Ebooks Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright 2011 by Louise Thomas
At Smashwords
Dear Emily:
A Memoir
My Life in the Fine Stores
By
Louise Thomas
Running Angel Books
Published by Second Wind Publishing, LLC.
Kernersville
Running Angel Books
Second Wind Publishing, LLC
931-B South Main Street, Box 145
Kernersville, NC 27284
Copyright 2011 by Louise Thomas
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.
This book is a work of non-fiction. All ideas, statements, and insights are solely the work of the author.
First Running Angel Books edition published April 2011.
Running Angel Books, Running Angel logo, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.
For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com
Cover design and interior sketches by Gail Morris
Chanel purse icon courtesy of Susette L. Sides
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-935171-53-9
Dedication:
To: Emily Lawrence who loved the fine stores as much as I
To: Marilyn Hartsell, Ellen Thomas
To: Pamela Holbrook, Gus Holbrook, Jennifer Holbrook Enzor, Matthew Enzor, Brayden Enzor, Charles Thomas Hartsell, Paige Vaughn Hartsell, Alexander Kennedy Hartsell, Sara Grace Hartsell, Caroline Elizabeth Hartsell and Augustus Maxwell Hartsell
To: Charles Thalhimer, Sherwood Michael, and Dick Ayscue
To: Evelyn Sosnik (deceased) and to all the buyers and supporting staff at the many Thalhimer stores
Finally, to all of the customers: Thank you for your years of loyalty. Without you, the fine stores would not have existed.
Table of Contents
I Dedication
II Table of Contents
III Preface
Part One: From Virginia to New York
Chapter I — Our Meeting 1
Chapter II — My Early Days 5
Chapter III — New York City 25
Chapter IV — Fascinated with Retail 30
Chapter V — Lord & Taylor 37
Part Two: Back to Charlotte, North Carolina
Chapter I — Decisions, Decisions 47
Chapter II — Promoted to Buyer 50
Chapter III — The Merchant Prince 54
Chapter IV — First European Trip 57
Chapter V — Travel Trivia 67
Chapter VI — Too Good To Last 70
Chapter VII — Ivey’s, More Than a Store 73
Part Three: On to Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Charles Thalhimer Biography 78
Chapter I — The Decision Was Not Easy 82
Chapter II — New Travel Experiences 86
Chapter III — Goodbye to Sir W. Churchill 105
Chapter IV — Traveling and Shopping 110
Chapter V — Life Beyond Work 118
Chapter VI — New Horizon—The Orient 130
Chapter VII — Sell or Be Acquired? 140
Part Four: Then to Richmond, Virginia
Chapter I — Settling In 151
Chapter II — Our New Owners—C.H.H. 154
Chapter III — Shopping in Hong Kong 157
Chapter IV — Exploring Virginia 162
Chapter V — Time Out 169
Chapter VI — Signs of Unraveling 176
Chapter VII — Thalhimers 1842—1992 183
Part Five: Long Happy Retirement
Chapter I — Reconnecting to Community 197
Chapter II — Retirement Travel 202
Part Six: What Really Happened to the Grand Department Stores?
Chapter I — From Peddler to Grand Stores 218
Chapter II — Four Uninformed, Aspiring Men 224
Chapter III — Changing Demographics 236
Chapter IV — Loss of Credibility 240
Chapter V — Greed Takes Over Financials 243
Chapter VI — Status of the Museums 250
Conclusion 252
Acknowledgements 256
Preface
Emily and I met the first year of my first job, and we have remained friends ever since. We lived in three East Coast cities simultaneously and corresponded faithfully in between. She found the fabulous department stores just as exciting as I did. She recalls when shopping was a fun and rewarding experience (as finding a wide assortment of shoes in size 8 1/2 AAAA on any shopping trip). What made the department store, an American institution that took decades to perfect, disappear so rapidly?
After more than thirty exciting years in retailing, I returned to my former Cape Cod shingle and faced the daunting task of reclaiming my much neglected, all but destroyed, perennial garden. Three years later, I traded my Cardiac Rehab program at Wake Forest University that was only minutes from my home, for a slot in the Liberal Arts M.A. program at the same University. The idea of pursuing subjects in depth that I had previously avoided, or that had not been available, appealed to me. The experience far exceeded my expectations. The professors were outstanding, and the small classes of mature students encouraged stimulating discussions. I had favorite classes. They were "German Literature from Medieval Days until World War II", "Ancient Japanese Literature through This Century", and "The Country House Movement in America". I was pleased when Mark Alan Hewitt, the author of our textbook for the last course, spoke at Reynolda House the following spring.
With only one three-hour course scheduled each semester, I soon started working on the thesis that the University had approved: "Greed, Gall, and Gaff, What Happened to the Grand Emporiums". It is the social history of this country in the twentieth century, a reminder of the time when service, civility, and good taste were paramount. After I’d submitted fifteen queries, six editors agreed to read the manuscript. Comments were favorable, but each editor suggested that if I presented the work in first person, he would reconsider.
The bound 244-page thesis was put aside until friends convinced me that I had an interesting story, well worth rewriting. A friend who had had fifty refusals is now working on her second novel for a happy publisher.
Part One:
From Virginia to New York
H. Martin; C. 1991 The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.
Chapter One
Our Meeting
Dear
Emily,
Our paths have intertwined for years. Our interests, though wide, were never far apart. We often fail to complete a conversation. This will be my chance for the last word. A cold, confining winter seems a fitting time to reminisce and try to answer your questions about what happened to the grand old emporiums we were introduced to when we lived in New York City. To this day, we have not accepted the mundane life without them. With the arrival of spring, my mature garden will start unfolding daily and will steal much of my time if only to walk the stone paths in the woods and admire each peeping bulb. Snowdrops, aconites, wood hyacinth, grape hyacinth, bloodroot, trillium, hellebore, Jacob's Ladder, Virginia bluebell, followed by jonquils and beds of colorful primrose is a pallet that only nature can paint.
