven't made anyone sick or at least I don't think I have. Some people seem to enjoy meals that I've prepared. I've accepted compliments and cleared lots of clean plates. I'd say I'm almost average, perhaps slightly below that mark, in the kitchen. I know, however, that calamity awaits.