Wini and the King of Someplace - 4. IV. Part 2 – Chapter 2: The Buster Brown Boy

IV. Part 2 – Autumn/Winter 1912

Chapter 2: The Buster Brown Boy

Saint Louis, Mo.

Friday, December 6, 1912

Dearest Mother,

I received your letter of November 29th and am truly saddened by my brother's behavior. One goes to sit at a convivially-laid Thanksgiving table with goodwill and fellowship already place-set in one's heart – at least, one would hope.

Such occasions, especially with a guest staying in the house, call for impeccable manners, so I am sorry a bloviating lout turned up instead. You did the right thing, my brave mother, to tell the boys to pack their bags and spend the rest of the holiday week-end with you.

My poor sister-in-law has her hands full, and I feel sorry for Maggie.

Well, enough said about the subject. I expect to receive a letter from Thomas any day now, and I can comfort him as I always have – a loving aunt who is more like the sister he never had.

An amusing little adventure is on my mind to tell you about. Since he needs one, and no one's stepping up to outfit him like a proper little boy, I decided to take Bauer clothes shopping. He can't very well appear in public in nothing but coveralls and boots!

We made our way up to the Second Floor of Famous – the Men's and Boys' Departments – and looked around.

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"I'm buying you an appropriate outfit of clothes, Bauer."

He halted in his tracks. "Why, miss?"

"Think of it as my early Christmas gift to you. As for 'why,' it's so I can take you to better establishments to eat than chili parlours or taverns. I might want to take you for dinner sometime."

I turned to walk on, then heard a small voice. "I can't pay you back, miss."

The plaintive tone nearly broke my heart. I crouched down to his level and tried to laugh it off. "Young man, we do not 'pay back' gifts, do we?"

He shook his head.

"Then let's find you a nice suit. All right?"

He nodded.

I placed my hand on his shoulder and we went straight to the Boy's Department. There were a few lovely ensembles – much too fancy for my Delivery Department boy – but at last we found a rack with examples not so replete with turns and trimmings.

"Do you like these?" I asked.

He fingered the medium-weight wool fabric. "They seem very nice."

"Pick out one you like with knee breeches."

He glowered at me.

"What is it, young man?"

"Miss, I already wear long pants. Knickers is for kids, and I'm a working man, you know."

"Oh." I wanted to add that an eight-year-old child is by no means an adult, but then again, thinking of his life so far – he has been asked to grow up without so much – one in his position would not know what it's like to be a kid at all.

I chose one in putty brown and held it up to his form. "You like the color?"

"Yes, miss."

"Then let's try it on you."

As soon as I had said this, the amiable Buyer for Boys' Clothing appeared near us. He and I have worked closely together in the past.

"Miss Barrett! How pleasant to see you here. Are we shopping?"

"We are, Mr. Clifford. This young man would like to try on a suit."

"Certainly. Right this way."

As Bauer stepped behind the curtain to change out of his overalls and into the dress clothes, Mr. Clifford and I exchanged a few words about the growing coolness, and the possibility of a snowy Christmas this year.

In another moment, I nearly laughed as Bauer drew back the veil and stepped forward for us to see him.

He had removed his boots and work socks, so he stood there wearing the knickers in bare feet and exposed shins. I have to say, he did look rather ridiculous, but a nice pair of black stockings and slip-on shoes would no doubt help. As for the tailoring, the suit jacket fit him fine; the shoulder seams laid just where they should, and the cuffs were a bit long, but easy enough to have shortened.

"Turn around, Bauer," I said, noting the scowl on his face about the short pants and not wanting him to see me crack a smile. "Is it comfortable?"

He raised his elbows and did a few callisthenic motions. "Yes, miss."

"Turn back around." I tugged on the bottom of the jacket. "I think you look very handsome in this one."

The corner of his mouth rose ever so slightly.

"Shall we get it, Bauer?"

He nodded.

"Very good. Mr. Clifford, will you please?"

As the true professional that he was, the man extracted a tape measure from one pocket of his coat and a pad of memo paper and pencil from the other. He knelt down and had Bauer extend his arm so he could take a proper measurement for the cuff hem.

"Oh, and Mr. Clifford," I intoned slyly. "Is it possible for this suit to come with both knee breeches AND a pair of long pants?"

"Yes, Miss Barrett."

"Then please measure the lad for those as well."

"Certainly."

By this point, the blonde-haired waif had forgotten his dour, 'grownup' scowl and was radiating a beautifully carefree smile.

As the boy was changing, Mr. Clifford said, "You must be very proud of him."

