A Penney earned
The bankruptcy of J. C. Penney brought memories; Penney's was part my youth as surely as the soda fountain. In my small town of 6, 000 on the shore of Lake Michigan, Penney's was where everyone went for sewing patterns, percale sheets, nylons, kids' clothes.
The store was just over a ten-minute walk from our house, on the same street. When I was a kid, the store manager would give my playmate Buddy and me the huge cardboard refrigerator boxes to transform into a fort, a farm, whatever we imagined.
Our town also had a remarkable collection of luxury boutiques to serve the wealthy families who had been summering there since the mid-1800s, but from Labour Day to Memorial Day, if you needed a pair of trousers, Penney's was your best bet. It was there that I bought my first pair of Levis, and my sister bought me my first bra.
They had layaway, and though I can't remember what I bought, I thought it was a terrific system, and still do: no bill to haunt you, and if you wanted to cancel the deal, they fully returned all payments,
Penney's was also my first "real job"; the day I turned 16, I wrote a simple math test and was hired on the spot, for Friday nights in the Intimates department. On my first shift, I sold a quilted robe to a shy man whose wife was recovering from surgery. He asked for "something nice to wear in the hospital", and I was dazzled by how good it felt to deliver service.
The floors were wood, there was no elevator between the three levels, and we sent the cash to accounting by pneumatic tube.
All of the town's old department or chain stores are gone now: Sears, Montgomery Wards, Woolworth's—there's a Walmart.
The luxury shops are gone from the downtown core, too, now tucked into resort condo enclaves. I toured those when back there several years ago, and found them selling pallid resortwear, overpriced costume jewellery and "beach cashmere", unremittingly pastel and gauzy.
In each, stock was sparse; I remembered towers of stacked British cashmeres and rows of pearl-buttoned jackets at Ed Behan's Tweed Shop, and left weighted by wistful sadness.
Growing up there shaped my taste forever. I loved the meaty Scottish tweeds and rug-thick cashmere sold by family friends, pined for the impeccable black lace Norell cocktail dress in Saks' window, saved my pay for royal blue Pappagallos from a jewel-box of a shoe store.
The one thing Petoskey didn't provide for its well-heeled clientele was a lingerie boutique; every piece I owned until over 21 came from Penney's, where pale pink was considered exotic. Do you remember when women wore full slips? In the '60s, these were made in the USA by union labour.
Penney's also figures in another family's lore. My friend Beth's mother, Billie Cash, was J.C. Penney's niece. In 1937, her father asked her new beau, Ray, if he would drive Penney from Indianapolis to Detroit. (Why Penney, already a magnate, needed a lift is lost to time.) Ray was home briefly from university.
Ray accepted the chauffeur job, though it cut heavily into his time home. For the next seventy years, he always said, "I did it not for love of Penney, but for love of Cash."
The store was just over a ten-minute walk from our house, on the same street. When I was a kid, the store manager would give my playmate Buddy and me the huge cardboard refrigerator boxes to transform into a fort, a farm, whatever we imagined.
Our town also had a remarkable collection of luxury boutiques to serve the wealthy families who had been summering there since the mid-1800s, but from Labour Day to Memorial Day, if you needed a pair of trousers, Penney's was your best bet. It was there that I bought my first pair of Levis, and my sister bought me my first bra.
They had layaway, and though I can't remember what I bought, I thought it was a terrific system, and still do: no bill to haunt you, and if you wanted to cancel the deal, they fully returned all payments,
Penney's was also my first "real job"; the day I turned 16, I wrote a simple math test and was hired on the spot, for Friday nights in the Intimates department. On my first shift, I sold a quilted robe to a shy man whose wife was recovering from surgery. He asked for "something nice to wear in the hospital", and I was dazzled by how good it felt to deliver service.
The floors were wood, there was no elevator between the three levels, and we sent the cash to accounting by pneumatic tube.
