The Cafe' Chronicles at SoHo/Coffeehouse/6832/ Best viewed with MSIE 5. ~ AOL users please "maximize" your screen.
of the 20th Century 
hang like tattered drapes, rustling in the musty breeze of days gone by. . .
I always loved going to Grandma's snug little house with the floor furnace, out-dated decore' and heavy metal venetian blinds -- hers long before these window treatments became a fashion statement. The scene depicted an era before my birth, harboring tell-tale signs of my grandmother's younger days. As a child, I was unaware her furnishings were then considered unstylish. The simple setting equated comfort and tranquility, and even then I was intrigued by mementos from years preceding my own. Visiting my grandparents every Sunday was as much a part of growing up as spending Friday afternoons strolling with my mother through downtown.
 On the corner of Main and Park sits an abandoned building, secreting its past from Shawnee's newer residents. At this address, a large ornamental chicken was once mounted above the entrance of a little cafe where my daddy sometimes treated us to lunch. Further down on east Main, The Grand Cafe was a frequently patronized stop for supper, where I learned it was rude to turn around in our booth and watch the customers behind me. Like drive-in theaters, jukebox cafes are now a turned page in history. With the revolution by fast food industries, Hamburger King and Benton's Cafe are Shawnee's only survivors of the coffee shop holocaust.
An assortment of fine retailers now occupy Main Street's historical sites, offering a wide variety of trinkets, necessities and gifts. Yet, shopping downtown Shawnee certainly isn't what it once was. As I stroll the friendly sidewalks which emanate ghosts of a million foot steps, I'm taken back to a gentler time, now lost forever to the mall generation. The Saturday shopping experience packed up and moved north, in heartless theft of my childhood souvenirs. With sophisticated elegance, the massive shopping mall lured and captured the few heroic survivors from the once indispensable downtown area. In giving life to new wave boutiques and super stores, the mall indiscriminately compelled the less fortunate five-and-dime's to drift quietly into the recesses of a dying memory. My children will never know shopping as I did.
Downtown was a whimsical treat, with its three-story buildings looming like benevolent giants welcoming each familiar face. Now accommodating a new medley of merchandisers, the courageous structures remain, silently remembering Downtown in its original grandiosity. And I, too, cannot forget that part of my life, once taken for granted, but now permanently embedded within my more pleasant recollections. Still vivid in my mind is the massive gray, sparkled stairway at Sears' leading upward to the children's department -- and to the heavy door enclosing the women's rest room which caught and mangled my little toes more than once. Colossal stairways in every major department store entertained tired and bored children while Mother browsed for a Sunday dress. So many stairs to climb and to count, one by one. Stairs rising upward to the toy section or where we peered over railings to watch the shoppers below, stairs descending to departments without windows and those spilling downward to forbidden basements, where my older sister convincingly warned was the devil's dwelling.
Shawnee residents then feverishly anticipated the coming of July's Krazy Daze when Downtown hosted a week-long extravaganza. Although this occasion continues as part of Shawnee's heritage, its pomposity has diminished over the years. Once an excitedly frantic time for thrifty housewives, all spring and summer clothing prices were drastically reduced, marking the arrival of the latest fall fashions. For the kids, Krazy Daze was a time of celebration. Squealing gleefully for the accompanying carnival, we ran freely through the middle of Main Street from one ride to the next. All of Downtown participated in the annual bazaar, every employee dressed in costume, doling out balloons and treats to the eager children. Lining the sidewalks sat clothing racks and tables of enticing delights priced for liquidation. Alongside the exterior cash registers sat portable ice boxes where over-heated consumers could purchase a cold, ten-cent bottled soft drink or ice cream sandwich. This yearly event was more of a festival than a mere outdoor sale.