"Well . . . " I stammered. "I'm not his – " I was going to say 'mother,' but . . . . "The lad is an orphan. He works in the back of the store, in Mr. McIntire's Department."

The Buyer looked stunned. "Oh. I'm sorry for assuming, miss. The two of you simply have a relaxed way about you."

I assured him his assumptions were all right, but wondered if I were blushing. Did the thought of being Arnold Bauer's parent – his legal guardian and protector – raise a flush of ambition in me? Was it all sign and signal of the 'very proud' the man had just intoned?

 ≈ • ≈ • ≈

After changing again, it was time to complete the outfit with a few neckties. Mr. Clifford wrote up our alteration order, and handed me the claim slip before giving us over to the capable hands of Mr. Jensen of Boys' Shoes.

The young man had to sit in one of the attached row of chairs and untie his work boots again.

He became embarrassed as he laid them aside, and then I saw why. His left big toe was sticking completely through a hole in the sock.

"Take those off too, Bauer," I told him. "We'll get some new work socks." Then to the gray-bearded gentleman assisting us I said, "We'll need a pair of black hose suitable for Sunday outings."

"Yes, ma'am."

I did not bother correcting him to 'miss.'

"Plus three pairs of heavy wool socks for his boots, and two pairs of white dress socks." I confirmed with Bauer, "Do you think that will cover it?"

He nodded with altered eyes; I got the message about 'charity' being ingrained in the boy as a bad thing.

"Yes, Mr. Jensen," I proclaimed to the grizzened attendant, "that will do for the underclothes, but we'll also need a nice pair of Sunday shoes. Black, I think." I conferred, "Black, Bauer? Will that go with your new suit?"

"Yes, Miss Barrett." Again, he was shy, but I paid no mind to that.

The man measured the boy's foot with a RITZ stick, or a ruler with a sliding stop at one end. He then excused himself with an "I'll be right back."

I sat next to the boy. As we waited, I suddenly questioned how much this eight-year-old 'adult' knew about the star of the holiday season.

"Bauer, I wonder, do you know if Santa Claus visits Saint Joseph's Orphanage?"

"A man does, Miss Barrett, in a red suit. The staff tells the younger kids it's him, and he hands out little gifts – usually advertising give-always, like whistles and paper dollies. But he's not real, is he?"

"No, Bauer. That gentleman is helping out the busiest fellow of the season."

"I know stores like Stix, Baer & Fuller and the old Barr's have places where Santa sits and visits with kids, but . . . ."

"What is it, Bauer?"

He turned from watching his wiggling toes to holding my eyes in unnerving steadiness. "See, Pauli, one of the loading dock fellas with red hair, laughed at me around Thanksgiving. He slapped his knee and said: 'Santy Claws ain't real, kid!' So . . . . I guess he ain't."

There was soul-searching depth to the look he gave me. I knew one word either way, and Bauer's trust in me would convince him.

"You needn't be so sure, young man. Do you wonder if this Pauli fellow never met the real Santa because he never believed in him? If we don’t know his spirit lives, then he does not live for us."

I let that sink in, and saw it settle into another slight grin.

To distract myself, I pointed out a large freestanding advertising cutout from the Brown Shoe Company.

"Look, Bauer – it's Buster Brown."

And so it was. He was standing in his red suit, with a highly detailed blouse gathered below his waist by a white belt. He was wearing puffy short pants of the same fabric, and unlike what little boys should do, was shod in white socks and not stockings. The characteristic wink was on his face, and his blonde pageboy-hair was held by the band of a disc hat. The fashion was out of date now, but this is exactly how my nephew Thomas was dressed when he was Bauer's age.

"And Tige too," my companion corrected me.

The cartoon hero's faithful and smart American pitbull was sitting on his hindquarters and smiling at the viewer. In the boy's hand above the dog's head was a single, brand new shoe.[1]

"What do you think of his clothes?"

"Too girly."

"Yes, that's sort of the humorous point. Buster is a rapscallion, despite how he's also his mother's 'precious darling.'" I suddenly wondered how Bauer's hair would look long. It was about the same blonde color. "I bet he's a Browns fan, just like you."

That made the boy's expression grow wide open. "Well, he wouldn't support the Cardinals, would he?"

I shook my head in grinning agreement.

"Miss Barrett, would you mind keeping my new duds for me? I can't take them back to Saint Jo's, cuz they'd get swiped. I would ask Mr. McIntire, but – "

"Say no more. I will keep them in my office closet. You let me know when you want them, and you can change in the washroom."

"Thank you."

The young man's soft tone and sincerity drove all the chill of winter out of me.

