One and one-half hours from the Stringam ranch is
the city of Lethbridge, Alberta.
When the Stringams really needed to shop, that was
the place to go.
There were tons of great stores . . .
Eaton’s.
Woolworth’s.
Kresge’s.
Hoyt’s.
Woolco.
But, if one wanted a bit of adventure, the best was Progress
Clothing.
Progress was our favourite place to shop.
It wasn’t what you would call a ‘high-end’ store.
It catered more to the farmers and ranchers in the
area.
The people needing sturdy, serviceable, work
apparel.
Tough boots.
Heavy leather gloves.
Progress consisted of a long, open room with thick
windows facing the street.
Dangling fluorescent light fixtures.
And huge tables set evenly about the old-wood
flooring.
Great piles of clothing were stacked on every
available surface.
More or less grouped together according to type and
size.
Colours were limited. Most articles were blue, green,
black or tan.
But choosing pants, shirts or one of the myriad
other items that went with working on a ranch was only the first (and less
exciting) part.
The true fun of Progress Clothing began when one was
holding one’s prospective purchase.
And a salesman approached.
Because the ‘suggested retail price’ on the tag was
just that.
A suggestion.
From there, the haggling commenced.
“How much for these pants?”
“The tag says $7.00.”
“But I’m buying four pairs.”
“Hmm . . . okay $6.00.”
“Really? That’s the best you can do?”
“Hey, I’m trying to feed my family!”
“And I’m trying to feed mine!”
“Okay. Okay. $5.00. But that’s my last offer.”
“$4.50?”
And so it went. It was . . . fun.
If you were lucky, you would pay half of what the
original sticker stated . . .
I hadn’t been to Progress in quite a while.
I had discovered some of the specialty ‘Western’
shops.
With their high-priced ‘stylish’ western clothes.
And I had my own money.
And no encumbrances.
Then, shortly after I was married, my Husby (a newly
acquired encumbrance) and I, feeling both the need to be economical and the
desire for some adventure, stopped at the great old store.
I found a pair of warm, winter boots.
Practical boots.
My Husby held them up to the salesman. “How much?”
he asked.
The salesman stared at him.
“How much?” he repeated.
The salesman leaned forward and touched the tag.
“$8.00,” he said.
“Will you take six?” my Husby asked.
The salesman frowned. “The tag says $8.00,” he
repeated.
“Oh. So . . . $8.00?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
The store and the clothes were the same.
And the prices.
But the important stuff was different.
