Let's go to "The Plaza."

A Melrose Park landmark, Winston Plaza stood at the intersection of Ninth Avenue and North Avenue. "The Plaza," as we called it, was across the street from Amling's Flowerland.

The Plaza was a hub of many activities, but at its heart, it was a shopping center. Most Melrose Parkers did all of their shopping at The Plaza. Two grocery stores—Dominick's (originally a Kroger) and Jewel—anchored the mall. Moms usually shopped at either Dominick's or Jewel, but never at both. We were a "Jewel family." (I leave discussions of "Foodtown" and "Bonnie Bee" for later posts.)

The Plaza had a Walgreen's and a number of other stores that attracted preteens and teens. There was, for example, a record shop, a Lerner Shop, and a discount store, Newberry's. Newberry's had wooden floors similar to those one usually found in a Woolworth's. 

The higher-end, department-style, store was Madigan's. My Mom bought shoes and underwear there occasionally. Madigan's had a small book department—toward the back, near the bathrooms. After my Parents took me to see Mary Poppins at the movie theater, they bought the official Walt Disney Mary Poppins book for me when we visited Madigan's one evening. I remember feeling very special that day.

One of the undercover security guards at Madigan's was a patient of my Mom's. We'd see her walking around the women's department, looking cosmically bored, spinning the dress carousels as she feigned interest in the merchandise.

My childhood home was less than one mile from The Plaza. I was not allowed to go there alone, or with my Best Friend, until I reached the Seventh Grade. After I got my big-girl bicycle, however, my Best Friend and I sometimes snuck away to The Plaza and illicitly bought things like lip gloss, Fritos, and Creedance Clearwater Revival records.

When I was much smaller, my Dad sometimes walked with me to The Plaza. One year, The Plaza featured an "attraction" for kids: an "Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe" structure.

Suburban Chicago, February 1964. There's still snow on the ground, but Dad decides it's warm enough to make the 0.84-mile walk to Winston Plaza. "The Swan" stands in our open garage.

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Suburban Chicago, February 1964. We walk near Silver Creek as we make our way down Andy Drive, and across Fifth Avenue.

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Suburban Chicago, February 1964. We're getting close! There's the baptist church on the corner of Andy Drive and Ninth Avenue.

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Suburban Chicago, February 1964. We've reached the "Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe" attraction.

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Suburban Chicago, February 1964. It's a lame, walk-through lure of nothingness.

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Verona, Wisconsin, February 2012. But cheer up! I still can go home and read Mary Poppins.

It's not too early to start planning the warm-weather wardrobe.

My Mom and my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, sewed most of my clothes when I was a child. Mom even took a tailoring class at the local community college—in her spare time, ha ha—and she became expert at crafting suits and coats.

For many years, a sewing machine was a fixture in our home's Rec Room both before and after my Parents remodeled that area.

When Mom bought the modern Singer sewing machine pictured here, she and Tatjana moved Tatjana's old White machine to the basement. A few years later, the Singer traveled downstairs as well. The basement became a space where Mom could "get away" from everything and focus on her sewing. Best of all, she could leave all of the sewing paraphenalia—the pattern tissues, pins, tape measures, figure form, ironing ham, and so on—out in the basement without feeling, as she had in the Rec Room, that she should put everything away at the end of each evening.

I took sewing lessons beginning in the seventh grade, and Mom and I started to spend a lot of special time together in the basement.

Suburban Chicago, February 1966. My Mom's in the Rec Room, working on a cotton dress that I'll wear in the summer.

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Suburban Chicago, February 1966. Fittings never are fun, but hemming is a particular form of torture. Even my Mary Poppins doll, popping out of the Crown Royal bag, looks wary.

I wonder if those were seedless grapes.

Suburban Chicago, December 1965. We're watching television in the Rec Room, but my Toronto Cousin focuses on her snack. My Mary Poppins doll naps on the pillow beside me.

The Sound of Music

The Sound of Music is one of my favorite movies. Although we own a copy, it's always exciting when a network broadcasts the film during a holiday weekend. Old school.

I loved the movie before it morphed into the cultish subject of Rocky-Horror style sing-alongs. I fell for the film from the moment I saw it at the movie theatre, in 1965. The Sound of Music combined plot elements that drew me in easily: nuns, Nazis, World War II, romance, refugees, a wicked baroness, and, of course, Julie Andrew, the star of Mary Poppins.

My Best Friend and I staged a backyard production of the movie for the neighborhood. She played Captain von Trapp, and I was Maria. We sang the songs and ran around the Weeping Willows in the yard as though we were in the Alps. As our staging inched toward the five-hour mark, my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, pulled the curtain on our play.

When my Parents and I traveled to the German-speaking countries, our itinerary including a mandatory stop in Salzburg for a "Sound of Music Tour."

Today, I still remember the lyrics of many songs from the film. The other day, someone mentioned Christopher Plummer. A coworker and I burst into "Somewhere in My Youth" without hesitation.

I think the Ländler scene—in which the Captain leads a startled Maria through the steps on the traditional Austrian folk dance—remains one of the most touching moments captured on film.

Suburban Chicago, 1965. I engage in a "Maria moment" at my play table.

I met many Santa Fakes over the years.

Melrose Park, Illinois, December 1966. There are many photos with Santa Fake because my Dad took me to visit him at Madigan's in Winston Park every Christmas season. Santa Fake's throne stood in the store just past the Men's Department and next to the small book display at which my Parents bought a copy of Mary Poppins.