Douglas Street Market
Bittersweet Memory
If I close my eyes, listen to the passing of an occasional car, the birds singing, then imagine the gentle swaying of a porch swing, I can just about believe for a moment that I’m back on Hardy Street with my great aunt Irma. She was born in 1892 and came within a couple of months of turning 100 before her death in 1992.
When I was young, I sometimes spent a week of my summer vacation with her. The Hardy Street house was a wonderful place. Built around the turn of the century, it had a huge kitchen that had been added on the back after the original hip-roofed house was built. Irma told me when she and her husband were first married, in 1911, they bought it from a Scottish woman and Irma could do a pretty good imitation of the woman’s Scot’s accent as she had told them about the house.
The cellar was a place of fascination for me. From inside the house, it was only accessible through a trap door in the bedroom that used to be the kitchen. It had a chunky, recessed metal ring and was situated right next to an old Fatso brand stove that had been part of the original kitchen and was never removed. Irma kept a throw rug over the trap door.
The dirt-floored cellar was an assortment of five decades’ worth of detritus. There was an old hand wringer washer, lamp harps of all sizes, grease-encrusted tools, and endless mason jars along the stone shelf of three walls. Off the main room was the coal room. The last delivery of coal poured through the chute was a long time ago, but two coal buckets still sat beside the door. I now have both of those.
My favorite memory of those hot summer days is sitting in companionable silence with Irma on the swing in the screened-in porch. That swing was massive. It hung from the wood slat ceiling by thick chains. Still on the porch was the small twin-sized bed my dad slept in when he and his mother moved in with Irma for a while. That’s another story.
Irma’s house was situated smack on the T of Hardy and Douglas Streets, and was nearly dead center in the three-block length of Hardy. From our elevated vantage point in the swing, we could view its full length. To the left, the street entered Mahoney Park. To the right, it ended in a cross street. While researching my husband’s family, it turns out that in 1920, his great grandparents lived just around that corner. They had moved to Eldorado so his great grandfather could work in the mines in which my great grandfather and grandfather had worked. I wonder if they knew each other. It seems likely in such a small town, in the same neighborhood.
We also had an unobstructed view straight down Douglas Street to where it angled to the left and ran on to State Street. On that bend sat the Douglas Street Market. I have very fond memories of this small neighborhood shop. I loved my excursions there when Irma would give me some change for a treat. I took my time in the long, narrow shop making my choice, probably Pixie Stix or an orange Push-Up.
The screen door had a metal panel and the frame was attached to one of those self-closing springs. When it opened, it made a squeaky sound that could curl your hair and it shut with a bang similar to a gunshot. Inside were a couple aisles of canned goods, household cleaners, some fresh produce. The outside rows had things like gloves, shovels, and by-the-foot twine or chain. The important section contained the candy and freezers with ice cold Coca-Cola, Nehi, and ice cream.
Just inside the door was the low counter covered with formica, its surface design worn by many years of purchases sliding across it. An open paper bag waited at the end of the counter for the next customer’s order.
After I paid for my goodies, I passed back through the noisy door, closing it carefully so it wouldn’t make such a racket. As I neared the house, I could just make out my great aunt through the black screening, sitting in the swing, rocking back and forth, making sure I made it back alright.
Last August, I made a trip to Eldorado to take photos for my One-Place Study presentation last October. I drove past the store. I was happy to see the building was still there, but immeasurably sad to see its condition. If I had a million dollars…
On that day in 2024, decades after that little girl skipped down the street with her treat, I looked to the familiar site of Irma’s house. The memory was more vivid to me at that moment than it has been over the years.
The porch is now more permanently enclosed with exterior faux stone. A deck has been added to the east side where a living room windows was.
The old wire fence still marks the western side of the property and I wondered if the gooseberry bushes that grew along it in the back were still there. Nothing like sitting in the grass on a summer day eating fresh gooseberries, until you get an unripe one. If you know, you know. I wondered if the current owners know about the concrete fishpond my great uncle made in the backyard. It was next to the arbor over the path that led to the now-gone shed where 6-year-old me got her first cat from a litter of kittens.
When I left that day, I wondered to myself when I’d be back or even if I wanted to. It’s wonderful to relive memories brought back by the site of the places where I lived them, but it’s a stark reminder that even the few that remain may not be there much longer.
Beautiful story, Cynthia. Seeing the changes in places that mean so much to us can be heartbreaking. Thanks for including us in your visit.
Lovely memories...I share many of those with my grandparents home in New Brunswick including the quaint small family store in the town with memorable treats that I will never forget .