Although I cannot recall exactly how you and I met, I feel that we must have been introduced by your apartment mate, since she and I worked in the same building at NACA (now NASA), at Langley Field, in Tidewater, Virginia. Several months of practice teaching had turned a would-be-teacher into a mathematician for engineers doing aeronautical research. Filled with ambition, I realized that I was not suited for a government job. Also my work was not that interesting. It seemed to me that those who only clocked in and out got the same salary increase as those who were dedicated. At the Flight Tunnel, some of the engineers projected the image of being more interested in the sailboats they were building after work and on weekends, than the project to which they were assigned. Did you work in the same building as Betty Anderson?
Your decision to move to New York and your glowing reports gave me the courage to follow. Two visits in the prior eighteen months had convinced me that it was the fashion hub. Thank you for a grand introduction.
Remember when 5th Avenue was the fashion street of the world! Paris, Rome, and London had been devastated by the war. Before World War II, all high fashion came from Europe. Couture buyers from the best stores made four crossings each year with steamer trunks in tow, and never missed an opening. After the War, smart merchants in New York encouraged promising young American designers to be more creative. Claire McCardell was the first American designer on the cover of "Time". She was a Parson graduate and was hailed as the launcher of American sportswear. Europe emerged from the war so battered that it was years before the high fashion lines were ready to entice foreign buyers. With the European market in limbo, Pauline Trigere and Norman Norell opened showrooms in New York; Charles James followed from London. Fashion offerings in the hinterland had never been so enticing.
How fortunate we were to be able to browse and, funds permitting, make an occasional purchase at Bergdorf Goodman, Bonwit Teller, The Tailored Woman (known for its wide assortment of coats), DePinna, I. Miller, and Saks (the salesgirls were fashion plates). Past 42nd Street and the library was my favorite store—Lord & Taylor, under the leadership of Dorothy Shaver. Continuing across 38th Street was Sloan's with its exciting room vignettes. "House and Gardens" had failed to prepare me for the handsome antiques and exciting accessories. Moving down the avenue, one reached Best, the children's store, and McCuchen's, the fine fabrics linens store. Russek's was to suits, what Tailored Woman was to coats. Across the street and filling an entire block stood the venerable B. Altman where the profits went to New York City charities. The first floor, with its extremely wide aisles and handsome rich wooden display cases, was designed to accommodate the "carriage trade”. In B. Altman’s early days, the downtown customers had to shop from their carriages during the winter months, because the streets were unpaved and walking into the store was prohibitive.
Only two fine fashion stores have survived—Bergdorf Goodman and Saks. Lord & Taylor remains in name only. The May Company lacks experience in operating a fine store. Bloomingdale's is far removed from the pacesetting days of Marvin Traud, under whom the Home Store vignettes attracted unprecedented crowds. Minus the handsome fabrics and superb tailoring, Bloomingdale’s clothes are now more trendy than fashionable.
Often I regret that I gave most of my designer clothes to the North Carolina History Museum for I am still the same size. After shopping for hours, I usually come home and appreciate a Gloria Sachs, a Bill Blass, or an Ellen Tracy more than when it was purchased. With fabric the first component of any garment, there is little hope for improvement in what’s being offered in fashion today.
Love,
Chapter Two
My Early Days
Dear
Emily,
You and I are each from small North Carolina towns, but their similarities end there. Murfreesboro is located between the Roanoke and Chowan rivers in the northeastern part of the state and conducted trade with Virginia and England. Your ancestors were English, both maternal and paternal. Due to trade relations with New England, many of the early buildings reflect New England architecture. There were comfortable private residences as well as plantations. Soon, the progressive settlement had two newspapers and two better female colleges. Today, it is a beautifully restored eighteenth and nineteenth century jewel consisting of a twelve-block historical district plus other related areas and the Mulberry Grove Plantation. There is the home of John Hall Wheeler, first president of the Charlotte Mint, the home of Dr. Robert Gatling, inventor of the famed Gatling gun, and the home of Dr. Walter Reed. I was greatly impressed the time I was there and much has been done since. You have every reason to be proud of your progressive hometown.
In stark contrast, I was born in Stanly County, the “back country”. Historians gave the designation to that part of our new country, which was settled primarily by Germans who traveled down the valleys from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and North Carolina in search of rich soil and water. The discovery of gold, the first in the new country, was also an attraction. My Thomas ancestors came from Kent, England early in the 1700s, settled in Kent County, Maryland, and Kent County, Virginia before claiming a land grant in Anson County, North Carolina. Through gifts of land, my grandfather and father settled in Stanly County, an area that was primarily rural until the Southern Railway decided in 1913 to build a depot to serve the cotton and grain farmers. It was the first small town to develop aside from the county seat, Albemarle, seven miles away. It was a thriving small town until the new 27/29 highway connecting Charlotte (twenty plus miles west) and Raleigh (the Capital) bypassed our village. The depot has been handsomely restored and landscaped. The rumor is that a commuter train will run from Charlotte to relieve the highways of the heavy traffic. The village is eventually destined to become a bedroom of Charlotte—good for business but bad for the environment.
In the early 2000s, the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, conducted a dig on a nearby river. The Oakboro Historical Museum has a credible collection of Indian artifacts dating to 10,000 B.C. When Alcoa excavated for its dam, hundreds of thousands of Indian artifacts were bulldozed making our state the site of more old Indian artifacts than any state east of the Mississippi.
Until recently, I assumed nothing interesting had happened to me until after college and my first job. In the summer of 2005, my niece and I spent a day visiting childhood sites and reminiscing. After a sportswear manufacturing plant closed and left 600 people unemployed, many were ready to write off the village of 1500 people. Instead, we found it robust and thriving. My priority was to deliver some pictures of my father to the five-year-old regional museum in the small village where I spent my first fifteen years. The bright, energetic and dedicated volunteer curator was so happy to discover a “live one” from the collection era that she insisted that I put on paper anything of interest I could recall.
