Going to Town on Saturday

Without missing a beat, Mama replied, “Maas Brothers and Scoggins both have air-conditioning. Besides, we always have a nice lunch out.”

As I came back downstairs, I could hear Mama talking to someone. Turning the corner, I saw Nana.

“Honey, you look nice,” she said.

“Thank you, Nana. So do you.”

“Now that’s better,” Mama added.

Mama and Nana exchanged glances. They were always dressed to the nines to go shopping.

Mama wore an emerald-green pantsuit with matching snakeskin pumps, gold hoop earrings, a gold herringbone necklace bearing Grandma Hartley’s medallion, a matching bracelet, and her diamond band. Her shoulder-length hair was lacquered into place, her makeup was just so, and she smelled of Giorgio Red—a strong fragrance that somehow arrived before she did.

Nana wore a dress with matching heels and purse. Her hair was perfectly set, and around her neck hung my favorite necklace—the gold bust of Nefertiti. The soft, powdery scent of Design never seemed to arrive. It simply lingered long after she had walked away.

Their fragrances still linger in my memory, long after they’re gone.

On the way to Maas Brothers, the conversation drifted to the old days.

Going to town on Saturday had been a long-standing tradition, especially for country folks.

“Annie, remember how we’d dress up to go shopping on Saturdays?” Mama asked.

“Oh yes,” Nana replied. “A nice dress with a crinoline, matching shoes and purse, hat and gloves.”

Mama smiled.

“We looked forward to every trip. Usually, it meant a new dress or a new pair of shoes. Back then, we didn’t have malls—we shopped downtown Tampa. Grandma Murphy would leave her car at Western Auto for service while we made our rounds: Kress, Grant’s, Maas Brothers, and Newberry’s. We’d usually stop at Newberry’s for a hot dog and a fountain Coke at the lunch counter. They had the best vanilla Cokes.”

By the time our trip down memory lane ended, we had arrived at Westshore Plaza.

The moment I pulled open the heavy glass doors at Maas Brothers, the perfume counter greeted me. Sweet florals filled the air—a scent I can still summon if I let my mind wander back.

“Ah…the smell of Maas Brothers,” Mama said with a smile as we walked into the store. “It never changes. It smells exactly like it did when I was a little girl.”

Mama and Nana disappeared into the ladies’ department while I wandered into the boys’ section.

“Dennis, if you find something you like, a shirt or a pair of shorts, I’ll buy it for you,” Nana said.

“Annie, I told him not to ask for anything today,” Mama said, looking at me.

“Gaynell, he didn’t ask. I offered,” Nana replied.

Before long, they returned, shopping bags already in hand.

“Did you find something you like?” they asked together.

“I want to buy you a school outfit,” Nana said.

“I like these acid-washed jeans…and this Coca-Cola hoodie.”

Mama looked at the jeans.

“Dennis, those already look worn out.”

“Gaynell,” Nana laughed, “that’s the style now. All the kids are wearing them.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Neither can I,” Nana replied, “but here we are.”

Then she looked at me.

“If you like them, get them.”

“How about lunch before we hit the shoe sale at Scoggins?” Nana asked.

“I’m starving.”

“We can eat upstairs at the Suncoast Room,” Mama suggested. “They make a wonderful chicken salad sandwich on a toasted croissant.”

“I want the Cook’s Kettle with clam chowder and the little finger sandwiches—and the bread basket, too,” I chimed in.

We settled into our favorite corner booth overlooking Tampa Bay, watching ships slowly make their way toward the port. Before our lunches arrived, the waitress placed a basket of sweet and savory breads on the table, still warm, with honey butter alongside.

Then came my Cook’s Kettle—a crock of clam chowder surrounded by little finger sandwiches. The food was simple, but to an eleven-year-old boy, the whole experience felt elegant.

When Nana excused herself to the ladies’ room, Mama leaned over.

“Put your napkin in your lap…and chew with your mouth closed. Mind your manners.”

Some lessons never leave you.

We finished the day at Scoggins during their annual shoe sale.

Mama and Nana loved a sales rack—especially when shoes were involved.

The saleswoman disappeared into the stockroom and returned balancing stacks of shoeboxes.

Each pair was tried on.

A shoehorn slid neatly behind the heel.

They’d walk a few steps, then pause in front of the little folding mirror angled toward the floor.

“How do they feel, Annie?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They look nice.”

Having learned a thing or two from the experts, I announced, “I’m going to find me a pair of shoes.”

“If you find something nice,” Mama called after me, “I’ll buy them for you. Just make sure they go with the outfit Nana bought.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I wandered over to the men’s department, where a giant SALE sign hung over a rack of shoes. By the time Mama and Nana joined me, I still hadn’t found anything I liked. We made one final pass through the sale rack together, gathered our shopping bags, and headed home.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, it was nearly four o’clock.

“We’ve made a day of it,” Nana said.

“I’ve sure enjoyed it, Annie,” Mama replied. “I see Buddy’s home. Let me say hello before I leave.”

Daddy looked up from the garden, where he was pulling weeds.

“Hey, Mama.”

Then he glanced at all the shopping bags.

“Did y’all leave anything at the gettin’ place?”

Without saying a word, Nana handed him one of the bags, hugged him, and smiled.

“I didn’t want you to think we’d forgotten about you.”

Nana always seemed to buy something for everyone.

At the time, I simply thought that was what grandmothers did. Only later would I understand why.

Now I find myself wondering whether an eleven-year-old boy from Riverview could have known those Saturdays were about so much more than shopping.

Back then, they were simply Saturdays with Mama and Nana.

But in reality, they were something altogether different.

For years, I thought shopping was about chasing sales from one department store to the next. Now I realize we were participating in something much older than ourselves.

Going to town wasn’t really about shopping.

It was a ritual.

A reason to put on your Sunday best.

A reason to slow down.

To visit with neighbors.

To linger over lunch.

To catch up on one another’s lives.

To come home excited about what you’d found.

Shopping was almost incidental.

Today, going to town on Saturday feels like a tradition that has quietly slipped away.

We shop seven days a week.

Most purchases arrive with the tap of a phone.

Department stores have largely disappeared.

Lunch comes through a drive-through window, eaten behind the steering wheel on the way to the next errand.

The pride of dressing up has vanished. For heaven’s sake, I see people grocery shopping in their pajamas. My grandmothers would have been mortified.

As I write this, I can’t help but smile, remembering Mama’s look of disapproval as she sent me upstairs to change out of my favorite shorts and into a pair of khakis.

Back then, I thought she was talking about clothes.

She wasn’t.

In Mama’s world, even ordinary moments deserved a little more care. When you went out, you put your best foot forward—not because appearances mattered most, but because respect did.

Respect for yourself.

Respect for your family.

Respect for the occasion, however ordinary it might seem.

That was Mama’s lesson.