It seems the memories of summer have faded now. My brief little excursions to the Famous retreat did me some good and let me inspect my life with a bit more clarity. If, Mother, I could wave a magic wand, I believe I would keep my career, but add elements of home and family. I know such news will enliven the rhythm of your heart, but please note I did not say 'get a husband.' My dear sister-in-law no doubt fell under the charm of my brother, but woke up weeks, months, perhaps years later wondering whom this person was who legally possessed her. I do not wish to subject my freedom and independence to such a binding contract of matrimony, and yet . . . yet, another longing is stirring in me. Perhaps a more instinctual one.

Well, there you go. I have wandered off into abstract, selfish musings, so for now I will say adieu. Sleep well, and I do wish I could come home for Christmas, but the matters tying me to Saint Louis grow more urgent by the day. It's not at all certain the store will be ready for a spring opening.

Time will tell.

Your affectionate daughter,

Winifred

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1912

Monday, December 16th

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Marquette Hotel, Saint Louis, Mo.

Dear Diary,

The Barr people are always talking about their store's 'Grand Holiday Bazaar,' and lamenting that Famous has no such Christmas tradition.

I met and spoke with a man in the Elevator Operator's Department. Mr. Duffy Smith is a sharp character – always impeccable in his attire – but there is no 'slickness' to his character. He is as honest and genuine as any one can hope to be. Anyway, Mr. Smith was telling me all about the previous building William P. Barr & Company occupied, and how it had a twenty-foot-high basement where Santa Claus was ensconced to meet with visitors. Smith says they started the department store Santa the first year they moved to the 'Julia Building' in 1880.

He told me: "Mr. Jacob Jordan came up with the concept of an actor dressed as Saint Nick and sitting on his throne so children and adults could meet and talk with him throughout the holiday season."

Imagine that; who ever thought there was a 'start' to department store Santas, but I guess like everything in this world, there was a person who thought it up first.

Around the Barr Santa's 'kingdom' were various departments: the Bazaar, or Depot as they called it. Here parents could dash off and buy a toy or two while the children waited in line for Kris Kringle, or the family could look through displays of ornaments and decorations.

I have to say, it sounds enchanting, and I can see why they look askance on Famous' more meager approach of simply providing 'Xmas Deals' in each Department.

Duffy said: "You should have seen his holiday kingdom down in the palatial basement of our old store. There he sat on this throne, kiddies upon his knee, chatting with visitors, laughing, and all surrounded by toys, gifts and holiday décor to take home. It was wonderful, Miss Barrett, simply wonderful."

Mr. Smith is very knowledgeable about history and even relayed to me how there are two pretender claims to the first department store Santa, both from the East Coast, wouldn't you know it. These are the same people who attempt to usurp Saint Louis' right to the ice cream cone on blatantly disingenuous information.

Apparently one false claim to the first department store Saint Nick is a silly one. In the mid-1880s a store in downtown New York had a holiday window display where they installed eight papier-mâché reindeer in front of a full-sized sleigh. In this sleigh they had a man in costume sit from sunup to sundown. He was behind glass – no doubt bored out of his mind – and no one could speak to him, much less drop a tot in his lap. So, so much for that 'claim.'

The other would-be usurper of Barr's legacy is a self-promoter and owner of a small-time retail outlet in Brockton, Massachusetts. In 1890 he slipped on a costume and greeted his customers as Santa Claus for a few minutes when the store opened in the morning. He has since been vocal in his right to be called the 'first.' However, since he did not sit there and entertain the children, AND he started his penny-anny, ten-minute-long 'buy, buy, buy' routine ten years after Barr's had a real Santa, how could anyone support his claim? If they do, they are ignorant, that's all.

Mr. Smith keeps a collection of memorabilia and showed me the store's advertising card from Xmas 1880. The text reads: "My headquarters this year is at Barr's New Building, Sixth, Olive to Locust, Saint Louis, where I have fitted up in the Basement the Greatest Holiday Department ever opened in America. SANTA CLAUS." He showed me a companion advertising card from 1882, which clearly says: "In my annual rounds I have again determined to be at William P. Barr & Co., Saint Louis, for I find they have made extraordinary preparations for me this year, and it is the only place large enough to accommodate all my friends and visitors. KRIS KRINGLE." Emphasis on 'again' and 'visitors,' meaning he was there for people to meet, and children to request gifts for the third Christmas in a row.

These documents prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Barr's was the originator of the department store Santa tradition; all others are imitators and pretenders to being the first.

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Saint Louis, Mo.

Tuesday, December 31, 1912

Dear Thomas,

By the time you receive this, it will be 1913, so I'll bid you Happy New Year! All the best in the days, weeks and months to follow, my beloved nephew, and the same warm sentiments naturally extend to your Malcolm.

