An institution is gone from the corner where West Union crosses King Street. Oh, the tan brick building is still there, taking up much of the block and housing a furniture chain; but the large, fat letters proclaiming "WOOLWORTH'S" now presumably lie forgotten beneath tons of red clay, bedsprings, and mis-matched socks in the city landfill.

Bright in my memory, however, are those summer afternoons spent munching crisp, hot French fries and sipping Pepsi through two straws. If I sat at the counter, my aunt in her ketchup-spotted apron would grill a hamburger for me. It was no different from the ones she served other people, but always seemed to have more flavor than those prepared by less-loved hands.

Club BLT's in those days came with two slices of ripe tomato in each section, and enough bacon and lettuce that I had to stretch my mouth to take a bite--all for less than 60 cents. Reading the menus and colorful (if garish) posters on the wall behind the grill, the soft-drink dispenser, and the ice machine, tempted me to treat myself to a banana split. Whole pies and cakes under their plastic flycovers urged, "Have a slice" so temptingly that I often succumbed. Coffee was served in green glass cups that looked strangely translucent, giving the impression that, if dropped, they would shatter into hundreds of thin shards. But I never saw one broken, or even chipped.

If I chose a booth, I could watch the occasional cars moving through hypnotic changes of red-yellow-green, or pedestrians stopping to peer into the store with shaded eyes while waiting for the "walk" signal. Usually the latter were retired ladies with a purse in one hand, and a brown paper shopping bag weighted at the bottom with a few purchases. There would be a discussion, after which the pair came in for refreshments and a stroll between the counters to visit the parakeets and hamsters in the pet section at the back.

Outside, on the corner, groups of little tanned boys, bare-foot and wearing swimming trunks, crossed on their way to the recreation center pool in the next block. Going, their towels were dry, sometimes neatly folded. Returning, the towels were wet and wrinkled, and likely to be used as a weapon in an attempt to snap a blister on softened skin. Amid lively chatter, or shouted good-byes, several of the children would swoosh open the heavy glass doors and make their way to the stools, twirling around on them until the waitress filled their orders.

After lunch, or snack of fries and iced Coke, a leisurely half-hour of browsing could net me a red-flowered plastic basket full of notions ranging from a birthday card for Aunt Ethel, to that spool of yellow thread needed to sew buttons on my handmade school blouse. At the next counter, a wide selection assured the correct choice of button, as well as yarn for a knitted scarf.  The record display was one of my favorites (next to the bins of milk chocolate, peanut brittle, and nougat sold by the ounce or pound). I spent most of my time deciding which 5/$1.00 45 rpm's I needed to augment my collection. A new brass rack an arm's length away attested to the shrewdness of the customer-traffic analyst.

An array of lamps, artificial flowers, and household gadgets, intriguing though they were, took a backseat to my chief interest: office and art supplies. From the days of book bags to the present need for bond typing paper and fine-point felt tip pens, I enjoyed the colorful trays of Crayolas, composition books, file folders, LePage's glue, and plastic rulers.

Lightweight and inexpensive summer clothing rubbed shoulders with a variety of handbags and wallets. Combs, curlers, pins, and barrettes of every sort caught my attention, though I might have gone in to buy underwear or bedroom shoes. Beside the rest rooms, before I ended my tour, I might decide we needed a new oilcloth for our eat-in kitchen table. Contact paper in matching patterns cost only $1 a roll.

For those birthday and Christmas presents that didn't require lavish expense, Woolworth's was the place to go. Kitchen tongs for Mary, a hammer for handyman Tom. Stocking-stuffers overflowed my bag, sometimes finding their way in duplicate into my household.  It was a treat to leave the snowy sidewalk for the warm interior of the big, friendly store, where I knew I could find that belt for Sonny, and have a fragrant and tasty bag of popcorn or cashews.

When I heard that our store was closing, the news saddened me. I remembered the demise, some years earlier, of the Eagle Five and Dime. I was sorry for not rescuing more of the nostalgia-laden baby dolls and discontinued dishes, not to mention jewelry.  I determined that for the coming weeks of stock liquidation, I would haunt the Woolworth aisles, soaking up atmosphere and filling my shopping basket with items whether I needed them or not. Two pairs of cloth sandals, a furry rug for the bathroom, a number of hardback books in dust jacket. Treasures--some lasting, some not. 

Amid the greedy crowd of customers whose patronage had fallen off over the last years, I stood before a ravaged assortment of music boxes and debated whether to spend $7 more on a dented tin one, painted with a clown face and capable of playing a tune I wanted very much. In the end, my Scotch blood won out and I left that toy for someone else. I have always regretted it.