My nativity story began at Wilson’s Department Store. My mother always told me that just shy of nine months pregnant with me, her water broke while shopping at Wilson’s. It was a cold November day, back in 1966, when somewhere between the hair salon and lingerie, my birth seemed undeniably imminent. However, mom was able to finish whatever shopping she was doing, because I wasn’t actually born until very early the next morning. Apparently, my father, a teacher at a local private school, had dropped my mom (who was in labor), off at the doors of the Franklin County Public Hospital. He then drove to work, and proceeded to teach his English classes for the day. Dad wasn’t one to ever take a sick day. Several days after my birth, my grandmother was beckoned. She boarded a plane in St. Louis and flew to Bradley Airport where my dad picked her up in our mammoth-sized, blue station wagon. She stayed to help for a few weeks, as my parents’ brood’s head count had gone from a needy twosome to an even needier three.
When I read that Wilson’s will be closing its doors for good, I didn’t feel surprise or sadness even. Instead, I had that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, that a person just on the other side of middle age feels at times like this, when the past crashes into the present; when one more edifice, real or imagined, from our childhood is knocked down, changed or paved over, boarded up or something new is constructed in its place. At times like this, to paraphrase Joan Didion, I am plagued with the worry that I have “stayed too long at the Fair.”
I have lived most of my life within a five to 10-mile radius of my current home in Greenfield. Over the years, I have ventured off, to grad school in Providence, to pursue an actor’s life in New York City, and I have traveled a bit abroad, but not nearly as much as I would have liked. When loneliness set in, or relationships became broken, I’d always gravitate back home to Western Massachusetts, and to Greenfield. Ultimately, I settled for good here, got married, had my daughter, became divorced and found myself stunningly single again in my forties. Through these metamorphoses, Wilson’s remained essentially unchanged, a cornerstone in my consciousness and in the streetscape of this small city.
What do I remember most about growing up with Wilson’s? I remember going to see Santa in Wilson’s basement toy department, but was always far too bashful to approach him. I remember ogling the largest box of Crayolas (with the sharpener set into the box), amazed by the number of hues within. I remember riding the elevator up and down, over and over; as if I were programming a rocket ship to fly, pressing the smooth, circular buttons, and moving from floor to floor, magically. I remember early bird stickers at Christmastime, the sales woman writing up receipts and my mom signing them; and my father’s distress when we received the post-Christmas Wilson’s bill!
And of course, who can forget the scent of Wilson’s. A mix of Lysol, baby powder, and things that don’t change. Walking in the front door felt like walking into my grandmother’s closet.
There were other mainstay businesses on Main Street. If our tennis rackets needed stringing, we’d clamor into Clarke’s Sports across the street from Wilson’s, where Hawks & Reed is now. There was Brown’s toy store on Federal (the original entryway tile is still there, outside Antonio’s Pizza). The Corner Cupboard offered hot chocolate and counter seats that spun around. We would grocery shop at the A&P. Dad would push me and my brother in the cart, sometimes stopping to chat with a friend he’d run into, all while brandishing a lit cigarette. After he’d taken his last puff he’d let it drop onto the scuffed, checkerboard floor below, still slightly smoldering.
My parents are gone now, and my siblings have dispersed; but so many childhood memories remain here in Greenfield. The wonder of childhood is reignited in me, particularly during the holiday season, as downtown decorations and the creche are resurrected. The sound of the Salvation Army bells on Main Street reminds me that time moves forward. At winter dusk, snowflakes pepper the sidewalks; people pause to talk and laugh, while others continue walking, into the disappearing light. I am reminded and grateful, that some things never change.
Amanda Percival is a resident of Greenfield.