All of the town's old department or chain stores are gone now: Sears, Montgomery Wards, Woolworth's—there's a Walmart.
The luxury shops are gone from the downtown core, too, now tucked into resort condo enclaves. I toured those when back there several years ago, and found them selling pallid resortwear, overpriced costume jewellery and "beach cashmere", unremittingly pastel and gauzy.
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| Ed Behan's Tweed Shop ca. 1960 |
In each, stock was sparse; I remembered towers of stacked British cashmeres and rows of pearl-buttoned jackets at Ed Behan's Tweed Shop, and left weighted by wistful sadness.
Growing up there shaped my taste forever. I loved the meaty Scottish tweeds and rug-thick cashmere sold by family friends, pined for the impeccable black lace Norell cocktail dress in Saks' window, saved my pay for royal blue Pappagallos from a jewel-box of a shoe store.
The one thing Petoskey didn't provide for its well-heeled clientele was a lingerie boutique; every piece I owned until over 21 came from Penney's, where pale pink was considered exotic. Do you remember when women wore full slips? In the '60s, these were made in the USA by union labour.
Penney's also figures in another family's lore. My friend Beth's mother, Billie Cash, was J.C. Penney's niece. In 1937, her father asked her new beau, Ray, if he would drive Penney from Indianapolis to Detroit. (Why Penney, already a magnate, needed a lift is lost to time.) Ray was home briefly from university.
Ray accepted the chauffeur job, though it cut heavily into his time home. For the next seventy years, he always said, "I did it not for love of Penney, but for love of Cash."
Comments
I forget the name, but in a book by Bill Bryson abouthis childhood in Des Moines he describes a department store. Sounded magical.
One of my university summer jobs was at Simpsons, Toronto, in the fabric department. I find it amazing now that they hired me, taught me to cut and sell fabric and that apparently I did a reasonable job. I remember that the full time staff were very good to me and that I loved handling, learning about and selling fabric. Retail skills are always valuable as life continues.
It will be interesting to see what happens in the future.
Thanks for the memories.
Barbara
Kamchick: You can probably still eyeball yardage and tell fibre by touch. Do you remember the Arcadian Court? Even in the '90s I brought visiting friends there for a ladies' lunch; they loved it. I think The Bay is in real trouble.
My childhood was fraught with Chronic Rheumatic Fever. My mother, who made all our clothes, was a regular customer in the fabric department of Sears in Peterborough, Ontario. She must have mentioned my illness in passing when buying fabrics. Lo and behold, the manager of that department MAILED, from the store, a huge box of fabric scraps and odds and ends of notions, for me to while away the long hours in bed by hand-sewing doll clothes. It was a major moment in the life of a 10-year-old invalid. You can bet I sent a thank-you card!
I had recovered by my teens, in the 60's, and occasionally we would drive from Port Hope to Oshawa to have lunch at the Bo Peep Restaurant and shop at Eaton's in the Oshawa Mall. It was a big deal in those days. We dressed properly for the occasion.
Now Sears and Eaton's are no longer in business,people go shopping in their pajamas, and in many cases, the employees...if you can find one at all... just don't care about customer service. Sad.
Oh..and might I add that my experience with teen employees now leads me to believe most could not pass that math test...and could not make change without an electronic cash register.
Thanks for the memories!
LmC
LmC: Terrific story! That's so kind (and I am happy that you recovered fully.) Years ago, I read an essay by a Globe and Mail reader who lived in rural ON used to send a Christmas list to Sears' catalog dept, saying things like "warm pyjamas for a 10-year old boy small for his age", and "a dress nice enough to wear to a party for a 15 year old, no yellow". Somehow everything that came was perfect. This was the opposite result to Roch Carrier's classic, "The Hockey Sweater". (Original title, Un abominable feuille d'érable sur la glace".)
Araminta: Early experience working in a good department store marks one for life, especially for the recognition of good service. And possibly for sumptuous lingerie ;)