My childhood days might not have been the most exciting, but I shall always be indebted to my parents for their constructive influence on my formative years. Salt of the earth, they instilled in their children integrity, respect, hard work, and confidence that they could attain any goal they wished. Church and education were priorities at our house. Although not the most demonstrative, my parents loved their four children dearly as attested by their unselfish sacrifice. We sometimes questioned their frugality, but how else could they have sent four children to college during the Depression?
My father attended Rutherford College and taught for a few years after he was married at age twenty-six. He had a quick mind. Math was his strong suit, and he often helped me with my lessons. Mother attended the Palmerville Academy, but admitted that she was not a very good student. She preferred gardening, cooking, sewing, and caring for her house and family. Her love for gardening made a lasting impression on me.
Born on March 14, 1922 to Millard Winston Thomas and Jennie Smith Thomas, I was fortunate enough to join two older brothers, Harvey Lee, seven, and Robert Brady, five. My earliest recollection was crawling across a wide pine floor on a porch to claim a huge doll my parents were offering me. It was a happy time.
The next vivid picture was riding in our Model T Ford when I was likely about two. (Babies were kept home to avoid germs.) Autos were a status symbol then just like today. When I was four, we traded up to a Chevrolet—no more make do—with windows to take down in the spring and re-hang in the fall. While visiting a playmate, Grant’s mother asked him to share a bowl of apples with me. His agitated response was, “No! Louise has a new car. I don’t!”
Unusually kind to me, my siblings taught me how to climb but failed to teach me how to get down. When learning to ride their bike, I consistently managed to hit the obstruction they warned me to avoid. Any wonder I was not invited to play baseball or basketball with the neighborhood teams? Since there were few girls in our neighborhood, books became my best friends. Occasionally there would be enough people to select actors and have others to make up an audience. We would hang sheets at the top of the stairs, used as seats. Those afternoons time stood still. Our models were the few traveling professional shows that came to our school once or twice a year.
After having two sons, my mother was delighted to have a daughter to dress. My earliest clothes were heavily smocked cotton print and silk dresses with matching smock-trimmed pantaloons. My favorites were a natural silk pongee (with raw silk slubs) and a weighted smooth pink silk. (My Aunt Bessie bought the fabric on one of her trips). Each had beautifully smocked yokes, sleeves, and pantaloons. Our neighbor commented that with silks on a four-year-old, only Paris would be good enough when she grew up.
My mother’s colorful flower garden was the prettiest I had seen and by far the show place of the neighborhood. In front of the back fence that enclosed the vegetable garden, were clumps of jonquil and wood hyacinth. Later in the season, hollyhock and larkspur formed a backdrop. The large rectangular shaped garden was to the right side of the house and included an orchard of apple and pear trees near the back. As a border, she planted flowering shrubs of forsythia, pink almond, flowering quince, spireas, and weigela.
A riot of color claimed the remaining space. There were many more annuals than perennials because the latter had not been highly developed then. Sweet peas were so bountiful they required staking and tying. Luscious nasturtiums spilled over the well-manicured soil. More larkspur, abundant cosmos, dahlias, huge pompon mums (staked), zinnias, snow-on-the-mountain, touch-me-nots, dusty miller, sunflowers, gladiolus, and bearded iris are some I remember. Many of these are seldom seen today. I do not recall ever spraying or dusting for insects.
Her love of flowers went beyond growing them. She loved to bring them into the house and also to share them. Often she would furnish flowers for church. Two arrangements I remember were white Annabel hydrangea, pierced by spikes of purple butterfly bush, and the other, impressive giant gold mums interspersed with ruffled pink kale. They would be impressive today. My sister does great arrangements; I enjoy trying. We each have been dedicated gardeners.
I must have been between three and four when my mother had a goiter operation in a Charlotte hospital. She got along fine, and the next day my father took me with him for a hospital visit. It was my first trip to Charlotte and I was impressed by a talking parrot in the hospital lobby. “Polly wants a cracker,” was its complete repertoire. Daddy and Aunt Bessie brought Mother home several days later. Aunt Corrine relieved Aunt Bessie, as bed rest would probably last a week or more.
Our father taught for six to eight years in three schools that we can identify in the area of Oakboro: Barbee’s Grove, Hatley’s Grove, and Mineral Springs. In each instance, they were sited near a church of the same name. Maybe this assured the students of a passable road at all times of the year. Usually, one room meant one teacher. We have a photograph of Father and sixty-two students at Barbee’s Grove, ages five to twenty-six. Teaching the three R’s to this many pupils was possible only because the small children were taught respect by their parents, and the older students (many older than the teacher) felt fortunate to have the opportunity to learn. Some aspired to own a business; others wanted to become successful farmers. Discipline was never a problem.
There were more small wooden school buildings scattered through the sparsely settled countryside than there were qualified teachers, which meant that the teachers went to the schools that served the most pupils. Aunt Bessie lived with our parents the second year of their marriage and taught at Mineral Springs, about four miles away. They either rode horseback or hitched up a buggy.
Dad took great pride in his teaching, and I have been told that he was a good teacher. He taught the Palmer writing method. This was the last era of beautiful handwriting. Happy in a profession that made a contribution to the community, he would have remained a teacher if granddaddy Thomas hadn’t reminded him that he could not support a family on a teacher’s salary. Granddaddy had been given a sizable farm by his wife’s father when he married and decided to gift his first son, my father, a farm. Granddaddy Smith met the occasion by giving them money to build a comfortable eight-room house with lots of porches and fireplaces.
