One of my favorite childhood memories was the occasional Sunday trip with my parents to the Berlin Farmers Market.
They’d load us in the station wagon, and we’d sail down the White Horse Pike, bound for comic book heaven. Dad would buy a big sack of warm soft salty pretzels and a bag of popcorn, and we’d sip soda and munch our snacks while perusing the concrete aisles of the auction. Archie comic books were ten for a dollar back then, and a small bucket of used golf balls was the same. I can still feel my dad’s strong warm hand in mine as he haggled with vendors, and it seemed to Little-Girl Me that he was the biggest, bravest, coolest man in the world. Once home, my brothers and I would settle in with our comic books and what remained of the pretzels, and dad would practice his chipping in the backyard while mom started dinner.
Simpler times. But that’s a tired cliché. Simplicity is, after all, relative.
There is another memory of that trip that has stuck with me for forty years. I obviously lived my childhood in books, not staring at an iPhone, so I would read in the car, occasionally raising my head to check out the scenery on route 30. Maplewood Restaurant. The Sweetwater Casino. The white horse statue on top of White Horse Farm Market. The exit for Ancora Psychiatric hospital.
(Note: the following is not meant to poke fun at the mentally ill. It is simply a memory from my childhood, and appears in this blog for those readers with a sense of humor. If you are easily offended, today’s post will only get worse. You’ve been warned):
Parents in my little Italian town referenced Ancora quite often, using its existence as a way to elicit our desired behavior. It was a cudgel that moms wielded to get the necessary sympathy and guilt they craved during a specific conflict. Veiled threats about Ancora were ubiquitous and ominous.
More stitches? Marone, you kids are going to send me to Ancora!
You did WHAT to dad’s car? Just drive me to Ancora, it’s more peaceful there!
Did you know that Ancora sends a van to our neighborhood at night to pick up all of the little girls and boys who stay out past their curfew? And once you’re there, they don’t let you leave? Home by 7.
That’s it. Get in the car, I’m taking you to Ancora. If you won’t listen to me and dad, maybe you will listen to the nice men in the white uniforms.
Terrifying.
Anyway, these landmarks on our Sunday drives were my point of reference, my line of sight, and I was especially intrigued by Red Barn Books.
I remember once asking my dad about it.
“What is that red barn, Dad, the building with no windows?” Although the dusty parking lot was all but deserted, the structure itself looked fun, like maybe it had cowboys in it, or a petting zoo. But I could read the sign: Adult Books and Toys. I remember thinking that it was strange and selfless that my parents had never, not once, stopped to go in it. After all, they were adults, and it was a store that sold toys just for them. What’s not to like?
I continued. “It has toys in it. And books! Can we stop on the way home?”
Dad glanced amusedly over at my mother, who was compressing her lips. I realize now that she was trying not to laugh.
“No,” he said. “That place is not for nice girls.”
Huh, I thought? Not for nice girls? How so?
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a nice girl. You don’t need to know what that place is. And it’s for adults only.”
I mulled that over, still concerned that my parents were sacrificing an enjoyable adult experience for us. My brothers were engrossed in their comic books, but I remember them murmuring under their breath for me to shut-up. They were always telling me to shut-up, but they knew better than to let my parents hear them say it.
“If it’s for adults only,” I continued, refusing to give it up and feeling my brothers’ death glares burn into my soul, “then you guys go in and we’ll wait in the car. But can you get me a book when you’re in there?”
My father’s exasperated sigh signaled the end of his patience with the conversation, and I could see my mother’s shoulders shaking, which meant she was laughing. Hard. I didn’t understand why. If anyone ever wonders where I got my sense of humor, it was from my mom. She was a hoot, and laughed at everything. I miss her every day.
“Mary. Stop it. We’re not going in there, and there is no book in there that is appropriate for you. I don’t want you to mention it again.”
Dang, I remember thinking, fine. If this is what I get for trying to help…
I crossed my arms, said a little Hummpphh, and got back to Betty and Veronica, who for some reason that I could never understand were always fighting over pale, skinny, homely Archie. But after that day, on every trip down the White Horse Pike, I would stare intently at Red Barn Books as we passed it. My mother would turn around halfway in her seat to look sideways at me and shake her head slightly as if to say, “No. Don’t ask him.”
But ten-year old me vowed that one day, when I was an adult, I would go in that Red Barn, and check out the adult toys and books. When I was an adult, no one could stop me, or tell me I was “too nice” to go in. How, I thought to myself, it is possible to be “too nice” for toys and books? I would find the answers one day, I vowed.
That day is today (Thursday). I have an interview to do at the Berlin Auction, of all places, and I am going to finally give in to my curiosity about what goes on behind those red walls. I mean, who goes in there, what do they talk about, what kind of toys, books and movies are available?
Here are my three rules going in:
- Dress impeccably to raise the mystique.
- Be polite, but do not engage in conversation, just let it unfold organically.
- Do not offer misleading information, like “Oh, I’m shopping for a gag gift for my friend’s 55th birthday party.” Let them think what they will think.
I’ll post about it on Monday. Have a great weekend.
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