Fish Gotta Swim, Gals Gotta Shop, Cats Just Get In The Way

In the early forties, when Mom first married Dad, she was always invited on out-of-town shopping excursions with her mother-in-law, Eva, and sister-in-laws, Kate and Avie. Freda, a close friend of Kate and Avie, was usually invited, as well. These women, all from Wellsboro, were expert shoppers who knew a good bargain and had a keen eye for quality.

Mom, the group’s junior member, was also its youngest. Dad’s side of the family was loud, boisterous and fun-loving, as was Freda. To say Mom tended to be conservative and reserved would have been a woeful overstatement.

While she enjoyed their company, their sound level and vivaciousness sometimes irritated or scandalized Mom, giving her fuel for later complaints to Dad. Mom, born and raised in a quiet farming community, had been given few chances for socializing or friendship.

For them, traveling the forty-plus miles to Elmira twice a year was the epitome of shopping in high fashion. And Iszard’s Department Store (often compared to Macy’s) was the zenith of Elmira department stores. As a child, I was in awe of the fabulously decorated store windows, elevators and escalators between the many floors, and especially the tubes that shuttled money transactions to and from a central office.  

While the women would spend hours on all the floors scrutinizing the goods, their supreme destination was always lunch in Iszard’s basement Tea Room. The green-and-white, garden-like interior had many plants, mirrors, and much white lattice. The formal table settings included linen tablecloths and napkins, crystal, silverware, fine china, and bouquets of fresh flowers.

They always shopped in their “Sunday best,” wearing their better dresses, stockings, pumps, hats, gloves, and matching purses. No tissues for them; they carried fine linen handkerchiefs with their own tatting, crocheting, and embroidery.

One particular summer morning, they met at Grandma’s. Kate drove up in her big, shiny Buick; the largest car in the family, it had the largest trunk, great for shopping bags full of goodies. Everyone piled in and drove to Bacon Street to pick up Freda. As they entered her driveway, they noted her talking with a distraught neighbor who had just discovered the family cat lying in the street, run over and very dead. Though upset about the cat, she was more worried her children would come home and discover it. She had no car at her disposal or way to bury the cat. 

After a quick discussion among the women, they decide to put the cat in an empty Iszard’s shopping bag that Aunt Kate had in her car, and place it in the trunk. They’d stop somewhere along the way and discard the cat alongside the road.  Since most of the route was rural, surely there’d be many places to do that. The neighbor lady thanked the women and off they all went.

It started out as a serious project, but after several failed attempts to ditch the cat, it became amusing.   They’d pull over at an open space, but cars came along or pulled into the same space. When no cars were in sight, there’d be businesses, houses, or small villages in full view. They kept traveling. Things were not going as planned.
Finally, on the outskirts of Elmira, they knew they’d failed.

The car was abuzz of what to do next. It was a hot summer day. They couldn’t leave the cat in the trunk; it might begin to smell. Everyone chuckled. Then, Mom came up with the idea of taking it into Iszard’s and disposing of the poor beast there. 

The smartly dressed women had a difficult time keeping straight faces as they walked into the store, trying to blend in with the other customers. 

They began to shop, and accumulated more shopping bags as they embraced the reason for their trip. But Mom was having trouble; she couldn’t seem to find a wastebasket.  Now and then they’d meet and discuss how things were transpiring.  They weren’t. Then someone remarked there were large waste cans in the Tea Room’s rest rooms. 

They suddenly realized it was noon. So they headed for the Tea Room. Since tables were filling fast, they hustled to get one. The women settled in as easily as five women could at a single table, with their acres of shopping bags, cramming them under the table or close beside them. The waitress took their orders and the women chatted about their purchases and possible departments that still needing exploring. Their food was served quickly and they enjoyed the pampering. Mom finished first and said, “I’m going to the rest room with ‘the’ bag. I’ll be back shortly.” She reached for the bag, but it wasn’t there! She quietly told the women about her problem.  They all began searching their bags,  all of them identical. After a thorough search, they began to question Mom:  “Are you sure you brought it in?”  “Are you sure you set it there?” “You didn’t leave it at a counter did you?”

Mom repeated, “I know I sat it down beside me, because I was worried someone would trip over it so I put it as close to me as possible.”  All of a sudden the women realized someone had stolen the bag! They burst out laughing, causing a commotion and drowning out the background music.

They stifled their chuckles, finished their meal, and made a bee-line to the rest room. Once inside, they fell apart laughing at the prospect of someone pilfering “the kitty.”
They could only imagine what the thief thought after going to the privacy of a car or rest room to discover what had been stolen. One could only surmise what had to be done to get rid of ‘the’ bag before the day was done.  

It was supposedly an story often told, but I had never heard it. The story was related to me by an older cousin, Gene, son of Avie, when I visited him in Oregon a few years ago. I probably was too small when it happened. Knowing my aunts, I’m sure the story spread through their friends like wildfire. 

I sometimes wonder if Freda’s neighbor ever heard the story.  And I suppose, like many over-told stories in our family, it had finally been set on the back-burner. The mystery still lives. What ever happened to the Shopping Bag Cat?

Pat Davis facilitates memoir writing workshops and is a professional musician. Contact her at patd@mountainhomemag.com