Ramblings …
Basement Strippers
By Richard Skaare
About once a month, very early in the morning, our mother and we two youngsters would hop onto a bus to Everett MTA station outside Boston, where we would board the elevated train that wended its way around the exurb triple-deckers and then drop down into the underground, bound for the Sumner stop, where we would squeeze in with the horde of impatient women pressed together awaiting the opening of the Filene’s Basement “Dollar Day” sale and impromptu strip show.
My family regularly visited four stores when I was young, each of which sparks a distinct memory: the “commissary” monthly, Zayre most Friday nights, F. W. Woolworth almost weekly, and Filene’s Basement on “Dollar Day.” All offered name products at discount, which helped elevate the perception of our low-income family, or so my mother believed.
By definition, the word “commissary” is a restaurant in a military base, prison, or similar institution. However, what my parents called “the commissary” was a sizable grocery market and a moderate household section at the Bedford, Massachusetts, Air Force Base. I don’t remember a restaurant. We shopped there because my father was either an active or retired Navy or Coast Guard cook at the time.
We purchased food in bulk at the low-priced commissary, especially after we could afford a standalone freezer. My parents even bought milk in volume to freeze. This happened after the retirement of Andy, our friendly Whiting’s Company milk delivery man. Freezing separated cream from the milk, which required us to stir the bottle to make it acceptably drinkable. We kids missed Andy.
Zayre was an early “big box” store in Saugus, MA, offering everything for a middle-class lifestyle, including knock-offs of trendy outfits like seersucker shirts and penny loafers for boys. Someone I hung out with in my high school freshman year, whose dad was a corporate VP, which meant they shopped for clothes at the upscale Kennedy’s store in Boston. The kid regularly mocked me for my discount Zayre clothes. To this day, discount stores sometimes spark flashbacks for me of those taunts.
F.W. Woolworth’s was a 45-minute walk from our house to downtown Melrose (Massachusetts). Without a car, we walked everywhere for the first 12 years of my life. I still prefer walking when I play golf and when visiting cities. Woolworth’s had everything except groceries. However, the store featured a tempting candy and cookie section.
My mother had a clever trick: she filled a large paper bag with inexpensive, high-sugar wafer cookies instead of a small bag of the pricier, top-shelf chocolate-chip variety so we boys always had plenty of sweets. Occasionally, she splurged on ginger windmill cookies, giving us one a day. Back then, we felt food-rich!
Finally, there was Filene’s, a haven where quality and prices increased with each higher floor. We shopped on the bottom floor, widely known as Filene’s Basement. Anyone from New England probably recalls “Dollar Day” at Filene’s Basement, where everything cost — yes — a dollar. What baffled me as a child were the women who unashamedly stripped in full public view to try on dresses; there were no fitting rooms on the deep-discount floor.
One last Filene’s Basement story. In seventh grade, when appearance mattered greatly to a kid, my mother brought home a striking red, tablecloth-patterned shirt from Dollar Day. I mistakenly gushed over it. The next day, she went back for a special, extra “Dollar Day” sale and bought the same shirt in blue and green. Owning only five shirts, I had to carefully plan my wardrobe to avoid teasing from friends, such as, “It must be Monday because Skaare is in that red tablecloth shirt again.”
Today, I don’t have a favorite store and I dislike shopping.