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The year is 1960. Standing on the corner at W. 40th Street and Sheridan Avenue in Linden Hills, my big sister and I excitedly wait for the No. 6 bus. Today is our annual pilgrimage to Dayton’s in downtown Minneapolis to look at the moving window displays, shop for Christmas presents and then ride the escalators up to the 12th floor for the best part of our trip downtown. We’ve been saving our babysitting money all year for this glorious day.
The 6 bus roars up in front of us. We are ready with our silvery dimes clutched tightly in our hands. The steps up into the bus are high, but if you hang onto the railing, you can manage to hoist yourself up to face the bus driver, say “hello” and clink your dime into the meter.
There’s a special smell when you ride the city bus in the winter. My sister and I think it has to do with wet boots and shopping bags packed with Christmas presents.
As we approach our stop on S. 7th Street and Hennepin Avenue, I reach up to pull the string for the buzzer to let the bus driver know that this is where we want to get off. My sister gets to pull the buzzer on the way home. “Thank you!” we shout at the bus driver as we exit the back doors that have just swooshed open for us. We’re downtown!
After looking at the festive moving Christmas displays in the huge windows outside all around Dayton’s, we head down 7th toward Nicollet Avenue and enter Dayton’s Department Store at the same door we have ever since the first day our mom let us go downtown alone. Inside, turned magical under enormous golden chandeliers, shiny glass cabinets display French perfumes, glittering jewelry and pretty evening bags. The items at these counters are too expensive for our budgets, but we know if we look a little harder in the corners, we can find all sorts of good things on sale. Socks for Dad, knit hats for our brothers and even a nice pair of gloves for Mom. Precious packages in hand, we take the escalator up to the 12th floor to the Oak Grill for lunch.
We love it there. We’ve even put on our nicest school clothes for this special Christmas lunch. It just might be our favorite thing about Christmas. “Table for Peterson,” Dalene and I say in unison. (We always make reservations because we want to make sure we don’t have to wait.) “Right this way, young ladies,” the hostess says, as though we are important. The hostess seats us at a really nice table over by the fireplace alongside an elderly lady who is dressed to the nines in an expensive 1940s ensemble complete with close-fitting hat.
