christmas 2016

decoration bought at Wheatons, Mal Jr made santa kindergarden

our 25th wedding bell always on tree

ornament from Quebec City, our first night of honeymoon

 

 

Christmas 2016 and we are ready. Also while out shopping met

a few old friends from Riverview We hung with and that to me is

the best part of Christmas.  When I was a young girl Mom would take

me to MRA's and our shopping would be done in one night,we also would

meet lots of other friends and stop for a lunch in the tea room .

 here is a

write up an elevator girl at MRA's... wrote

 

  "When I was nineteen, I worked at MRA's (Manchester Robertson Allison), which was a very old, and original, three or four-storey, British department store in Saint John. It was a landmark building that stood where Brunswick Square is now built. It fronted on King St., and had a side door across the street from the back door of the Saint John City Market. It still grieves me to think of that beautiful old historical building being torn down, and the loss of history that went with it. As a child, I got pulled around by my mother, throughout that store, on a frequent basis, especially during Christmas. It was always decorated so elegantly, and had such wonderful departments, and oh, those old manually-controlled elevators, and the delightful elevator girls who drove them. To me, as a little girl, they were akin to the New York City Rockettes, all glamourous, and confident. I wanted to be just like them.

MRA's figured largely throughout my life, growing up in Saint John. It was a family place, and one always ran into old friends. I spent hours in their over-stocked, and chaotic toy department, never mindful of the dusty, old shelves, or scuffed wooden floors, while my mother stood, and chatted, more than she ever shopped. I suspect she made the trip from our outlying area, to uptown Saint John, just for that purpose, because we never had money to buy the stunningly-fashionable clothing and shoes she so adored, or the kitchen appliances she wanted so badly, or the wonderful things available for children, but we went there to dream, anyway.......and to run into old friends, and their children, doing just that.

After a bit of shopping, there was the customary visit to the third floor tea room. There was a smallish cafeteria, as well, but it wouldn't do to be caught hanging out at a lunch counter, when those who professed to know better could only be seen in the tea room. So up we went, with me curtseying in the way I'd been taught, to several elderly ladies of that staid, old society, and eternally trying to make my mother proud. The tea room was intimidating for a child, but accepting, nonetheless. It had large, colourful booths, tables covered with squares of spotlessly-clean tablecloths, and was noisy, regardless of it's reputation for serving the older patrons. Those ancient peoples were the strong, unyielding glue that held our neighbourhoods together, back in those very communal days. We ordered tea, of course, in delicate china cups, and full of milk, and sugar. It was the best treat of my young life.

MRA's wasn't always the stuff that dreams were made of. In 1961, I believe it was, I was there Christmas shopping with my mother, and father, and younger brother, Billy. I had with me, a beautiful Raggedy Ann rag doll that I'd gotten for Christmas the year before. She was my constant companion, at age eight. No one knew me better. I was deposited in the toy department, along with Billy, because you could do that back then, seemingly without worry. After about a half hour of clamouring gleefully, and noisily through the myriad of wooden toys, story books, and decorations, we were collected by my father, and hurried out of the store. No one told us why we were being evacuated so quickly, and why we were destined to miss our anticipated trip to the tea room. As we drove away, up King Street, I glanced up the side street toward the market, and saw an old ambulance parked by the side door of the store. As a child, this frightened me, because you learn what these vehicles mean, and you learn to never want to be in one.

After we were home, I sat outside on our clothesline stoop, and overheard my mother on the telephone. A young girl's body had been found in the upstairs stock room of the store. Her name was, **********, and she, too, had been eight year's old. Her mother had left her to play in the toy department, and a young stock boy, named, **********, had lured her up the stairs to the stock room, saying her mother had summoned her, and wanted him to bring her there, and there he murdered her ........according to the newspaper. He was found crying on the stairs leading to the stock room. My brother and I would never be found again, alone in the toy department.

So, as I said, MRA's held a lot of my childhood history, up to and including my teen years, when I secured one of my first jobs there. I worked first in the shoe department, and then in the, "Notions", department. What is a, "Notions", department, you ask? "Notions" are all things that weren't deserving to be designated as department worthy on their own. Things such as buttons, zippers, masking tape, embroidery supplies, knitting needles, egg timers, and a mishmash of other useful, yet, non-fashion, and slower-selling items. It was a department for browsing for elusive bits of anything, and everything; the proverbial, "junk drawer", of the store. I was nineteen at the time, and slightly pregnant, having been married for three years. The, "Notions", department was very close to the store cafeteria/lunch counter, and after a month, the smells of fried onions, and greasy food permeating the, "Notions", department, was constantly giving me the "notion" to vomit. I worked day after day, feeling nauseated, and able to lunch only at the city market, where I could buy a fresh tomato, and a homemade, very plain chicken sandwich. I lived on that for as long as I could, and then spoke with the manager of my department. I guess I fully expected, as being fully expectant, that I'd be let go.

As I said, a lot of history happened in MRA's for me, and this was to be one more elevated moment in my young life. It seems, that after never dreaming it possible, I was to be given an opportunity to be one of those chosen, and very elite, Elevator Girls. Chance of a lifetime!........and far enough away from food smells, that I worked the rest of the time I was able, without another moment of sickness. I did it proudly, loudly, and with utmost confidence, because I knew I'd reached the pinnacle of MRA society, and that was really something in Saint John.

MRA's had three very large, archaic elevators. You know, the type you've see in movies from old hotels in Chicago, and New York?.....the one's with the death trap doors, and metal cages, and big levers inside to stop the elevator, and the girl who stood by that lever, and pulled it at the appropriate moment to stop the elevator floor flush with the building's floors......the girl who wore the uniform, and stepped partially out the door, still holding the lever with her right hand, and yelled loudly, "GOING UP", or, "GOING DOWN". I was that girl. I was also the girl who was terrified, but did not allow that to cost me that opportunity. I was that girl who kept the riders in my elevator calm when, in the beginning, I missed the floor, had to re-close the door, realign, and give them a minor step up out of the elevator, rather than a waist-high climb. I was that girl who didn't lose her cool when someone turned off the electricity at the end of the store hours and trapped me in there with several shoppers. It didn't last long, but it taught me that I wasn't going to die alone in the dark with strangers.

A lot of my young history has faded into the past, along with MRA's. That brings me to my real reason for writing this little memoir of an interesting time in my youth. I recently reclaimed a friend who I haven't seen in over forty years. We've reconnected on Facebook, after my several attempts to search for her there. She wasn't sure who I was, because I have a different name, and a very different face, but she looked exactly the same to me. I can't remember how long we hung out together during that difficult time in my life, or how we parted, except to think that I reconciled with my husband of the day, and moved to the land of his parents, and out of the city. Life was like living on the page of a comic book back then, and every day was, "WHIZ!....ZAP!.....BOOM!....BANG.....YIKES!.....ETC!......and after that, I was everywhere but Saint John. All I've really had left of this friendship was an old photo, and a memory that I had liked this girl very much, an impression that she'd been someone really worth having as a friend. I'd always regretted that I'd lost touch with her. I couldn't even remember how we'd met, until I'd recently had a chance to ask her.
So,.....this little bit of old film reel is dedicated to five people,.....my parents, and my brother, Billy, and to *********', who lost her 8-year-old life, all those years ago. Last, but not least, lovingly dedicated to my fellow "Elevator Girl", Brenda Belyea. After all the, "UPS", and, "DOWNS", thank-you for once again being a part of my life. :)"
Patsy O'Brien