I'm sorry to hear how much snow is on the ground in Boston, while here we've been having a rather warm December. So warm in fact, the shoppers have been swarming like locusts! Well, I exaggerate a bit, but still it's nice the holidays are over so everyone can focus on moving into the new building.

Speaking of fine days, I had a chance to do a tiny bit of Christmas entertaining of my own. If you remember, I mentioned a small boy who works at the store, and I took him for a pre-Christmas lunch.

I said we'd meet at the grand arched doorway to the store, and he rounded the corner in his suit with long pants looking quite the dashing little scamp.[2]

He joined me and stood there with hands in his pockets.

"Where are we going, Miss Barrett?"

"I've decided to take you, young man, to a palace of the people, but I'm quite sure it's the grandest space you've seen in young life."

"Where's that?"

"White's, also know as 'The White Kitchen,' is part ice cream parlour and part sit-down restaurant."

He smiled. "You'll get us ice cream too?"

"We'll see about that. Now, shall we go?"

"Yes, miss."

I started walking up the street, which would take us past the show windows of our main competition, Stix, Baer & Fuller. One thing that distracted me from my 'spying mission' was how Bauer had continued to keep his pockets full of fingers as we walked.

I resisted instincts and tried to say in a not-too-authoritarian manner, "Gentlemen, Bauer, do not generally walk down the street with hands in their trousers."

When I glanced down and to my side, he withdrew them from his pants pockets with a grin of compliance. If he had winked at that moment he would have looked much like the famed Buster Brown boy.

We turned on Seventh Street and began walking towards the site of the new store. It was wonderful to see the construction fence removed, and breathtaking to glance up twenty-one stories to a great crowning cornice.

At sidewalk level, we passed by gray granite piers and marveled how each and every one was topped by a bronze sign proudly bearing the cursive script of our store's name.

Between them – as we passed – we saw a few acres of our display windows, realizing this was only one side of four, and felt suitably impressed at how large this structure really was. Each of the plate glass panels was papered from the inside, and every other one featured a sign saying: "THE NEW HOME OF Famous and Barr Co. WILL BE READY FOR BUSINESS SPRING 1913."

Crossing Olive, White's front door was close to the middle of the block.

"See, Bauer. This place is just as near as Hodge's to the new store. We'll have lots of choices."

He grinned. "Yes, miss."

We entered the crowded eatery, and as I knew it would, it stopped Bauer in his tracks.

Sweeping back fifty feet from the front door was a room of white marble wainscoting, and walls and ceiling of stained glass. Two-by-two milk glass tiles on the ceiling were banded with borders of lapis and sky blue. The walls had the same squares coming down to the wainscot, but here they framed large panels, each one containing a 'window' of sorts; an oval mirror in the center surrounded by small panes of amethyst, aquamarine and green garnet.

Ten-foot-long communal tables with bentwood chairs stuck out like piano keys from the straight wall on the right. While to the left was the reception desk – also in marble – to the side of which were stone steps.

"Table upstairs," I told the host, who waved us on.

While we climbed, I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think I needed to dress up."

I laughed.

Upstairs was quieter. We were greeted by a hostess and shown to a table with a view of Famous. After perusing the menu and reading him a few options, Bauer settled on the Salisbury steak with mushroom gravy, and I decided on the codfish croquettes. For an appetite-whetter, I asked we be served the cold plate of deviled ham and egg slices first.

"Oh Bauer, this is so cozy. Don't you agree?"

"Mmmm, I do. I love looking at our new building. Can't wait to get going there."

"It won't be long now."

"No, miss."

"May I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"When you try to read, do you follow along the letters with your finger?"

"Yes."

"Does that help you?"

He shrugged.

"When you look at them, Bauer, at words, do they confuse you?"

"If I see a sentence, miss, I can know what the word is and sort of read it, but when I go and try to write the same word, it can come out all funny. Like, a long one . . . say, department, then I try to start with the place the word is broken when saying it . . . with a 'p,' miss. I try to spell it starting with a 'p.' Do you understand?"

His tone let me know he had full confidence that he'd confused me.

"Yes, Bauer. I do. My mother is a retired teacher, and she worked with boys and girls who had the same difficulty. You are smart, Bauer. Don't let others say you are not; you have what educators are calling dyslexia these days. There are different types, but the one you describe is common."

"It is?!"

"Yes, it is."

A wan expression fell over his face.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about something; something someone said."

"You can tell me if you want to, Bauer."

"I went to Sportsman Park in September to see a Browns game."

"Who took you? The orphanage?"