I long for the soda fountains of Woolworth's and Owl Drug, with their tall, swivel stools standing like soldiers saluting our leisurely pause for a tuna sandwich and cherry coke. Just outside the doors of today's Pott. County Book Store is the only remaining remnant of the Kress we once knew. Its gold embossed name burnished in marble preserves the memories of tiny distant footsteps from the child I once was. Many a Saturday I spent in the back of a small, vacant "shotgun" building which my mother and aunt often rented for rummage sales. Conjoined with this glass-front edifice was a shoe repair shop, offering shoe shines from a barber's chair just in front of its entry. This trite little structure was later remodeled and now houses the sporting goods department of Baptist's. Just a few doors west, among the near-forgotten emporiums we once frequented thrived a little five-and-dime by the name of Varner's where my mother often purchased sewing and knitting supplies. I also remember standing in line at Gibson's, joyfully waiting to trade in our old stiff- legged Barbies for the new dolls with long hair and bendable legs -- the very Barbie dolls which are now high-priced collector's items. If only my mother had known the fate of that generous exchange!
My childhood years silently echo across the stores and
sidewalks of a shopping era sacrificed for the mall age. The giant super stores, with all their customer conveniences under one large roof cannot contend with the genteel spirit of yesterday's quaint little department stores. Likewise, as much as I admire modern home interiors, they are no competition for the cozy security of my grandma's old house. Maybe that's why second-hand shops occupying the run-down sites on east Main draw me like a magnet. When I step through their archaic doorways, it's like crossing a threshold from the modern world of electronics into the mystical enchantment of my grandma's house. Hardwood floors squeak beneath my feet, the atmosphere draped with a mild, musty scent of rarely visited quarters. Translucent shades dim the room, restraining yesterday from slipping elusively into the bright sunlight of the present. I am captivated by its quietly persuasive pleas. As I listen to the ancient stillness protected within these unfashionable walls, I could almost swear I hear voices of the people we used to be. A hazy, oblique magic embraces me upon escaping into these keepers of the sacred past. Infiltrating my mind with tranquility, the sudden time warp instantly evicts any trespassers of today's concerns. The richest and most lush of these breath-taking domains are Greene's, Old Santa Fe Trading Post, and the Sunshine emporium. Herein lie relics from my childhood, displaying untouched memory transcending the vortex of time. On the rare occasion my hectic life frees me for an afternoon, there's no place I'd rather be than enthralled in the spell-binding surroundings of precious antiquities. There I can squander the hours, mesmerized by a time which finds no place but reminiscence in our world of advanced technology. Many more of these little shops grace east Main, some tidy and organized, others stacked and cluttered, but each one emanating a wizardry enticement. I feel as though I've entered a pirate's cavern, laden with rare and priceless treasures gathered across the voyage of decades. I feel blessed with the privilege of gazing reverently upon these discretely hidden treasures. For but a small price, I may pick and choose from among the gems and bring them home to majestically transform my own portal in time. As long as their doors remain open, I will possess a key which unlocks the maps leading even into my grandparent's youth. These tattered, yet charming second-hand shops are a nostalgia buff's paradise, a sweet haven for the high-tech-weary soul, and are precious reminders of carefree childhood to all us sentimental hearts. Their walls encase timeless mementos, obsolete and forsaken artifacts of Grandma's house. ( © copyright-Gayla L. Pledger )
The Southern Hospitality House, where you are sure to be pleased with the entertainment. The Hospitality House is a vintage post card collection, displayed for your viewing pleasure. Come and feast your eyes on these treasures of yester-year ~ most, if not all of these cards are now out of print, dating from the early 1930's through the early 1960's. If you enjoy memorabillia, Miss Issy's Inn is the place for you! Located at BourbonStreet/Square/8597/
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They can't be won at the carnivals for free ~ It took me years, to get those souviners, And I don't know how they slipped away from me..." ~ John Prine
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Gayla L. Pledger. The written material contained herein is the original work of Gayla L. Pledger ( © copyright-Gayla L. Pledger ) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrival system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means: electronic, mechanical, printed copies, recording, or otherwise; without the prior written consent of the author and copyright owner of this material. For personal use of any material contained in this publication, permission may be requested by contacting Argentinum@aol.com
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