by Teresa Ringholz

Created on: July 08, 2009

Today I am going to Grandpa's printing shop. I am on spring break and Grandpa needs help meeting a catalogue deadline. I will make one dollar an hour but would gladly work for free because an outing to the printing shop is always an adventure.

For this outing, there is a mandatory dress code to wear something nice. This is how a 10 year old young lady dresses when she goes downtown in 1968, especially in the company of her classy Grandmother.

So dressed in my plaid skirt, cotton blouse, cape and beret (which I refer to as my "Scottish girl" outfit), I wait excitedly as Grandma's tiny but regal frame glides down the street. We don't walk to the bus stop like ordinary people; we waft in an air of gracefulness. I learned the fine art of wafting under her tutelage: "Poise and Posture: Using your Head to Balance Books."

The bus arrives, we drop our 25 cent tokens into the box and the driver tips his hat and wishes the "ladies" a good morning. We find our places on the bus and I suddenly catch the passing fragrance of Grandma's face powder. Sometime in the beginning of the journey she pulls a roll of peppermint or butterscotch Lifesavers from her purse and offers one to me. This ritual will be repeated many times during the course of the day.

After a 20 minute ride, it is off the bus on Rochester's Main Street and a short walk down St. Paul St. to Grandfather's shop. Upon entering the old, tall Searle building, I marvel at the black and white marble tiles and wrought iron fittings which elaborately decorate the entrance hall, the threshold of my adventure.

Waiting on the ground floor is Joe who runs the passenger elevator. Joe is quite large and has a very intense body odor. There is barely enough room in the elevator to house him, my petite Grandmother and little me. In Grandma's exaggerated fashion, she whispers "hold your breath, we're going in!" I imagine getting stuck between floors and either dying of asphyxiation from Elevator Joe's noxious fumes or perishing by self-induced suffocation. My biggest challenge is to make it to the 5th floor without turning purple.

We reluctantly enter. Joe bangs the metal gate shut and grinds the lever which activates the lift to our destination. I watch the ascending floor numbers on each exposed concrete story as we pass by. Joe laughs, Grandma holds her hand inconspicuously in front of her nose and I think of how precariously my life is dangling in this elevator with my lungs ready to burst.

We arrive.

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