Ineffable Purchase

There was something magical
about shopping with Grandma,
dressing for the bus ride downtown
standing on every street corner
being introduced to her ubiquitous club ladies,
framed by buildings tall and proper
teeming with purposeful men in suits.

The big building where Daddy
was king of the penthouse office
was always a special stop,
riding the elevator as far as it would go
then negotiating an almost secret stairwell
to his lair.

More introductions to men
who pretend-flirted with me,
puffing up my position as first born.
My shiny patent leather shoes
and lacy anklets
peeking out from ruffled dresses properly starched,
I was the quintessential clean-cheeked little girl
playing at being grownup.  

On special trips,
Uncle Frank would maneuver
his boat-like Imperial
out of the narrow garage
to deliver us downtown,
the ride itself a treat.

Cool, tight leather seats
moved backward and forward
and up and down
adjusting themselves
solely for my comfort.

Windows moved effortlessly
to release the chill
of air-conditioning,
a luxury both amazing and comforting.

He drove what we later called
the Batmobile
as if he were the lone navigator
on the shining ribbon of River Drive,
the yellow brick road
to the big city
my Bettendorf upbringing
had not prepared me for.  

I felt their pride in me
deep in my shiny shoes
tapping with newfound authority
on the wide sidewalks between storefronts.

I savored the slow meander
among the aisles of mysterious potions
and Charles of the Ritz
lipsticks all lined up
waiting for my years
to catch up.

The pure joy
of being offered
whatever I wanted,
standing patiently
as whispery thin tissue paper
hugged the purchases
and I carried the handled bags,
proof of a successful outing.

The trip home,
a serial account
of every lady I’d met—
every story suitable
for my chaste ears.

Upon returning,
I’d sit among my new possessions,
bags and paper strewn
in the excitement
of admiration.  

In all the years
of subsequent shopping,
I have never recaptured
the comfort and security
inherent in the purchase and possession
of clothes, makeup, shoes, and jewelry
so willingly given.  

I remember every outfit
and how I felt
donning crisp new clothes
from the inside out.

I like things—
not for labels
but for quality and beauty
a double-stitched seam,
fine material,
a sparkly gemstone

I still own
all these years later,
evocative of the dance
of pure giving and receiving
so much a part of being
the first female grandchild.

Would I could recapture
the all’s-right-with-the-world feeling
wrapped in those shopping bags
carried so proudly
by the little girl
who thought she had it all.

I knew my way around the stores.
I knew how to act with little old ladies
and overly made-up clerks who reigned supreme.  

I knew the cold fear
when a year or two later
my mother dropped me off
on Brady and 2nd Street
and told me to find my way to 3rd and Ripley in ten minutes
or she’d be gone.

Just an exercise
to help me understand
what her life was like
in downtown Chicago.

I still have dreams of being lost
amid indistinguishable tall buildings
taunting me with my paucity of big city skills  

My white, lacy anklets are gone.
My patent leather shoes
lie at the very bottom of a landfill,
artifacts of a short-lived childhood.

I still like things
I can hold in my hands
keep in my eyes,
accoutrements to memories
I restock in my heart.  

                —Katherine M. Searle
                6 December 2006   
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