I took the greeting card out of the brown bag and propped it on the music holder. It seemed perfect for the occasion. I felt lucky to have found an anniversary card that I hadn’t already given to my son and daughter-in-law.
That usually pleasant task hadn’t always taken so much effort, but shopping has been revolutionized during my lifetime. When I was a preteen I ordered blouses from the Sears Roebuck printed catalog--a 160-page tome weighing almost two pounds. I carefully filled out the form in the back of the book, wrote the item number and color that I wanted, stuck it in an envelope with the correct number of dollar bills, licked a stamp, and stuck it on the envelope. Then I’d ask my sisters to drop it at the post office when they went to town.
In high school I had the wonderful pleasure of browsing through Mamee’s small dress shop (too expensive for me), and shopping at Penney’s in Ortonville. I could enjoy the true colors and finger the textures of the fabrics in both stores. One fall afternoon in Mamee’s I held up a deep green taffeta evening dress toward the window and watched as reflected sunbeams of the lowering sun set shimmering waves of greens as I swished the garment, imitating dance movements.
In August following my graduation from high school, my mother and I drove to Watertown. There, in larger stores with huge inventories, I excitedly selected my college wardrobe.
Later, when I moved to Manhattan, in what I now view as the golden years of my shopping life, I’d use my lunch break, not to eat, but rather to rush to Lord and Taylor’s on Fifth Avenue to search for sale items. The structure itself was grand with brass doors, marble floors and pillars, and I felt a transient sense of importance just upon entering the store. Once inside, mannikins sporting the very latest couture creations were displayed on pedestals high above my head. Even if a shopper couldn’t afford them, she now knew what stylish women would be wearing during the following season.
Shopping remained pretty much the same for me until a number of years ago. At that time almost all of the large department stores, after a series of downsizing, succumbed to a major change. Shopping, not in person, but on the internet had taken hold.
Young people were the earliest fans of the internet and began to shop entirely online. Gradually all age groups adopted this efficient, but dull, way of shopping. I hated it. There was no personal interaction. No clerk remembered your preferences and steered you in the right direction. And more upsetting was that I couldn’t see the actual colors of the garments. Yes, the sweater was blue, but what shade of blue? The digital photos were inaccurate. After placing my order and receiving the package, I learned that “turquoise” might describe a hum-drum shade of green. “Navy” could be a smudgy black. And size? A “ten” might be a “twelve” or even a “fourteen”!
Department stores and Mom and Pop businesses alike fell into bankruptcy. However during this tumultuous time, a few wonderful specialty stores that carried clothing apparel, household goods, and greeting cards managed to hang on for a year or two, then filed for bankruptcy, and closed. Loyal customers wrote notes of condolence and taped them to dusty store windows. My neighborhood began to have the feel of a ghost town.
Greeting cards, too, lost their popularity, supplanted by Facebook greetings and e-cards. I used to pride myself on choosing “just the right” card for each person. But in today’s world fewer cards are being printed, and even fewer designs are being created. The small shops within walking distance from my apartment carry identical ones.
Last week I traipsed to each one of these shops. As I examined the cards with appropriate greetings and images—working hard to avoid the overly sentimental and cliché-ridden-- I wondered: Had I sent that one last year, or the year before, or perhaps the year before that? Or had I merely considered it one of those times? At last I found a “new” one with a beautiful image and a perfect greeting. I bought it.
Taking it from the piano the next morning, I began to sign it. Then I stopped. It looked very familiar. I knew I hadn’t sent it. Then I remembered. The card was so remarkable that my daughter-in-law had displayed it, and I’d seen it on a recent visit.
Was I forced into drawing a card? Not my talent at all.
Instead I pulled out my stash of blank cards. After debating, I selected one with a beautiful image of an ilathera, a green-winged teal duck, on the front. It’s a replica of an antique engraving created using an especially time-consuming seldom-used technique.
After writing a personal message, but before I addressed the envelope, I held the illustration up to the window. The greens changed, shifting with the movements of my hand, just as the colors of that green taffeta dress had so long ago in that tiny shop on Ortonville’s main street.