Every small town in America has a “main” street.  Caney’s was called “Fourth Street. Our High School and the “Clifton House”, a hotel which I thought was quite upscale as a child, marked the end of the business district on the eastern end.  Four blocks west “Main Street” ended where Pendleton’s Chevrolet Agency and a Standard Oil service station sat across the street from one another.   Between Pendleton’s and the High School stores stood wall to wall and every building was occupied by a thriving business.  Two drug stores, Baker’s and Winkler’s sold pills, potions, and notions.  Each had a soda fountain behind which high school girls or boys mixed “Cokes”, “Pepsi” and various kinds of phosphates after school and on weekends.   There were a few crossover customers, but each drug store, for the most part was a hang out for a different crowd.   Winkler’s had bar stools on which we perched around an “L” shaped counter.  Baker’s customers stood at a straight bar.  That difference symbolized the contrasting personalities of the two druggists.

Harold Winkler was the sunniest business man in Caney.  Decades later, when I walked into that drug store and did not hear the warbling, tuneless, whistling that was Harold’s trademark, I felt sadness.  That whistling defined his drugstore.  It earned him the affectionate nickname “Birdseed,” but we did not use in front of him because we liked and respected him.   He allowed us to call him “Harold” and he always had time for a moment of conversation with a kid.   In the other drug store, “Mr. Baker” regarded conversation as a commodity to be strictly rationed.  In short, Harold Winkler enjoyed teenagers and seemed to enjoy life.  Elbert Baker probably also enjoyed life but he was a businessman.    Teenagers generated profits but in Mr. Baker’s store they had to be managed.

In both shops ice cream was kept in round cartons in the lower freezing compartments.  The "soda jerk", usually a high school boy or girl, had to bend over to dip ice cream out of them.  When the cartons were near empty they had to bend quite a ways over to dip the last chunks of ice cream out of the bottom of the container.  If the ice cream was hard, which it tended to be down on the bottom, it took a fair amount of time and effort to dig out the last few chunks of rock hard ice cream.   One of Baker’s soda jerks was an attractive, well-endowed young cheerleader named Phyllis.  She enjoyed wearing “Peasant Blouses”, a type of low cut blouse popular at the time.  When Phyllis was working many boys, with appetites more dissolute than alimentary, developed a strong craving for sundaes, sodas, milkshakes, cones; anything that required Phyllis to bend over and dig out the bottom remnants of an ice cream carton.

Harold Winkler kept a magazine rack inside the front door opposite the soda fountain.   Any time we were not in school, four or five boys could be found standing around reading the magazines.  Every so often Harold tried to teach us that the magazines were for sale, but his heart was not in correcting us.   After a day or two or abstinence, the corner would again be filled with freeloading readers.  “TRUE”, subtitled, “The Man’s Magazine” was a favorite.  It led to many an unchaste thought as we studied an artist’s drawing of a leggy, buxom girl.  They were always drawings, never photographs.  TRUE also gave us a repertoire of slightly off-color “jokes” but mostly it was filled with “he-man” stories of adventure and daring.  “ESQUIRE” was a more sophisticated magazine.   But Kansas boys could not relate to the Esquire logo of a little man dressed in a tuxedo and wearing a monocle as well as they could relate to the “TRUE” men.

The only advantage Baker’s had on Winkler’s was its cushioned booths.  These booths attracted couples who used the privacy of the high-backed booths to exchange quick kisses, soulful looks, and secrets.  During the day Baker’s booths also drew the grown-up and “little old lady” crowd.  For a time I worked as a stock boy and occasional soda jerk in Baker’s Drug Store.   Mr. Baker was an even sourer person to deal with as an employee than he was as a customer.  After a few weeks with Mr. Baker I gave up trying to work in retail sales – forever.

Many years later, I walked into “Winkler’s”.  It was no longer called “Winkler’s”.    It was a time of day when kids were out of school but the magazines stood primly in their racks, unthumbed, unread.  The lady behind the soda fountain looked as if she had been out of high school as long as I.  Only the most desperately lecherous of boys would have shown any interest had she bent low to scoop ice cream.  There were no successors to “Bat” Smith, Charlie Watkins, Don Whittington, Fred Bunch, or Eddie Clayton sitting on stools or across the aisle reading magazines.  It was a store that sold notions, lotions, and potions - nothing more.  Customers came in bought what they wanted, maybe had a Coke or ice cream cone and then left.    I ordered a Coke, walked over to the magazine rack, thumbed through a magazine, whistled a completely tuneless couple of phrases, and left - wiping my eyes.