My first official job, landed when I was fifteen and two days old, was washing dishes at a local restaurant. I considered myself financially emancipated the first day I walked through the back door entry of that establishment, tied a huge white apron clumsily around my skinny midriff and stuck my hands in a deep basin reeking of clorox. Slowly as I proved I wasn’t too scrawny and/or weak to do the job (a contention that both my employer and my mother later admitted they believed might be the case) my hours were increased. First, it was three hours during the Sunday dinner rush, then three hours during Friday night fish-fry madness. Later, four hours on Saturday night were added to my shift. It was 1968 and minimum wage was $1.50 per hour. Employers were allowed to pay “student wages”, which were about forty cents less than the official minimum wage. By the official start of summer in June of 1968, I was taking home between $10 and $12 weekly.
I determined that I was going to save almost all my paycheck, available in cash every Wednesday afternoon, for new school clothes in the fall. I further determined that I would have complete control over these purchases since it was my own money! The purchasing of school clothes was always a source of conflict because of my mother’s drive toward practicality and thrift, and my wish to look good and have clothes that others admired. Every week after collecting my pay, ten dollars went immediately to an envelope labeled “school clothes” that was carefully hidden away in my top dresser drawer. Anything over and above the $10, I allowed myself to spend on an occasional ice cream or 45 rpm record.
Right before Labor Day, with $100 accumulated through heavy sweating in that steamy kitchen without air conditioning, mom dropped me off downtown in our small town for my first solo shopping expedition. I know she was nervous about leaving me alone downtown unsupervised with $100, an amount at least five times more than I’d ever had in my possession at one time. Me? I was delirious with a delight that would be short-lived.
Even though I was determined to make my own decisions, I wanted to act responsibly. I knew that even though it was my own money, if I didn’t spend wisely my mother would never permit me to do it again, at least not as long as I lived under her roof. First I needed shoes. If I didn’t go home with shoes, I sensed I would be in trouble. I might add here that I HATE spending money on shoes. And coats. And underwear. I submit my apologies to my daughter, nieces, best friend, and anyone else who is likely to feel apoplectic and need to sit down while absorbing that statement. I know I am in the minority here. But I hate spending discretionary money on non-discretionary items. Did then, do now.
Shoes were a never-ending source of disagreement between my mother and me. There was something “wrong” with my feet that made my mother (with the shoe salesman's support) always insist that I get “correction shoes.” Translation: ugly saddle shoes that tied, and not the pretty, feminine patent leather Mary Jane’s with buckles my peers wore. But I was heading toward 10th grade. It was my money. They were my feet. Still, my mother’s voice was firmly situated in my head. I sat in a stiff chair in Cultrara’s Shoe Store, where I was fitted year after year since Kindergarten for ugly Buster Brown’s, and debated what to do. In the end, I left the store with a compromise pair of shoes. They did sport shoe laces, so uncool, but they were softer material than saddle shoes, and they were a solid light brown color, not the tell-tale black/white or dark brown/white that cried “baby shoe” with every step. Sigh. I was also set back over $20 for those shoes, which distressed me no end. I really resented spending my hard-earned cash for things I needed.
Next stop, C.L. Carr Co., a locally-owned department store, and their “junior” department. Carr’s was an upscale shop, one in which we sometimes browsed longingly, but rarely bought. My mother determined that their merchandise was too expensive. My clothing was more likely to be purchased from the Surprise Store, also locally owned, which mom deemed more reasonable, or through Montgomery Ward’s or Sears’ mail order. C.L. Carr Co., however, carried beautiful clothing, and I aspired to be their customer. I wasted probably 45 minutes of precious time in Carr’s dressing room, trying on several items of clothing, before deciding on a lined wool red, black and white plaid jumper with a pleated skirt. I knew when I walked out of the store, my stash $30 lighter, that I had made a mistake with the assistance of an over-involved salesperson whose goal was to score a sale. [I believe this is the genesis of my aversion to all salespeople. To this day, “Can I help you” turns my stomach inside out, and activates my “Keep away from me, I bite” scowl.] My mother was right – it was too expensive. And she would later scold me for having bought something that needed – heaven forbid – DRY CLEANING. Adding insult to injury, Carr’s had a “credit voucher” only return policy. Getting my money back for this frivolous purchase was not an option.
This was discouraging. I worked so hard for my money and after 90 minutes and two purchases, half of it was gone. The rest of my shopping trip is less clear, although I know that I bought a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar to wear under the jumper. I also remember that the more economical W.T. Grant’s clothing department also played a role in the rest of my shopping that day. For those too young to remember Grant’s, think K-Mart on a smaller scale. When my mom picked me up at the end of the afternoon, I wasn’t feeling any of the elation I had expected to feel. Instead I felt discouraged that I had little to show for my summer of labor. If I worked that hard and got so little in return, well….It was clear to me that I was going nowhere.
As we drove silently out of town on the way home for dinner, I contemplated the events of the afternoon, and determined that it was going to be impossible to get what I wanted in life.