"No. Mr. McIntire and his new bride. He just got married a few weeks before and told me he wanted his wife to meet me, but I'm not sure why. The game was fun, and he kept acting like he wanted her and me to get along. She was fine and all, but a bit dull talking about new furniture for the house and rugs and like things – during a baseball game! – but I listened to them talk and chipped in my two cents now and again. But, apparently it was not welcomed."

"How so?"

"It's just . . . . " He started to blush. "Well, later on as we were in line for the streetcar, I heard her calling me 'a dummy' to her husband." Bauer's mood brightened. "Anyway, Mr. McIntire got me Cracker Jacks and the Browns beat the Yankees in twelve innings, so it was a good day."

Our deviled ham arrived along with a plate of saltine crackers. We nibbled away, and got lost staring at the creamy tower – our future work home – across the street.

"Thank you for this Christmas treat, Miss Barrett."

"My pleasure, Bauer. It's nice to get out of the office. Things are hectic, what with the sales and all."

"It's a shame Famous has no Santa."

"The Barr people are upset, and can't believe the store only employs two people in the Toy Department. It seems like we don’t expect holiday shoppers."

"Most shop for holiday flavor across the street at Stix."

"You're right. They do have a Santa to visit, plus a Toytown, and I fully suspect Nugent's, Hargadine and McKittrick, Ely Wlker, and Scruggs, Vandervoort and Barney are the same.[3] Famous IS a department store like the others, but one which started out in men's clothing, so it shows. In my heart, I know I must speak to Mr. May about this, as Famous and Barr has got to do better in its new facilities."

"That's a good idea."

I chuckled. "The store's rising on the site of the old Julia Building after all. We don’t want the ghosts of Christmas past to haunt us, ha-ha."

Our food arrived, and I watched the young man carefully inspect what I did with my linen napkin. I tried to casually – yet, in an illustrative manner – snap it open and lay it across my lap. He followed suit and did not stick it in the collar of his shirt, like he might have wanted.

While we ate, Bauer said, "If you want holiday inspiration, miss, you have to check out Lammert's."[4]

"Lammert's? Never heard of them. Are they a department store?"

"No. Home furnishings. But they're as big as a department store. They've got eight floors, and they do Christmas right."

"Bauer, if you are willing, you'll have to take me after our lunch here."

"My pleasure."

I grinned, but also motioned for him to wipe a bit of mushroom gravy from the corner of his mouth. When he lifted his sleeve to do it, I gasped, and then he remembered the napkin in his lap.

≈ • ≈ • ≈

Bauer was correct. The store was decked head to toe in holiday color and sparkle. While we walked the first floor, looking at Tiffany lamps and the silverware displays, I recalled what the boy had said to me on our walk over; he was proud to show an 'outta-towner' like me a Saint Louis landmark.

That plus the details he relayed of Lammert's being a 'going concern' since the Civil War cemented for me how anybody who mistakes Bauer's backward letters for dumbness, is quite soft in the head themselves. He just needs someone to work with him closely on his 3-R's, and I know he'll pick them up.

We slowly made our way towards the front again, and Bauer said with hushed anticipation: "You have to see the main display in the front window, miss."

He led the way, and it was not what I was expecting. Under an 18th century candle chandelier – all modeled in Rocco foliage and blooming flowers, and painted in soft realistic hues – a glorious dining room scene was laid out. Linens, silver tureens, crystal epergnes overflowing with fruit and sprigs of holly – plus the finest European china – bespoke of a scene out of Dickens. On the sideboard behind were great hams, roasts of beef and turkey, and pyramids of sweets. Around the display, living evergreens swaged, and a decorated Christmas tree resided in one corner.

Never had a display made me house-hungry like this one did.

When I glanced around for the boy, I saw he had stepped outside. I followed and found him near a niche in the building's great archway. How I'd missed it coming in, I don’t know, but there was an enormous black throne sitting there. In high Victorian taste, the seat was a solid three feet off the ground, and its caning was commodious enough to accommodate four men. Gold letters on the rungs of the back proclaimed the name, address and founding date of the firm.[5]

"They wheel it out, miss. This is for everybody," Bauer said.

He climbed up on the seat, turned around and sat with his back against the slats, his hands raised to 'rest' on the arms, and the soles of his shoes sticking straight out at me.

He told me softly: "I want a home. I wanna be king of someplace too."

≈ • ≈ • ≈

Oh, It broke my heart, Thomas. He deserves better, and the reason I am telling you is so you understand how I sympathize with your estrangement from your father. You deserve better as well.

My only advice would be to allow time for your mother and grandmother to work their magic on my brother's heart.

Be well, nephew.

Your doting aunt,

Wini