The snow fell silently on the cathedral of elms lining Stevenson Street. My brother, Jimmy, and I walked on, my mitten in his bare, freezing hand; past the sentinel of houses whose peaks pierced the winter sky like prows of pirate ships. The shops on Seneca Street began to close in anticipation of the Christmas Even that lay ahead, as neighbors hurried home to gather with family and friends. At the corner of Hammerschmidt we stood, two orphans of the storm, gazing into the arm glow of the drug store window.

The Lionel train dutifully made its rounds between two magnificent apothecary globes filled with colored water. The Christmas tree stood in the center of the window on a bed of angel's hair surrounded by Russell Stover Candy mountains and yellow Kodak film box tunnels. The shopkeeper's bell rang as we entered the store. The air was thick with myriad scents of medicinal compounds, tobacco, cosmetics, perfumes and the soda fountain that formed an intangible drug store smell unlike any other. In the back of the pharmacy, beneath the gold letters that spelled PRESCRIPTIONS, stood the druggist. His face, lined and gentle, reflected a lifetime of experience and his eyes, bright, clear and expressive, twinkled when he spoke. He had led a fascinating life and each day would present me with a new story, like a gift, to be opened and treasured. To his customers, he was "P.H.," or "Pat," but to me, he was Papa.

To view the rest of this story by Diane Mulvey Shehata, see page 56 in the Fall 2006 Heritage Magazine. Subscribe now!