At one time, my father invested heavily in weaving looms, which he sold at a profit. And dry goods, which he did not. That he had acquired the dry goods from a tenant in lieu of back rent makes me feel a little better about how badly he did. At least it hadn’t been his dream that had gone awry.

The store occupied a building he owned at 1551 Milwaukee Avenue. I hated that building, and I hated the store. I remember spending entire days with him waiting for customers who never came.

Not one.

The merchandise was laid out on tables or in wide bins. There were piles of blue and red cowboy bandanas and stacks of cheap floral handkerchiefs decoratively bound by small satin ribbons in thin white gift boxes. I thought those handkerchiefs were wonderfully pretty, and I couldn’t figure out how anyone in the world could resist them. To my very young eyes, they were as alluring as the spun glass figurines displayed on a cabinet top in the apartment of the tenant who lived behind the store.