When my father helped me with my lessons, he sometimes talked about his teaching experiences. One is still a vivid picture. For more than a year, he shared a two-room school with a neighbor of ours, Mr. Harris. His strongest qualification was that he and his six children were all talented, self-taught musicians. One son supposedly played the violin for the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra under the baton of maestro Eugene Ormandy. My father had a disciplined mind and was dedicated to preparing his students as well as he could in the allotted time. His co-teacher was assigned to the first through fifth grades but spent more time teaching music than preparing them in the basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. Every time a plane passed over, his students stormed out to see it. Afterwards, they would noisily charge back in and spend the rest of the day entertaining the class with their imaginary trip on the one-engine plane. My father thought it a waste of time as many parents sacrificed to send their children to school. It was also disruptive to his students. Today, it would be considered progressive teaching.
I spent many a balmy afternoon under a Chinaberry tree watching the planes fly over and imagining myself in Paris, Rome, London, and Tokyo. (My favorite doll was a Japanese beauty with her parasol.) Dreaming was sufficient. I never expected to get nearer to Paris than my front yard.
Our place was idyllic to a six-year-old with a curious mind. Not far from the back yard was a clear flowing stream with plenty of large stones to hop and smaller ones to overturn, exposing fish, tadpoles, crawfish, frogs and turtles. Beyond the stream rose the tallest hill in the neighborhood. On snowy days, which I remember as being often, all the neighborhood boys arrived early and built a large bonfire at the peak. Sometimes my brothers would let me ride with them if I would help pull the sled back to the top. Sledders had so much speed that occasionally they lost control and landed in the stream. Tired and happy snow warriors headed home for a hot meal by mid-afternoon. Ice froze over our pond but was seldom thick enough for skating.
One picture-perfect afternoon, my younger brother, Brady, and I were looking for four-leaved clovers in a meadow below the house, being careful to avoid the competing bees. The silence was interrupted only by birds rehearsing from a nearby locust tree. My brother decided to move on to something more challenging. I thought a bed of sweet-smelling clover was ideal for my afternoon nap. Unfortunately, my green print dress was a perfect disguise in the clover. About twenty minutes later, I was awakened by a large tractor wheel passing over my right mid arm. My screaming and waving of my left arm and struggling to rise were a signal to my older brother, Harvey, at the wheel. He managed to stop the monster just as the enormous cleats were within inches of my head. Harvey was more frightened than I was. The sinister scene was difficult for him to forget. Dad and Mother rushed me to the Albemarle Hospital where I was fitted with splints and plaster of Paris. Except for overnight stays with Granddaddy and Grandmother Smith and Aunt Bessie, I had spent no nights away from my family. In the late 1920s, a broken arm meant a five-night stay in the hospital. When asked why I refused my breakfast of orange juice, oatmeal, toast, jelly, and milk the next morning, I asked if that was all they had.
“We have this at home,” I said, “I thought you would have something different.”
Maybe I thought I was in a hotel.
After this near casualty, my brother Harvey became my devoted lifetime guardian. He escorted me to my classroom and saw that I was settled on my frightful first day of school. He saw that I found the right school bus. The second day, after recess, I decided to join him in the seventh grade. My teacher came for me and herded me back to my room while I sobbed and announced to anyone within earshot that I didn’t like her. After a reprimand at home, my worst offense at school was talking too much, for which the punishment was standing in the corner.
How we loved visiting our Smith grandparents and Aunt Bessie every time the occasion arose. They lived about seven miles away in Locust. Granddaddy was an ambitious, over-achieving third generation German. A large landowner, he aimed to be self-supporting. Orchards, vineyards, an extensive vegetable garden, fowl, pork, and beef supported his plan. He was ahead of his time. Granddaddy owned the first tractor in the area and had the first generator-operated electrical system. His big, black Durant touring car and driver was his indulgence.
Apples, pears, cantaloupe and watermelon were wrapped in newspaper and stored along with root vegetables in a root cellar under my grandparent’s house. The wrapped fruits, melons, and nuts were brought out on our visits. Ice was cut and stored in sawdust in the winter for summer ice cream. Aunt Bessie taught the first grade and had more books than anyone I knew. Mother said that my curiosity and love of travel came from her because of those books.
I was enchanted with Granddaddy’s collection of gold coins. Nights when the grownups were visiting, he would go to his safe in a walk-in closet and get a tobacco pouch of coins for me to stack and count. Mother feared I would lose one. She always felt that he buried some of them rather than turn them in when all gold was called by the U. S. government in 1931.
We felt that his affection for gold was flamed by the fact that he owned land near, if not adjacent to, the farm where the first gold was discovered in America. In 1779, a twelve-year-old boy found a seventeen pound gold rock in Little Meadow creek in Cabarrus County. By 1825, there were nearly 100 gold mines in a twenty-mile radius of Charlotte, then a “boomtown”. The U. S. Mint opened a branch in 1837 in a hamlet that was remembered as Indian trading paths. Granddaddy was born at mid-century and was influenced by a gold-driven economy. He always expected to find gold in a nearby creek that ran through his farm. Uncle E. B. inherited the farm and the same high expectations of finding the “big one”. Charlotte became the big winner. Unlike Richmond and Charleston, Charlotte had no past, only a highly enviable future triggered by the accidental discovery of a rare mineral in another county.
Granddaddy Smith died in 1930 when I was eight. I was crushed. It marked the end of our backyard summer reunions with uncles, aunts and cousins. Afterwards, Christmas never included everyone. The money was divided equally with no complaints; the land division was not so easy. The land was surveyed, appraised and sized into ten parcels. We never understood why Granddaddy left his wife only a child’s portion unless it was because she and Aunt Bessie had insurance policies from the two sons who died in the flu epidemic during World War I. Grandmother and three children highly disapproved. Three siblings accepted. Three attempted to remain neutral. All the cousins suffered, because holidays were never the same. An annual reunion for the last twenty years has filled the void.
