The Square Poem by Frank Avon

Saturday was the Square.
That's the way it always was.
The Square was the center
of the County Seat.
In the middle, of course,
was the county courthouse,
with its manicured lawn,
checker players under the trees,
and at the busiest corner,
the statue of the Veteran,
representing all the wars.
At the top of the four-story,
stone structure was the clock,
a face on each of the four sides,
tolling the hour like a sentinel.

Streets on all four sides
were lined with parking spaces,
wide, welcoming sidewalks,
awnings projecting from
the fronts of businesses,
the heart of the little city,
its shopping district, but
also a favorite site for visiting.
Two banks, two pharmacies,
department stores, jewelers,
furniture galleries, ten-cent
stores, dry goods, hardware,
and a Western Auto Parts.
Dominating the northwest corner
were the First Methodist Church
and the Minnich Hotel;
at the northeast, the county jail
and (yes) the Women's Rest Room,
a parlor-like sitting room, where
ladies, weary from shopping,
could sit and rest and visit.
In the middle of the northside,
for all us children stood
the Saturday mecca,
the Dixie Theater.

For, yes, Saturday was matinee day
(a double feature: a western -
Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers,
the Lone Ranger, Tom Mix, Cisco Kid,
Gene Autrey, the Durango Kid:
and a farce, maybe the Marx Bros.
or Abbott and Costello, or
The Bowery Boys w/ Leo Gorcey
and Huntz Hall, occasionally
Jimmy Durante, or sometimes
a mystery or melodrama of some sort) :
a newsreel; a serial - Superman
or Flash Gordon, if we were lucky;
and always those previews, scenes
from the ADULT movies that would be
shown weeknights next week.

Next door to the theater sat
the Dixie Barbershop, where Mr. Jones
cut my hair - after I had watched him
shave and shear one or two businessmen.
All us boys got scissored the same way
(no crew cuts or flattops or duck tails
for Mr. Jones's country boys)
and shellacked with Wildroot Creme Oil,
or Vitalis or Brylcreme or Lucky Tiger,
which sent us on our way, smelling
like coconut or exotica of the jungle.
His shop also housed public showers
(I never knew who had to come to town
to take a bath) and a watch repair shop.

Then there was a late lunch
(Saturday was hamburgers and milk shakes)
at the Blue Bird Cafe or a soda fountain
in one of the drugstores nearby.
There I also bought a Captain Marvel
comic book, and browsed through
all the others - and adult magazines,
much more innocent then than Playboy,
but not to a prepubescent imagination.

Just a few steps off the Square
on the southeast corner stood
Moss & Barham, men's clothing,
where once a year I was fitted
for a Sunday suit - and necktie!
(Sundays were suits and neckties,
and the Golden rule in Sunday school.)

Next was the office of the Tribune
and upstairs over it, all the way
to the back, up some rickety stairs,
in a corner room, bigger than an office,
but small for a library, with
shelves all the way to the ceiling.
I could check out two books for two weeks.
Mrs. Katharine B. Cox knew I liked history,
so she always had a couple waiting
for me (usually Alfred Leland Crabb) ,
but she always let me read the shelves
and choose for myself. She didn't
even arch her brows when I began
to seek out Erle Stanley Gardner
or Ellery Queen, even an occasional
Mickey Spillane. Somehow I doubt
Mrs. Cox had read the latter herself or
she would probably have called in
my father. She never would know:
he read those, too. Never commented.

The rest of Saturday afternoon
was spent walking around the Square,
looking in show windows, staring
at women shoppers - and their daughters,
wondering if the Dixie Theater cashier
had sex with the usher (they sat together
in the grass at the Methodist Church,
even holding hands: turns out they
were married, but I didn't know that!):
wishing for a bike at Western Auto,
browsing in the ten-cent store; listening
to politicians harangue the crowds,
or street preachers, handing out tracts,
while they ranted about the Judgment Day.
(They knew the thoughts I'd been having
- I just knew they did - and were
threatening me with the fires of Hell) .

Or maybe I just sat in our car
to read my new Captain Marvel
or one of the library books -
they never lasted the two full weeks.

At the end of the day, Daddy sent me
- always me, not himself - to fetch
Mamma from the Women's Rest Room.
Man! was that ever embarrassing!
All those ladies chattering away.

On our way out of town, a block from
the Square, we stopped for a minute
at the feed and seed store
to replenish our supply, for
our pigs and cows and calves
and Daddy's fox hounds, then
on the outskirts of town,
we'd pull our truck or Model A
into the Gulf Service Station
for $3 worth of gas.

Saturday was the Square.

Alternative Saturdays
were college football
and Texaco Opera Theater
- first one, then the other -
on the radio, and sometimes
Archie Andrews or little
Thom McAnn or the Quiz Kids.
Opera stories were the best;
I always tried to get
the synopses and miss the arias.
Rigoletto gonna kill the Duke,
Valkyries flying through the air,
Carmen leading all those men on,
Roberto & Mimi and them Bohemians!

But radio was just radio;
you could take it or leave it
and walk out in the woods a while,

for Saturday was the Square,
and afterwards the Grand Ole Opry.

But mainly it was the Square.
Y'know, you just had to be there.