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Authors: Rosanne Parry
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to be virtuous.” The ribbon girl pouted. “You already have a beau to buy you chocolates.”
I could be that brown-eyed shopgirl. Any fool could stand at a counter, dust goods, and make change. I could move to town. The schoolmaster always said we should. I could get a proper job and live with other girls my age and spend my days indoors in a clean skirt andblouse thinking of nothing more difficult than what movie to watch and who to dance with at the Woodchoppers’ Ball.
I tried to catch the shopgirl’s eye to see if she would smile at me, but she didn’t give Ida and me a glance. When Aunt Loula finally came to the cutting table with a dozen bolts of cloth, an older woman appeared from a back room to do the cutting and tallying up.
Our next stop was the grocer. Grandma shooed me and Ida off to the city park, while they ordered their cases and barrels. Ida and I picked up a game of kickball with some town girls. The grown-ups met us an hour later, and we ate our lunch under the red-gold maple trees. Afterward, we walked to the Victory Movie Parlor. Grandpa was all smiles.
“Gifts for hardworking grandchildren,” he said. “Littlest first.”
Ida got knitting needles and a skein of thick pink yarn. I could hear her crow already. With ten minutes’ practice, she would be better at knitting than I was.
Charlie got a Hohner harmonica and immediately picked out a jazzy tune he had heard that afternoon.
“I chose these for you,” Grandma said, with an arm around my shoulder. She opened her hand to show five pencils and a Swiss folding knife. I hid my disappointment behind a smile.
“Pencils, thanks,” I said. “I guess you noticed, I haven’t been keeping my diary.”
Grandma shrugged. “Ink is tricky,” she said.
I opened the knife and worked on a pencil point. The shavings released a faint cedar smell.
Grandma lifted my chin. “When you write a word down, you own that word forever,” she said.
The Victory was the fanciest place in town. It was a glittering palace on the outside, with electric lights and mirrors. Inside, it had green carpeting with gold swirls and a velvet curtain with thick gold fringe. The seats had cushions, and the lamps had sparkling diamonds. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the Queen of Sheba sitting right up in the front row.
I felt like royalty walking down the center aisle. We took seats in the middle row, and Ida pestered me to death with questions about the movie stars on painted posters along the side walls. It was Charlie Chaplin that afternoon, with a musical interlude from the piano player before the show and at intermission. We had only been seated a moment when a well-dressed woman stood up with a sniff of disdain. She clutched her two children close and pushed past our chairs. She made a big show of sitting as far from us as possible.
There was a moment’s pause while the rest of the theatergoers got over the need to stare at us. Charlie leaned toward Henry, batted his eyelashes, and pretended to point and gossip about some scandalous thing. Aunt Loula smiled, and Grandma smacked Charlie on the arm but not very hard. Then Charlie stood up and walked in front of our chairs, doing the white-woman wag you see sometimes in the well-dressed ladies in town. Ida and Henry laughed out loud. Grandma hid her smile behind a handkerchief, and Grandpa resorted to a fit of coughing.
The theater filled for the matinee, all but the seats nearest us. People laughed and chatted with their neighbors. Men argued the board-foot price of lumber. Ladies admired each other’s hats and gossiped over the skirt length of certain unchaperoned girls at the theater. I had always loved the busy variety of people at the movies. I loved feeling as if I were a part of the story told on the screen and sharing it with people who seemed so different but laughed at all the same things I did. I could see Ida drinking it all in, but for the first time I saw what she didn’t. No one spoke
I could be that brown-eyed shopgirl. Any fool could stand at a counter, dust goods, and make change. I could move to town. The schoolmaster always said we should. I could get a proper job and live with other girls my age and spend my days indoors in a clean skirt andblouse thinking of nothing more difficult than what movie to watch and who to dance with at the Woodchoppers’ Ball.
I tried to catch the shopgirl’s eye to see if she would smile at me, but she didn’t give Ida and me a glance. When Aunt Loula finally came to the cutting table with a dozen bolts of cloth, an older woman appeared from a back room to do the cutting and tallying up.
Our next stop was the grocer. Grandma shooed me and Ida off to the city park, while they ordered their cases and barrels. Ida and I picked up a game of kickball with some town girls. The grown-ups met us an hour later, and we ate our lunch under the red-gold maple trees. Afterward, we walked to the Victory Movie Parlor. Grandpa was all smiles.
“Gifts for hardworking grandchildren,” he said. “Littlest first.”
Ida got knitting needles and a skein of thick pink yarn. I could hear her crow already. With ten minutes’ practice, she would be better at knitting than I was.
Charlie got a Hohner harmonica and immediately picked out a jazzy tune he had heard that afternoon.
“I chose these for you,” Grandma said, with an arm around my shoulder. She opened her hand to show five pencils and a Swiss folding knife. I hid my disappointment behind a smile.
“Pencils, thanks,” I said. “I guess you noticed, I haven’t been keeping my diary.”
Grandma shrugged. “Ink is tricky,” she said.
I opened the knife and worked on a pencil point. The shavings released a faint cedar smell.
Grandma lifted my chin. “When you write a word down, you own that word forever,” she said.
The Victory was the fanciest place in town. It was a glittering palace on the outside, with electric lights and mirrors. Inside, it had green carpeting with gold swirls and a velvet curtain with thick gold fringe. The seats had cushions, and the lamps had sparkling diamonds. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find the Queen of Sheba sitting right up in the front row.
I felt like royalty walking down the center aisle. We took seats in the middle row, and Ida pestered me to death with questions about the movie stars on painted posters along the side walls. It was Charlie Chaplin that afternoon, with a musical interlude from the piano player before the show and at intermission. We had only been seated a moment when a well-dressed woman stood up with a sniff of disdain. She clutched her two children close and pushed past our chairs. She made a big show of sitting as far from us as possible.
There was a moment’s pause while the rest of the theatergoers got over the need to stare at us. Charlie leaned toward Henry, batted his eyelashes, and pretended to point and gossip about some scandalous thing. Aunt Loula smiled, and Grandma smacked Charlie on the arm but not very hard. Then Charlie stood up and walked in front of our chairs, doing the white-woman wag you see sometimes in the well-dressed ladies in town. Ida and Henry laughed out loud. Grandma hid her smile behind a handkerchief, and Grandpa resorted to a fit of coughing.
The theater filled for the matinee, all but the seats nearest us. People laughed and chatted with their neighbors. Men argued the board-foot price of lumber. Ladies admired each other’s hats and gossiped over the skirt length of certain unchaperoned girls at the theater. I had always loved the busy variety of people at the movies. I loved feeling as if I were a part of the story told on the screen and sharing it with people who seemed so different but laughed at all the same things I did. I could see Ida drinking it all in, but for the first time I saw what she didn’t. No one spoke
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