In the spring of 1931, our bucolic life had a terrible reversal. Although we grew up during the lean years, our parents were responsible, and we were always confident there would be money for a college education. Each of us had bank savings equal to one or two years of college. Our grandparents gave us money at holidays that went into a college account. What had taken years to accumulate vanished one morning at the breakfast table when my father calmly announced that our local bank had closed. The banker and directors met the night before and agreed that the inspector, due on Friday, would not accept the audit. The Depression had been causing havoc for several years. Crops produced few clear dollars. Merchants sold on credit or didn’t sell. Two merchant brothers were the bank’s biggest debtors. They were also on the board of directors. My father and Mr. Teeter, directors, went home from the distressful Thursday night meeting. The Coble brothers, Jason and Guilford, went to their lawyer’s home and deeded everything they owned to their wives, evading all responsibility. I can recall sitting in a car on Saturday afternoon in front of Furr’s Café and watching customers cross the street rather than walk in front of the Coble store. News of their actions spread like wildfire. After a few months, the store closed while the Teeter store next door expanded.
Mother cried for a week. Father had invested her recent inheritance in bank stock. Four accounts, plus lots of worthless stocks made us all but penniless. Mother had plans to treat herself to some luxuries. Instead, my parents had to raise money to redeem the stock at full price that was sold at auction at a discount. Sometime later, the depositors were issued cash for about twenty percent of their savings. My older brother had to delay his college education. When I read of all the lying, cheating and greed of our executives today, I feel only pride that my father was a man of integrity.
In the midst of this turmoil, my baby sister arrived. Although I was nine, I had no inkling we were expecting an addition. It was a fortunate distraction from all that had happened earlier. We now had the ideal family, two boys and two girls. By the time Marilyn started to school, I was headed for college, and two brothers were already in college. I have heard her say she thought all playmates were black until she started to school.
The choice of college was made for me. Mother had two first cousins on the staff at Mars Hill College; aunts and uncles had preceded me. Carolyn Biggers was Dean of Women, and her sister, Martha, Head of the Music Department. They had held similar positions at Meredith College until Carolyn was involved in a terrible train accident. I was sixteen and a child of the Depression, so Mars Hill proved to be a good choice. The professors were superior, and pre-med and ministerial students dominated the campus. After the first semester, I learned to study and to accept the rigid routine. Each year I worked. My freshmen year I worked for an English professor and sophomore year as a lab assistant.
Most of my peers were transferring to UNC Chapel Hill, and I was set on doing the same. My older brother had graduated from NC State University while my younger brother was still there. Although I was accepted and had a roommate, my older brother insisted that I was too young and immature to face the drinking and smoking at “The Hill’. I went to East Carolina, kicking and screaming. As I look back, I regret not being more challenged, but I doubt that any other road would have led to the same destination.
Pearl Harbor changed the world on December 7, 1941, which was my junior year. It was difficult to concentrate when my brothers and all the males I knew were expected to be called into service any day. Uncertainty was all on which I could depend. Brady graduated from NC State University with the class of 1942 and joined the Army in October of that year. He applied to the Air Corps, as did most of his classmates, and was greatly disappointed when his medical exam showed he was colorblind. That early in the war, chances of survival for a pilot were slim. In the Army’s 2nd Division, he was assigned to Africa, Sicily, and England en route to the continent where he was responsible for supplies for his unit from D-Day until he was captured in Germany and held as a POW before his release six weeks later. When conditions allowed, he kept a diary, but talking about his war experiences later was painful. Among his many awards was a badge with seven Bronze Stars and a District Unit Oak Leaf. We were so thankful that he was spared, as he had spent four years at risk. Many of his classmates were not so fortunate.
Harvey graduated from NC State University the year I enrolled at Mars Hill College. Since he was a teacher, he was deferred from the draft, but after one year he became restless and tried to volunteer for the Navy. Because he was six foot and four inches tall, he was not eligible for either branch of service. Persistent, he was accepted by the Merchant Marines as a purser and assigned to the Pacific theater. While they were at sea, he contracted malaria. The supply of drugs had been depleted, so he didn’t get the needed treatment.
Times were tumultuous. Love reached higher peaks, and sorrow hit lower lows. I lost my second mother on December 9, 1941. Aunt Bessie, who had no children of her own, never met a child she didn’t love. Petite and pretty, she taught first grade at Stanfield before transferring to her hometown, Locust. With a zest for life, she loved teaching first year students because she felt she got them at a most impressionable age. Blessed with many friends, she was kind, thoughtful and generous. She loved good clothes, travel, flowers and all things beautiful. Attending summer school in Asheville was high on her agenda many summers. Once she took me to Asheville for a long weekend at the Battery Park Inn. (F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda were regular guests). All the shop owners knew the generous customer and pampered us.
Since all my mother’s brothers and sisters had heart problems, no one was too concerned that Aunt Bessie was seeing her doctor about her symptoms, until she had a severe heart attack and died in the hospital several days later. I was unable to get transportation to the funeral, but I have always cherished the fond memories of our good times together. One Christmas, I recall she asked Harvey to drive her to deliver food, warm clothing, shoes, blankets, quilts and kerosene to students she knew were in need. A positive influence on the lives of hundreds of children, hers might have been the only love they knew. A joy to her peers, she had many beaux to the end of her fifty-one beautiful years.
My senior year was most unsettling. All the men were shipping out. A friend sent me his wings from Elgin Field, Florida and invited me to his graduation, but I did not go.
Physiology 103 was a dreaded requirement. Many took it as early as possible so they could repeat. Some took it via mail from other schools. The professor graded on the scale; thirty to forty percent expected to fail. All questions on the final were essay. After a few minutes, many students folded and signed their papers and left. Because there were no answers to be found in a book, many were unnerved. It was difficult to believe, but my name was at the top of grade posting.
The last semester I skipped practice teaching in town and was sent to a remote rural village that had seen three English teachers earlier that year. I made and mailed lesson plans for each day. If I got one response per class, I did well. Fathers or brothers were always in the service. There was a lack of respect for the school, the teacher, and lack of discipline in the home. There was no choice but to live in a teacherage with six older teachers. With no transportation but a greyhound bus, I spent three miserable months in an intolerable situation learning nothing, but I did get a salary.
