Things I Miss: Part I

by Eleanor Lippman        

The automat.

I was the skinny kid with glasses who wore braces on her teeth. Every other week on Thursdays after school, I boarded the bus to go to downtown Philadelphia in order to visit the orthodontist and have my braces ‘readjusted’. It took an hour or two before the pain and discomfort set in, and when it did, I was then forced to eat pureed baby food for the next day or two.

Somehow, I discovered the Horn and Hardat Automat, and on leaving the dentist’s office, I entered that palace of food, and with a few nickels retrieved from their little cubbies plates of Harvard beets, whipped mashed potatoes, apple pie, and other soft foods, cooked to perfection and drowned in butter. Eating there was my reward for the upcoming discomfort that was sure to set in as part of the misery of wearing braces.

For everyone who never experienced Automat food, well, that’s just too bad. And I understand their nickel cup of coffee was marvelous.

Announcing the time of day during radio programs.

Some mornings when I wake early and don’t need to get out of bed, I turn on the radio and stay snuggled in comfort half asleep and half-awake barely listening to what is being broadcast. I wish they announced the time of day during their breaks and segues into other topics, so I could keep track of time without moving a muscle. It is no longer possible because most of the time I am listening to recordings and rebroadcasts and not live people. It also means that if something happening is worth reporting, well, it isn’t. Recordings can’t respond.

And they never tell you what time it is.

Telephone operators directing your call

How many times have I telephoned a business to ask a question only to hear a recorded multitude of options to press a number for further information. Which button to push? Which option can provide the answer to my question? If I am lucky, hitting the “0” will get me to a live operator, but not always. Oh, how I miss a live person answering the telephone immediately and directing my call to the right place or answering my question quickly.

Dream on. It’s called progress. And a waste of my time.

The worst of the worst is the telephone number at the Medical Clinic at Rogue Valley Manor, where I live. Try calling the Clinic, and you will get a recorded choice of options. If you choose to contact one of the nurse practitioners who could possibly answer your question, you are then faced with another series of button options for one of the three nurse practioners on call. If you happen to choose the one where you are directed to that person’s voice mail message and decide to try your luck talking instead to one of the others; well, you have to start all over again.

Call again, get the options which lead you to additional options.

You know the rest. Maddening.

Neighborhood stores

I grew up in a brick north-Philadelphia row house neighborhood with excellent public transit, neighborhood schools, and mom and pop businesses, all within walking distance from my home. This was all before the huge ‘A and P’ grocery store showed up and destroyed everything; its location required needing a car to shop. Before ‘A and P’ arrived, all within a two or three block radius of my house there was a butcher store, an ice cream store that sold newspapers and magazines, a small grocery store, a bakery, a delicatessen, a fresh fish store, two drug stores that had a weekend pact where one was always open when the other was closed, a dental office, a doctor’s office, and a store that specialized in women’s nylon stockings. Our little neighborhood was very self-contained. Today, all those items and much more are sold in mall mega stores staffed with low-paid employees, and the store’s profits do not benefit the local community.

And, I miss the smell of fresh baked goods as I passed the bakery on my way to and from school when I was a kid.

Mountain streams safe enough to drink from, Sierra cup hanging from my belt

I was introduced to hiking in the mountains and hills of southern California by the Sierra Club shortly after I arrived in Riverside, California, in 1963. All hikers were advised to carry ‘the ten essentials’ (sorry, I can’t remember a single one), wear properly equipped Vibram soled hiking boots and have a tin Sierra cup hanging from a belt loop. I entered each trail breathing in the fresh, clean mountain air, and started walking. What I remember from those first hikes was kneeling by a mountain stream and using my trusty Sierra cup, drinking the cool water to slake my thirst. I can’t remember when it was that I hung up my Sierra Cup and began carrying a container of water on hikes as mountain streams were soon rumored to be infested with Giardia and were not safe to drink.

No need for my Sierra cup anymore. Nice memory while it lasted, though.

Real bagels not white bread baked in the shape of a doughnut

I first noticed that bagels were no longer bagels when a deli opened up near where I lived in Riverside, California, in the 1990’s. It was called See’s Bagels because the last name of the owner was “See.” Makes sense. But the owner didn’t count on the See’s Candy Company trademarking every name they could think of in case of future expansion. Although there was never a See’s Coffee Shop, or See’s Restaurant, or See’s Bagels, they owned the right and our See’s Bagels became 42^nd Street Bagels overnight. Curious, and a true bagel lover forever, I bought one.  Apparently, ‘super-size-me’ invaded the bagel world, because 42^nd Street was selling bagels apparently on steroids, blimp bagels, bagels that didn’t come close to the ones I knew from my childhood in Philadelphia with a smooth crust and delicious narrow waist. Interestingly, I was invited to a brunch in Philadelphia around the same time as See’s Bagels changed its name and, in Philadelphia, they still served authentic, classic bagels, the kind I remember from my childhood, probably the last time I ever had one.

The final blow: although they were a poor excuse for a bagel, I occasionally bought a few at my neighborhood Winco grocery store, where, by the way, they sold an amazing variety of (fake) bagels (?) from seeded types to Hawaiian and so on.