measi's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Soda fountains and days gone by... For the past month or so, I've been trying to place what that Vanessa Carlton "1000 Miles" song brings memories of. It's one of those little songs that causes peaceful daydreaming-- with rolling keys on the piano. (Rolling piano keys are like an instant daydream invoker for me. Seriously. Don't get me started on Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind"). The song reminded me of something summery, something childhood, something "comforting." I couldn't place it. I might still be wrong, but I wouldn't doubt it's the gentle, lazy days spent at the Soda Fountain (actual name of the place) near my mom's old bakery, and the meandering bike routes I'd take after school to get there. Why does this come up? All because of the vanilla coke mention from the story in yesterday's entry. Now, for the record-- I did not make that comment. I've had vanilla cokes. I've had chocolate cokes. I love both, as long as they're done correctly. I'm wary of vanilla coke out of a can. Maybe out of a bottle, it'll be okay, but it's still not the same as the honest-to-god concoctions they made at old soda fountains-- both the one with the actual title, and the drugstore ones of a bye-gone era. And I'm definitely MUCH younger than the age 50 marked in that article. I was having these in... let's see... 1987. (quiet, [ade]. I know how old you are.) Anyway... from about age 10-13, my mom and my brother's godmother, Leslie, ran a catering and bakery called Great Beginnings, Perfect Endings. It's since become the Poet Street Market in Billings (although was sold to new owners several years ago). Mom and Leslie started it originally out of the kitchen at home, then moved to kitchen space at the YWCA in Billings. And then, when it really took off, they moved into a space at the corner of Rehberg Lane and Grand Avenue, where it remained until it was sold during my parents' divorce settlements a few years later. Once the weather was decently warm, I generally rode my bike to school, and would ride it down to the bakery and spend the afternoon with Mom. She'd usually give me a couple bucks to go get a hotdog and a chocolate coke over at the Soda Fountain before putting me to work dipping truffle centers into melted chocolate (what a rough first job, eh?). And being the goofy pre-teen that I was, I couldn't just WALK my bike to the Soda Fountain. Oh no-- I rode it, even though it was two buildings down. Why? Because there were all of these nifty loading ramps between all the buildings that I had to ride up and down before I could get there. It was like a slalom course for the chicken teenager. (grins). The Soda Fountain was a complete blast from the past sorta place, but extremely well-kept. White ice-cream parlour chairs and tables with red seats. A counter with padded stools built into the floor (the ones that swivel). A jukebox in the corner, and booths with the quarter machines. Food was basic: hot-dogs, hamburgers, ice-cream, and the soda drinks. You could, in the mid-80's, get a hot dog for 50 cents and the soda for seventy five (a dollar if you got two flavors mixed in-- cherry chocolate cokes were common for me). Unfortunately, I don't remember the people who ran the place, although I know that after a while, they knew me by name, knew what I ordered, and often had it ready since I came in pretty regularly at 4:30. But I remember taking all of the back streets through West Billings to get there. The West Side is full of streets of little post-WWII suburb-style homes on winding streets with lots of cottonwood trees that were shedding from May until early September, forcing me to be extra careful riding my pike so I didn't get cottonwood husks stuck to my tires, gears, and shoes. During the summer, I'd be down there less often, but would still go at least twice a week, riding through the same neighborhoods, watching streets meander away from a bike-seat view. I was a gangly pre-teen girl. Nearly my full height at the age of 12 (I stood about 5'3" then-- an inch taller than my mom), weighing around 115 lbs with white-blond hair teased into the Jersey-bang style of the day, new braces, new contact lens (I only had one... in my right eye... at the time. My left eye was 20/20), tons of freckles (still there, but fainter), and gold hoop earings wide enough to put my hand through. Everyone knew me because of my dad. Everyone knew my friend Andi through me because of my dad. And as we'd ride those streets, people out tending to their yards would wave to us and say hi. It was one of those "The Sandbox" type childhoods-- lots of mini-adventures with friends through the big bad backroads and the neighborhood backlots. Maybe that's why that song brings back memories. It kinda has my memories wander at about the pace of watching life roll by from a bike-riding point of view. *sigh* I need to get home one of these days.... [bar] And since when, according to this Mapquest map, is there a ditch running under my dad's house? This is news to me.... 3:19 p.m. - 12 April 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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