Meanwhile, my Granddaddy Thomas, who had spent the last ten years living with us, died on April 14, 1943, at age ninety-one. He was an adventurous soul. Having been given a large, rich river farm by his father-in-law, he took on the role of gentleman farmer, delegating the labor to his children or other help. Never having met a stranger, he spent his time managing his livery stable in Oakboro, where he leased horses and transportation vehicles. He knew he was a winner when he leased his best-in-house horse and buggy to the town’s first doctor, Dr. Hartsell. I tend to believe he was a native son, but I am not quite sure. Adjacent to the stables, Grandaddy also bought and sold cotton. At age thirteen, he recalled sitting on a fence and watching the Rebels march by. How he longed to be older so he could join the excitement.
To me, his most fascinating adventure took place at age eighteen. Restless and hearing of homesteading in Texas, he hopped a freight train and went to West Texas, where he knew that others from his area had gone. He wasted no time in registering and laying out a generous claim. The deed, to become valid, required that a certain portion had to be under cultivation by a stipulated time. After a few weeks, he and his Indian friends had cleared the brush from a section, laid out fields, and made plans for where crops would be planted. A deal was made with the Chief that he would be in charge until the new landowner could go home, get affairs in order, and return. Every detail seemed to be covered. The new landowner was surprised the morning he went by for one last handshake and was told by the Chief that the only way he could proceed with the plans was by marrying his oldest daughter. Granddaddy had other plans and caught the freighter home, minus his Texas dreams. We can only wonder how many oil wells lay beneath his West Texas empire.
How he regretted not being around during the California Gold Rush. As a reminder, he always carried an 1849 gold piece in a small tin in his breast coat pocket. Too bad he didn’t live in the day when world travel was easy.
Back on campus for the last two weeks of school, recruiting agents were numerous. Females were being interviewed for jobs formerly considered male domain. Punk and I accepted offers from NACA (now NASA) at Langley Field, in Hampton, Virginia. She was a math major. I had a math minor. We each were to become mathematicians reporting to aeronautical engineers. We were to report to work two weeks later.
Harvey drove down for graduation and helped pack my belongings for two weeks at home with my parents and sister. Two professors had approached me with offers for scholarships, one to Ohio State in Economics and the other to Vanderbilt in English or Library Science. Due to the times, graduate offerings were not top priorities. Supporting the cause was. As it was my first real job, the future was frightening, and I often wondered if anything I’d ever done, read or experienced had in any way prepared me for this time.
There are a few sounds, smells and experiences not previously mentioned that should not be omitted, such as Daddy revving up the car in the drive every Sunday morning. He taught the adult men’s Sunday school class from my early remembrances until he became homebound.
Another memory was the smell of homemade yeast rolls most Thursdays when we left the school bus. The yeast came from fresh hops grown on a front porch trellis and had a taste that was not to be duplicated. Usually there would be hot sweet buns the next morning made from the same dough.
Thanksgiving dinner was at our house with Uncle E. B. Smith, Aunt Ollie, and their two children, Margaret and Brady. The men always went hunting, while the women prepared the spread. The rich noodles Aunt Ollie made and brought were actually fettuccine, which I didn’t know until years later and was not able to fully enjoy then because I was counting cholesterol. Mother always made Uncle E. B.’s favorite caramel cake as only she could. You could count on good food any time the Smiths met. The wives of the sons must have been good cooks to qualify. Uncle E. B. was the male version of Aunt Bessie. He was loving, caring, thoughtful, and happy. He was a bearer of gifts. He never met a stranger. He lost his business during the Depression, because he couldn’t say “no” to his customers who forgot him when prosperity returned. He never found the large gold nugget, but he found hundreds of friends.
Daddy was a whiz with figures. He was the treasurer of his church, bank director, chairman of the new Church building committee, the PTA, his lodge and made many calculations for the neighbors. People building a house, barn or garage would bring their dimensions to him and he would itemize the needed lumber and supplies and give them the total cost. He calculated the interest on their anticipated loan. Many sought his advice on financial matters.
Harvey inherited the same affinity for figures. At his high school graduation, he was awarded a gold coin for outstanding math student. Had he lived, he would have been a successful businessman. I watched Dad add columns of six-digit numbers in no time. When I worked, I could add a long column much quicker than the time needed to transfer the numbers to a calculator. After years of experience, I could review a new line of clothing and be able to tell the buyer how much it would cost to put it into eight, eighteen, or twenty-six stores. There were A, B, and C stores with a percent allocated to each, which took out most of the room for error.
Although my father was seventh generation here, he and his father quoted so many of their childhood adages; one could have thought they had just walked down the gangplank. I can remember some:
Good fences make good neighbors.
Never hang your dirty wash on the line.
Beauty is as beauty does.
Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.
The early bird gets the worm.
Birds of a feather flock together.
A stitch in time saves nine.
A penny saved is a penny earned.
Remember when you make your bed; you have to sleep in it.
Beauty is more than skin deep.
An apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Clothes don’t make the man.
Actions speak louder than words.
Right will win out.
Neither a lender nor a borrower be.
The easiest way to lose a friend, lend him money.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Blood is thicker than water.
You can tell a person by the company he keeps.
Never put more on your plate than you can eat.
There’s no friend like an old friend.
There are other ways to kill a cat than choking it on butter.
Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.
Pride comes before the fall.
You have to face yourself in the mirror each morning.
Anything worth doing is worth doing well.
Emily, did you hear these saying at your home as well?
Love,
Chapter Three
New York City
Dear
Emily,
With $900 from the sale of E bonds, supplemented by a meager checking account, I arrived at Penn Station as a frightened young Southern girl. After a few nights at the Barbizon for Women, on the East Side, I realized that my small savings would not last long and moved to the West Side, where I didn't feel safe. Emily, I have you to thank for finding me a place in your building on Morningside Drive, just two blocks from Riverside Drive and convenient to Columbia University, Grant's Tomb, and the magnificent Riverside Church. Amsterdam Avenue provided grocers, cleaners, pharmacy, stationers, as well as transportation.
