The woman standing next to me was buying enough light brown yard goods to make 15 shepherds. The sales clerk at the fabric counter didn't bat an eye as her scissors trimmed the material and said, "The other day we had a run on donkey's ears."
The Monday afternoon scene was at Blank's fabric house in Northwest Plaza. Another customer discussed gossamer yardage for angels.
A lady in a camelhair coat displayed a huge green velvet Christmas tree skirt trimmed in gold banding.
Then I approached the counter and tried to keep from laughing. Did the clerk have any shiny synthetic fabric that might resemble the sheen of an iceberg. Without missing a beat, she pointed across the aisle to a bolt of material. It was just the ticket for my Christmas garden and its miniature reproduction of the Titanic.
It's that time of the year, 12 days to Christmas and insanity reigns. It knows no bounds. And it's best handled with the kind of broad smile that my father used one Sunday night before Baltimore had a Harborplace.
He inadvertently devised a means of finding the perfect Christmas tree. This specimen was green, scented all three floors of an old house, never shed a needle and showed off the ornaments to perfection.
The Christmas season is the time of family gatherings and this Sunday night long ago was no exception. We were in the warm kitchen of my grandmother Mary Louise Kelly's Poultney Street rowhouse. I am sure we were filled with her cookies made with sugar, flour and Esskay lard.
The talk got around to buying a Christmas tree. My grandmother was a strong advocate of waiting until the last minute to buy a tree. She knew well that by the laws of Baltimore neighborhood economics, the prices fell as Dec. 25 approached. It was by now at least 10 days before and therefore way too early to invest.
We ignored her advice that "You're buying too early" and left the house, trooped down an alleyway and found a woodsman nearby on what was then a very ungentrified Cross Street.
The tree operation had all the right features. There was an oil drum full of smoking fire to keep the sellers warm. A few two-by-fours had been nailed together in the form of a cross. They supported the line of Balsam trees, which was about the only kind of tree available then, except for a few rouge Scotch pines that were beginning to be introduced. And, of course, there was a line of bare electric light bulbs strung up.
Without too much deliberation, my mother and father eliminated the worst of the Balsams, picked one that seemed to have all its parts and tied it atop our Rambler American station wagon. My grandmother was steadfast. No tree for her that night. She figured to hold out until the 24th of December.
After prolonged good byes, grandmother waved us on the way northward. My father took the car up South Charles Street and east on Montgomery Street to Light Street, where he reminisced about the old maritime wharves that once stood there. Today this site is universally called the Inner Harbor. Back then, on a good day, it was referred to as the Basin.
At the place on Light Street where my father was describing glories of the Old Bay Line (the old night steamer to Norfolk, Va.), the tree broke its moorings and flipped backward into the northbound lane of Light Street traffic. It was squarely hit by oncoming cars and trucks.
We all let out a gasp, but soon came to our senses. My mother thought the flying tree was exceedingly funny. She remarked that at least the freight train that then made nightly bulk deliveries to the McCormick plant hadn't hit it.
Well, if buying a tree early was an extravagance, we certainly were not going to add to the profligacy by buying an undamaged replacement. The injured Balsam was fetched without bodily injury and retied to the Rambler.
A few days later, my father brought the bruised and battered tree inside the house.
He turned its worst side toward the corner of the dining room. Its second worst side was trimmed with large ornaments and cords of electric lights. Its scent, helped along by the tires of Light Street, was extraordinary. My mother claimed they pressed out the sap. It was, by all later accounts, our best tree. My polyester iceberg should be as successful.