On July 2, there was a post on the Facebook page “If you grew up in Ticonderoga, NY you remember …” Jane Banker posted a photo and asked, “Does anyone recognize these people???” Here’s a cropped version of the old black and white photo:
Jane Banker photo posted on “If you grew up in Ticonderoga, NY you remember …” on July 2, 2019. On far right is Judy Dedrick McLaughlin. Standing next to her is Jane Banker.
Well, right away I recognized the person on the very right—Judy McLaughlin! (And a Facebook comment by Darlene Treadway confirmed it. Darlene also identified Jane, standing next to Judy.) Well, the photo brought to mind a column I had written in The Post-Star about those days when Judy had worked at Burleigh’s Pharmacy in Ticonderoga. Here’s a reprint of that column from my newest book, Over My Shoulder. Hope you enjoy it!
“OVER MY SHOULDER” COLUMN FOR DECEMBER 4, 1995
Remember the old Ti coffee club?
A letter from Judy McLaughlin, in Ticonderoga, brought back memories of what I’ve dubbed the “Coffee Club” at Burleigh’s Pharmacy, where my father was pharmacist from 1962 until his death in 1987. While the names differ, I think you’ll recognize the faces from your town. Coffee Clubs are the same everywhere.
Now, I’m going back to the sixties and seventies. My parents, Jane and George King, were alive then, both active in the Coffee Club, which wasn’t really a club of course, and its morning “coffee hour” was usually more than an hour. Its “members” were the regulars, clustered at the counter, some quietly reading the paper until they fully awoke, some having arrived chattering and happy.
My parents’ morning routine was predictable in its unpredictability. George would roar in, frantically groping for the keys, usually late. Often Jane’s driving was the source of agitation – and entertainment for the Club. Mom had gotten her license after turning forty and Dad, a PT Boat commander in “the war,” unwillingly gave over the helm, keeping up a litany of instructions and gentle cursing that could set a tone for their entry into the store. He would dart to the prescription area, she to the counter, where Judy or one of the other “girls” (all young women, but I am using the language of that period) on duty that morning had hot coffee going, while they prepared the salads for the lunch hour. The sulfurous smell of hard-boiled eggs mimicked what we called the “smell of prosperity,” the sulfurous smell of the paper mill.
With each new arrival, the regulars interrupted their conversations about births, deaths or the intimate details about their kids or their spouses, neither who were there to defend themselves. They’d always ask Jane, “What’s George done now?” I can see the Club: Paul and Thelma Joubert, Betty Curtis, “Toot” Hurlburt, who had the cab stand by the bank. Paul, a bear of a man, who worked for the phone company, and my mother had both graduated from Albany Business College and so had a mini-alumni association going. There’s Virginia “Babe” Smith, a former mayor, and banker Tom Gibson, a Canadian by birth, who always looked to me like a dashing British RAF pilot. There’s Jean Brown, Carolyn White, Cy LaPointe. That’s only a few. Forgive my faulty memory.
To the rear, in the prescription room, dad would meet his boss, “Bunny” Bevilacqua, the Mayor of Ti, and a wise and wonderful man. The two were like cousins. George would then migrate to the counter to “exercise his humor,” which could be piercing. He nicknamed everyone, especially the girls behind the counter: Roxanne, Lolita, etc. And he had eagle eyes. A girl whose boyfriend had bestowed upon her a “hickey” would always get caught. He’d walk back to the prescription room, pretending not to have seen, but then would boom out to her, “An old war wound on your neck?” The Club would go wild! She’d run to the cellar, only to be kidded by Hayden P. Wallace, a WW II veteran whom Dad had nicknamed Sgt. York. Haydie, who cleaned at the store, had heard every word through the metal chute that conveyed the soda fountain’s garbage to the cellar. In revenge, the girls would often dump massive quantities of pickle juice down the chute. Sgt. York’s profanity, piped up through the chute, would send the Coffee Club into near hysteria.
Sometimes – how can I say this gently? – George would “overindulge,” and Jane would offer loud critiques of said behavior, to the delight of the Club. It irked her no end that she rarely drank and had migraines, while he “partook” and had none. Jane’s driving offered him revenge. Such as the time when she slid off icy Champlain Avenue, slicing away the D&H switching mechanism, and halting all freight traffic into the village for days! And offering a source for George’s sarcasm for months.
While Burleigh’s and its soda fountain still exist, there’s no pharmacy now. And those old days, like so many of the Coffee Club, are gone. But all will be remembered, especially with friends like Judy to remind us of the good times.
Hey Judy! Pour us another cup, will you?
_______________________________________________
Some explanations about the column: Hayden P. Wallace was a US Navy veteran. My father, also a US Navy veteran, had nicknamed Haydie after “Sgt. York” the famed ARMY veteran of WW I. It was a bit of ribbing between Navy vets. Also, I mentioned in the article that Burleigh’s Pharmacy is gone. What is now there is Burleigh Luncheonette. Walking into it recently, I felt as if I’d gone back in time, as it has wonderfully preserved the original character of the soda fountain area of Burleigh’s Pharmacy. You should visit it!
Over My Shoulder is now available in both print and in Kindle format on Amazon.com.
The Burning of The Piping Rock 