The Misanthrope’s Corner

THIS seems to be the season for chipping away at the diminishing rock of my childhood. First Jimmy Stewart died, and then Woolworth’s five-and-ten announced that it was going out of business.

To be honest, Stewart was the antithesis of my taste in men. The lovable boy-next-door type has always irritated me, and physically he turned me off because he was too tall and skinny. Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and five-foot-ten is more my style, but I liked Stewart anyway because he was there. Where childhood memories are concerned, thereness is what counts. I probably wouldn’t shop at a Woolworth’s today, but I want it to be there, and now it won’t be, not ever again.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

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THIS seems to be the season for chipping away at the diminishing rock of my childhood. First Jimmy Stewart died, and then Woolworth’s five-and-ten announced that it was going out of business.

To be honest, Stewart was the antithesis of my taste in men. The lovable boy-next-door type has always irritated me, and physically he turned me off because he was too tall and skinny. Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and five-foot-ten is more my style, but I liked Stewart anyway because he was there. Where childhood memories are concerned, thereness is what counts. I probably wouldn’t shop at a Woolworth’s today, but I want it to be there, and now it won’t be, not ever again.