On my first job, I modeled hats for a custom milliner, Mary Goodfellow, located on East 55th Street, just off Madison Avenue. Ms. Goodfellow had moved from Canada in search of a more lucrative market for her custom-made millinery. She was a talented designer with a successful business of referred customers who expected to pay from $100 to $500 for an original creation. In the late 1940s, walk-in customers did not spend that kind of money. Eleanor Lambeth, fashion editor for "The New York Times", brought in a well-worn nutria coat and wished to have a glamorous hat made. Ms Goodfellow graciously complied.
We were surprised when an unknown Mrs. Nichols walked in one afternoon and after a few minutes ordered three chapeaux for more than $600. When told that they would be ready in three to four weeks, she exclaimed that in three to four weeks she was apt to forget that she had ordered them and go out and order others. After some discussion, she agreed to wait. The transaction would not have been memorable had her husband's picture not appeared on the cover of the "Daily Mirror" the following weekend. Dressed in sailing attire and posing on the deck of a sixty-foot yacht anchored on Long Island Sound, Mr. Nichols' picture carried the headlines: "Banker Swindles $675,000 from Long Island Bank". Today the same story might be lost on page ten, but at that time, it was indeed big news and a rarity. Luckily, Ms. Goodfellow had not had time to start making the hats.
Remember the interesting Japanese couple who lived in our building? They were successful professionals in the city before the war. Their situation was sad. They were forced to be creative to survive. They lived under fear of incarceration, and primarily worked from their apartment. She became a designer and dressmaker and provided my first glimpse into the wholesale market as her model. Appointments with the manager of Polly's on Park Avenue and also with the better dress buyer at the Neiman-Marcus buying office on 5th Avenue made all other jobs pale. Working with the designers and beautiful merchandise, having the chance to be creative and the luxury to travel extensively—it would be difficult to want more.
Emily, you introduced me to the magnificent Riverside Church. I appreciated Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick's superb sermons. The chimes pierced the air as we walked the two blocks toward Riverside Drive and the church. The organ music by organist Virgil Fox mesmerized us while the sunrays pierced the stained glass windows. We were filled with awe and reverence even before the minister rose to speak. Dr. Harry Fosdick was followed by a Scotsman, Dr. Robert James McCraken. Because it was a non-denominational church, it was able to attract the best ministers of all faiths.
You and I seldom missed attending church, but I vividly recall being "laced down" one cold, rainy Sunday morning when I called you to see if we would be facing the elements to attend church. "Louise,” you said, “the South is the only place where people stay home when it rains. Put on your boots, raincoat, and hat. You are in New York City now, act like it."
We lived in the City with the 5th Avenue double-decker bus, the El on 3rd Avenue, the Automat on 5th Avenue, the crowded, stifling subways, the drugstores with signs in the windows: "Cinders Removed— Fifty Cents". How I begrudged spending some of my lunch budget for this uncomfortable procedure.
Every day in New York City was a day filled with new experiences. I lived there in the heyday of the Big Bands. What a rare bonus. Remember dancing under the stars to the Glenn Miller Band? Although the great Glenn Miller had been lost at sea several years earlier, the band had no trouble being booked at the "Glenn Island Casino" up in Rye. Only once did our dates take us to the Meadowbank Club over in Jersey City. The fellows commented that we would have felt safer had they brought a couple of policemen with us. Today the same area is the home of some outstanding restaurants and restored housing. Do you remember when our escorts took us to the Village to observe the "Drag Queens"? What a shocker!
In college I would risk a demerit by staying up to listen to the midnight broadcast of the Big Bands, never once dreaming I would dance to many of them live. Johnny Long's sister was in school with me. We often heard his band at the witching hour.
Many famous bands played at the New York hotels for short or extended engagements, including the Roosevelt, Commodore, Astor, and Biltmore (where we met out-of-towners under the big clock).
Just two blocks toward the City from our apartment was a handsome neoclassical building Butler Hall. Did it belong to Columbia University? After church, we sometimes ate lunch at the Penthouse Restaurant there and we were always on alert to catch a glimpse of its most famous resident—General Dwight D. Eisenhower, president of nearby Columbia University. You saw him the Sunday he spoke at Riverside Church. I had left New York earlier. Thirteen years later, while attending a business meeting at the Beverly Hilton, I was allowed a close up view of the ex-President Eisenhower. Our meeting had recessed for a mid-morning coffee break in the hotel lobby when the security appeared from nowhere and set stanchions in front of the stalled elevator bay. Minutes later, we were greeted by the uniformed general, ex-President of the United States, as he was rushed away by his bodyguards. I was struck by the fact that he was not as tall as his photographs and movies would have you believe, but he was a handsome, well-groomed man.
The only New Year's Eve I ever spent in New York, we had reservations to dance at the Aster and watch the ball drop at midnight. The name of the band escapes me, but it could have been Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Woody Herman, Benny Goodman, Harry James, or Les Brown. (Could we have been jaded?)
I am reminded that we met Fred and Ralph at the Sloan House YMCA at a Friday night dance when you had been invited to be a hostess and had been allowed to include me. Although recently returning from the war, neither man wanted to talk about it. Fred's parents were involved in the fashion business and he and I shared many interests.
Besides lots of dancing, Fred and I saw all the better movies and shows at Radio City Music Hall. One night I commented that most movies did come south, but one had to come to New York to see a Broadway show. On our next date, Fred announced that he had bought tickets for every good play on Broadway; three sets of tickets a week for the next two weeks. The only ones that I remember were "Oklahoma" and Lillian Hellman's "Little Foxes". Few people are so thoughtful. Then, though, I don’t think I fully appreciated it.
