Visiting Bob Johnson’s Department Store

In the early 60’s when I was around six or seven years old
riding thirteen miles into town
in my Dad’s old wooden sided station wagon
was a real treat.
Shucks, it was a treat
for any chap in my rural community.

It was time to dress purtty.
Had my hair greased with Royal Crown.
Parted and snuggly plaited as two corded braids.
Mom wouldn’t let me cut no bangs,
I had to be content with the thick rolled sausage of hair
pinned firmly in place with hairpins.

Wore one of my Sunday-Go-To-Meeting dresses
puffed out just right from my stiff candy cane petticoat.
Vaseline smoothed legs, white socks trimmed with spidery web thin lace around the turned down edges
and black patent leather shoes with slightly overturned heels,
gave me that Ooh Chile, I know I’m cute feeling.

Everybody loved Bob Johnson’s Department Store.
Upstairs and downstairs were some of the prettiest clothes
to see that I knew for certain we couldn’t afford.
Them clothes smelled good too.
Smelled better than mothballs
and sure-nuff, smelled better
than the colored bathroom
midway of the store on the basement level.