The Bon Marche

The Bon Marche was the best place to shop in my hometown.  What Harrods is to London, the Bon Marche was to Coos Bay, Oregon.

Yes, was.  Like many suburban towns in the seventies, Coos Bay became enamored of the idea of turning their thriving downtown into a pedestrian mall.  (They had competition, now: the neighboring town had erected the area’s first indoor mall, Pony Village).  The primary street was closed to traffic, and to encourage people to visit during the frequent rain, they built a giant “roof” overhead, which blocked out most of the light.  It was dark and depressing and the Bon closed soon after.  I must have been about eight or nine, Brian even younger.

I only have one strong memory of the Bon.  I was maybe five, with my Mom in the women’s store, and over the loudspeaker a man was asked to leave.  Is that memory correct?  I’m not sure.  But I remember thinking, “What did he do to be asked to leave?”  And also, “Why wasn’t I asked to leave too?”

The store stood empty for years, until my Mom used the store’s annex for a community fundraiser.  Inside the dusty retail tomb, mannequin parts lay in disarray, and dusty old magazines awaited perusal by customers who would never come again.  It made me sad and nostalgic.

I still remember the acute longing I felt, smelling the musty smell there.

Now WalMart and their ilk get most people’s business, and the downtown continues to struggle, even after Coos Bay removed the “roofs” and reopened the street.