Louisville’s Fabric Permanently Altered Again

Posted: July 21st, 2008 | Filed under: Community, Culture, Ruminations | No Comments »

Baer’s Button store on the 600 block of West Market was run by Mr. Baer. Just as my parent’s store (Handbag Mart, an apt, utilitarian moniker) was owned and operated by my family down the street. In the 50′s and 60′s, some even surviving into the 70′s, they and thousands across the land like them thrived, many mom & pop operations. It had been the norm since the beginning of the republic.

The first time dad sent me down to Baer’s to get a swatch of cloth to fix a purse, I asked Mr. Baer, a paunchy man with a twinkle in his eye, to help me. “Ask Clarence,” he said. “Clarence knows where everything is.”

So he did. We took the old freight elevator to the third floor. Through narrow aisles between floor to ceiling shelves laden with thousands of bolts of fabric, Clarence circuitously led me straight to what my father needed.

Clarence — never knew his last name — was a swell guy. He became a confidant and the fellow I’d always go to when dad needed some piece of cloth or another, or my mom needed a button and sent me to fetch it instead of going herself. That Clarence was black was an afterthought. Even in the 50’s.

Actually no thought at all. For awhile, I’d already been getting haircuts from another African-American, Devoe C. Hale. He was the always prim and proper gentleman, whose store was situated between my parent’s and Baer’s. Mr. Hale — always Mr. Hale — was the only merchant on the block who wore a white shirt and tie every day. And an immaculate white barber’s coat too. He commanded respect.

For a short period he had a shoe shine guy who polished your Weejuns with such relish that your feet would get hot from the friction of the polishing cloth. Through the years, he had a bunch of others who didn’t snap those cloths quite so hard.

Though I only vaguely remember such myself, Mr. Hale was apparently as randy as he was dignified. As the story goes, one of his regular customers would get so heated up during his blue conversations in Mr. Hale’s barber chair, that he’d have to calm down before he’d let Mr. Hale remove the sheet that covered his lap. I guess when I think about it, when I was in his chair, Mr. Hale did always inquire whether “I was getting any?”

Baer’s survived the not-so-halcyon days that followed those glorious times when mom and pop stores could actually survive, even prosper, in our economy. The other stores along that block didn’t fare so well. Shoe Market, Pix, Sportswear Mart, Marks Paint, Bell Furniture, Universal Distributing, Fleischer’s Hardware, Handbag Mart — all long gone. In the name of urban renewal and the anschluss of big business and bulk purchasing discounts, they succumbed one by one.

Charlie Wilson’s appliance store survived, moving down Market toward the east end, and prospered.

Baer’s Buttons became Baer Fabrics and it also moved east on Market. Its reputation was enhanced through the years. It was the go-to emporium for cloth and buttons and all the attendant stuff that went with them. Ticking. Sewing machines. They held upholstering classes and sewing camps. The employees knew what they were talking about. And they cared.

You needed to match a button? If Baer’s didn’t have one, it didn’t exist. Period.

You wanted to re-upholster a nifty old chair? If Baer didn’t have something that worked, you were the one who was looking for the unattainable.

Well, bury the rag deep in your face, now is the time for your tears.

Baer Fabrics closed its doors last week, more than a century after they opened in 1905. A lot of folks are stunned, dismayed, flummoxed by the loss. Nobody really understands.

Not enough business? How could that be, the place was always busy. Always.

Bad management? Too much debt? A bank loan officer with an itchy trigger finger?

Whatever.

Another beloved local institution bites the dust, gone the way of Levy’s, Levy Brothers, Oscar Ewing Dairy, Ehrler’s, Hawley Cooke, Nap’s Market, Charlie Simon’s Delicatessen, the Vogue and Williams Food Shop at the corner of 5th and Market, where you could sit at the counter and enjoy a cheeseburger smothered in grilled onions that put every other one you ever ate to shame. They also served Waldorf Salad.

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for the days when life lay ahead and my contemporaries — Bobby and Bernie and Steve and David and Jimmy and Ian — and I all worked for our parents and uncles & aunts at those stores on Market. For the characters on the streets. For the invigorating urban cross section that it was. For those cheeseburgers. For that first 45 rpm record player I bought after staring at it for months in the window at Ben Snyder’s. For the grilled sweet rolls at Quino’s before work.

So our leaders can talk all they want about the latest pre-fab nightclub to land on Fourth Street. Or the newest franchise at one of the malls just like the ones at the malls the next city over. It ain’t the same.

You’re not gonna run into Don, the old fellow who took your money at Williams’ and always bid you adieu with a nod and staccato “Thank you.”

Or, Clarence, who knew where every button and bolt of gingham was stored. And made you laugh while fetching it, all the while counseling you how to talk with the cutie in history class.

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