By Retta Lilliendahl
In the 1950s, I lived two miles from town. Mother had left for the night shift at a paper cup factory. It was then that I faced a serious dilemma, I realized I was out of sanitary napkins. I wasn’t sure whether my father knew about such things, besides they only owned one car and it had left with Mother an hour ago. I had to think fast since it was going to be dark soon. There was a small country store about a quarter of a mile from us.
I thought it would be faster if I rode my new bike with a cute little basket on the front to hold my package. I grabbed my babysitting money and shoved it in my pocket. My bike was new and I hadn’t thoroughly mastered it yet. I was short and when I sat on the seat, only the tips of my toes reached the pedals. I had never ridden it out of our driveway, but I assumed the road would be easier than the gravel driveway, with grass growing down the middle, Walking the bike to the road, I wobbled my way towards the store. Since it was my maiden voyage, I stopped and stepped off each time a car passed, which fortunately was seldom.
I parked my bike in a rusty bike rack and went inside. The friendly storekeeper smiled and asked if he could help me. When I enquired, he pointed toward the back of the store and mumbled something about being low in stock. When I saw the shelf, my jaw dropped and with wide eyes, I looked in horror. Pads were big back then, 8” by 3”, and sold in a rectangular box with only the word Kotex and a blue flower. On the shelf was only one box about 2 ½ feet long. The largest box I’d ever seen.
With a flushed face, I placed the box on the counter and paid for it. He reached below the counter and pulled out a brown bag. As he slipped the box into the bag, I heard it rip. “I’m sorry,” he said,” It’s the largest bag I’ve got.”
Stepping outside, I realized that the mustard factory at the opposite end of the road had closed for the day, and the traffic had increased.
I walked my bike home, steadying it with my right hand and hugging my cumbersome billboard with my left arm.
The wretched bike stayed in the garage, I never grew taller than 5’2”, and I never did learn to ride a bike.
Retta Lilliendahl, Local Writer
