Downtown with Mom

Christmas time was best

I write this story almost every year in honor of our Mom

My excitement grew as I walked from our house on Wealth Avenue in Providence to the stop. Mom was taking me downtown on the city bus.

I nearly fell off the curb, stretching, watching, waiting. Finally, with a screech like an owl’s and a hiss like a snake’s, it stopped. When the doors opened, I cut the line while Mom showed the driver her pass. We found seats where I pressed my head against the glass.

The bus maneuvered the corner at Atwells Avenue, sped down the hill to Valley Street, and climbed Federal Hill, passing familiar places: a bridge over train tracks bordering shoofly, markets, the chicken store, the variety store where Grandpa bought The Echo, Ben Franklin’s Five and Ten, the peddlers and their pushcarts, Scialo’s Bakery, DiPippo’s Music and the churches -- Holy Ghost, St. John’s and Mt. Carmel.

“Why are there so many churches, Mom?”

Finally reaching the city, we left the bus at LaSalle Square near Uncle Carlo’s Fire Station. We walked by the Majestic Theater, the newsstand where Dad bought the Boston Daily Record and the City Hall Hardware Store, where I knew there was a toy department. “Later, Edward.”

The city was crowded. Mom stopped to talk. I shifted my feet as they spoke of dresses and shoes. I tugged her sleeve. Off we went, Mom pulling me from store to store, stopping in each, exchanging the commotion of the city -- friendly policemen twirling walking sticks, cars, buses, walkers -- for the muted sounds of the stores, the smell of clothes and oiled wood. “I’m hungry.”

We swooshed through the doors of The Boston Store, cut through the shoe department where the smell of leather reminded me of ponies at Roger Williams Park, and proceeded to the cafeteria. “How about some custard pie?” I loved custard pie. Mom elbowed us to the counter, where we sat on stools. The blended smells of pie, milk, ice cream, toast, and something frying were appealing. “Edward, tell the lady what you want.”

“Custard pie and a glass of milk, please.” She clicked holes on a ticket. A guy in a white hat and an apron came from somewhere and plunked the pie and milk in front of me. I sliced through the smooth, creamy custard of the generous pie.

It squished in my mouth. The cold milk washed it down…ummm; cold pie followed by cold milk. Mom had coffee. Sometimes, when Mom felt like something special, we went to Miss Dutton’s Tea Room. I didn’t appreciate sitting at tables and waiting.

“Are you OK for now?”

“Yep.”

Off we went, accompanied by the bells of the Grace Church to the Outlet Store (a grab bag at Christmas), Gladdings, Shepard’s (meet you under the clock), along the way to Woolworth’s (singing canaries and curtains), cutting through Pie Alley, stopping, pivoting, Mom never letting go.

A siren! We stopped to watch the Ladder One fire truck pass, hoping my uncle might be on its tiller.

Across the street from The Outlet, on the second floor of a low-lying building, was The Port Arthur, a club where we often went on a Sunday afternoon, joining an audience that included sailors, for dinner and a floor show with a magician and a tap dancer, and maybe a guy named Happy Stanley.

Tides of people flowed through the streets with a purpose; they looked in the windows and stopped to chat. “What did you buy”? “Very nice.” “Have you eaten”? “Where”? “Have you had your coffee?”

The city was vibrant, alive with spirited and excited people. The stores lining the busy streets were just as alive. I saw a window man change the clothes on the mannequin. It made me stop. That was it? At Christmas, we filed past the Outlet’s windows where toys, trains, Santas, angels and puppets were as animated as the observers.

The Outlet Store at Christmas

At the end of my Saturday with Mom, we made our way to the City Hall Hardware Store where I looked at the toys and planned my Christmas asks. Then to The Hon Hong Restaurant, where the steamy aromas and the mystery of fortune cookies filled the air. Mom ordered our Saturday evening meal, and we toted it, along with her other bags, home on the bus.

The day was over. As we passed Federal Hill, we saw the opening of the late afternoon ritual…people streaming out of their homes to stroll, talk, and buy.

I was tired, full enough of downtown with its noises and long distances, and I was hungry again.

Downtown with Mom, especially at Christmas, was wonder and freedom. The memories of custard pie, the stores, and happy people are inscribed and have stayed with me forever.

2025