Emily, we were in New York at the right time—never a dull moment!
Love,
Chapter Four
Fascinated With Retail — Fascinated With New York
Dear
Emily,
I knew I had found my niche when I went to work on a flying squad at Lord & Taylor. Fresh orange juice and coffee were served from a silver service every morning in the sheltered entrance. The ladies were assisted from their cabs or limousines by immaculately groomed doormen. I attended merchandising classes at New York University two nights a week. Classes were taught by buyers from Macy’s and Bloomingdales.
From the first day, I was sure that Lord & Taylor was different, but I was not prepared for all that happened. One cold, blustering spring morning we arrived to find the street floor transformed into a fairyland. Fifteen twenty-foot blooming cherry trees were planted in huge wooden barrels and were spaced down the three aisles. A delicate perfume permeated the air. On holidays, an organist played from the balcony. Interior displays supported the fashions of the season. For me, everything associated with the store reflected exquisite taste, from the green awnings with the Lord & Taylor long-stemmed rose to the smallest accessory inside.
My favorite location was the Young New Yorker shop on the sixth floor where Anne Fogarty's billowing petticoats underpinned voluminous skirted dresses. Made from beautiful natural fabrics, these dresses carried more appeal than any dresses I had known. Neither junior nor missy, 7th Avenue had finally targeted a customer who had been overlooked, and brought new life to the drab dress departments. Soon accessories followed to complete the look.
The advertising format was unique for its time and influenced the advertising in stores from east to west. The free-flowing, airy style was in opposition to the tight format used by most stores. The windows were by far the most outstanding in the city. On Thursday nights between 8 p.m. and 9 p.m., many people would be waiting outside for the displays to rise (mannequins were dressed on the lower level and all displays were elevated on cue). Often fashion windows had twelve to fifteen mannequins presenting the same fashion statement. Merchants came to see; designers came to sketch; and everyone found inspiration in the fashion execution. A fascinating Christmas display was the miniature facsimile of the store in the mid 1800s. The eight-floor facade was a large lighted tree.
One April morning, a well-dressed lady stopped by the handkerchief department to purchase an all-over embroidered linen handkerchief for one dollar, asked to have it gift-wrapped, cashed a check for $100 so that she would have lunch money, and requested to have her full-length black mink coat sent to her Park Avenue address. She would be meeting a friend for lunch at Club 21. The temperature had risen which made her long coat a bother. Every detail was met within minutes, accompanied by a smile and a "thank you".
Dorothy Shaver, the forty-something-year-old president of Lord & Taylor, arrived by cab each morning twenty minutes before the store opened. She wore a black dress or black suit and made her way through the handbag department en route to the eighth floor express elevator. She called many of the sales girls by name (everyone at Lord & Taylor was referred to as either "Miss" or "Mr.". I had thought this only a Southern custom). Often Ms. Shaver would stop for a chat and ask about the families. She had started as a comparison shopper and progressed up the ladder, but she did not forget her former friends.
It was at one of her evening self-improvement classes that I was first introduced to opera. A knowledgeable person from the city's music world discussed "Carmen" while we listened to the recording. Not long afterwards, you and I brought our bedroom slippers down to work, bought a standing room ticket for a dollar and saw the real "Carmen" at the old opera house. Was it West 39th Street? What better way to be introduced to opera than a night of "Carmen” with Rïse Stevens?
Sunday afternoon outings took Fred and me to Fort Tryon Park, the Cloisters, Bronx Zoo, and the 5th Avenue museums. The organ music at the Frick Museum was the perfect background for contemplating the Old Masters, and the Frick was not as bewildering as the Met. The Vermeer was my favorite. You knew the Little Rock, Arkansas girl, Blanche, who was librarian at the Frick Museum.
Someone in our group commented that Southern girls seemed to be favorite social secretaries, especially if they included Katherine Gibbs in the resume. Your friend, Alma, was social secretary for Mrs. Francis DuPont in Wilmington, Delaware. One weekend the two were in New York and invited you to join them for high tea at the Waldorf on Saturday afternoon. I don't know how I rated an invitation unless it was to prevent you from traveling alone, but we put on the best we had and met Mrs. DuPont and Alma on the Waldorf balcony. I was nervous as a kitten, but managed not to spill anything. Although I do not remember how Mrs. DuPont looked, I recall that she was warm and made one feel comfortable. It was a double feast—one for the eyes and one for the taste buds. After we completed our dainty sandwiches and an assortment of cakes, Mrs. DuPont turned to Alma and asked how much tip she should leave. I had a North Carolina friend from Rockingham who was social secretary for Helen Hayes. One of her assignments was to drive Mrs. Hayes back and forth between her Nyack home and the theater.
Another Southerner seeking to make her mark in New York was Jerri from West Virginia. After getting her M.A. in food service at Columbia University, she worked in her chosen field at Schrafft's Restaurant, a popular lunch and tearoom. Some locations served dinner. Plans were underway for her to marry an older man who was seeking a musical career when I left the city. Not long after they were married, she lost her parents in a tragic automobile accident. Since she was the only heir, she sold the apple orchards in West Virginia and bought two or three grand apartments in the fashionable Hotel des Artistes off Central Park at 1 West 67th Street. The couple occupied one apartment while you and others from Morningside Drive moved into another.
Few working girls were so lucky. I would have loved to be so fortunate. I think I visited you only once on a return trip, but I can still vividly see the entrance into the spacious room with an extremely tall, vaulted ceiling. The architecture was Jacobean. There was an enormous stone fireplace with an exposed chimney that climbed to the twenty-five-foot ceiling. It had leaded glass windows that filled much of the outside wall, and wide, dark oak floors throughout. The tiny bedrooms and bath were situated on the balcony and afforded little privacy. One bedroom and bath fit snugly behind the main room. Daylight flooded the downstairs, which was perfect for the artist studio for which it was designed.