I almost didn’t go to the Market Days Festival this past weekend, but needed to replace a $5 pair of sandals bought at same locale so many years ago.
They actually needed replacing last year, and probably a few years before that, but no $5 sandals could be found at Market Days, then.
Market Days. I don’t know when they stopped calling it Old-Fashioned Bargain Days, but the bargains seem to have left with the name, and took my $5 sandals, too. However, the dollar-store epoxy I have so generously applied, year after year, was proving less than reliable. So off I went in search of a new pair at, gulp, Market Days.
My first stop found me in a tent across from the New Phenix Hall, where I spun a wheel to win a prize. The wheel stopped on the number 1872, which seemed like an odd name for a prize. Upon looking around, I immediately saw a different Main Street. An older Main Street. Much older.
Dodging horses and buggies, I made my way across the dusty street to read a playbill on a window at Phenix Hall. Closer examination told me it wasn’t New Phenix Hall, built to replace the old one of same name that burned in 1893, but the original building where an upstart candidate from Illinois spoke during his 1860 presidential campaign. And the playbill, it bore the name of Edwin Booth, the lead actor in tonight’s play, Hamlet!
I had somehow spun my way back into 1872 Concord. Scrambling back to the tent across the street, I almost got run over by a stagecoach – a brand-spanking-new Concord Coach to be specific, fresh from Abbot-Downing & Company, and apparently out on its first test run.
Back at the Time Wheel, I gave it another spin, landing on 1920. The air grew instantly colder, and the skies were a gray/black. There was a lot of noise up toward the north end of Main Street, the sound of clanging bells and truck engines mixed with horses’ hooves on cobblestone. And the smell. What’s that burning? Just a few steps closer and I saw White’s Opera House on fire! I knew it had to be Nov. 30 of 1920. Thank God Nathaniel and Armenia White, the most generous couple Concord ever knew, had both passed and didn’t have to witness this tragedy.
Enough of that bummer, I went back and spun the wheel again. Tick-tick-tick-tick, stopping on 1863. If it worked like before, then Concord had just been thrust back into the heart of the Civil War. I knew I had to get over to City Hall. Not the 1902 brick building on Green Street that collects today’s tax payments, but the one that preceded it. There I found common citizens acting as litter-bearers, bringing scores of soldiers into the hall, which had become a makeshift hospital. Some of the soldiers wore kepis that bore the numbers 15 or 16, respectively. These men were from the 15th and 16th New Hampshire Volunteer Infantry! Recalling their regimental histories, I knew it must be early August 1863, and the two regiments were fresh from the swamps of Louisiana. Most were suffering from malaria, typhoid or dysentery. One soldier was being brought out of City Hall on a stretcher, his stiff body completely enshrouded. I knew that many more would soon follow the same fate. Yet, I was fascinated to be living this part of Concord’s history, however morbid.
Retracing my steps back down Main Street, I saw F.W. Woolworth’s and J.J. Newberry stores come into view. These two stores, with their tin ceilings and warped wooden ramps, remain firmly lodged in my childhood memory. But how could they be here if this was 1863? There was just one answer. Someone had spun the Time Wheel, advancing the town into the 20th century. My first inclination was to get back to the 19th century and confirm/disavow so much that I have read from that time. However, hunger had set in by now. I recalled Woolworth’s excellent lunch counter from my youth, and decided another spin of the Time Wheel could wait 20 minutes.
I realized it was too late with just one glance at the Statesman Building on the corner of Depot and North Main. Toward the rear of the building was a sign that read, “Stockbridge & Sanders; bookbinders.” Exiting underneath the sign was Gen. Augustus D. Ayling with the test printing of a very large book under his arm. Someone had apparently spun the wheel back into the 19th century, but just barely. It had to be near July of 1895, when the Revised Register of the Soldiers and Sailors from New Hampshire in the War of the Rebellion, 1861-1866 was published.
As I gazed down Depot Street, my hunger pangs returned when I saw some large blue neon letters that read, “Britt’s Department Store.” Someone had spun the Time Wheel back into the 1960s, and what a stroke of luck it was for me! Britt’s had the best lunch counter in the city, if not all of Merrimack County. I scampered down the hill, but when I got to the bottom the scene had suddenly changed. Britt’s was gone, and in its stead was . . . was a very large brick building with a massive dormered roof, and so many little round-topped cupolas on its perimeter. Horses, wagons, coaches and locomotives seemed to be everywhere. People rushing hither and thither. It was a virtual sea of beast, machine and humanity, the building and endless railroad tracks providing a perfect backdrop to the canvassed scene. Someone had spun the Time Wheel back into 19th century.
Here, I was presented with a golden opportunity. I could save the old Boston & Maine RR Depot! The train station would then become the crown jewel of Concord, and the Granite State, that it should have been all along. That’s when I heard the tick-tick-tick of the Time Wheel. Oh, no. Someone has spun it again. The B&M railroad depot disappeared before my eyes. Britt’s was gone, too.
Zayre’s and Ames came and went in a flash. Mr. Hot Dog upgraded from a 24-hour hangout to Mr. Tux, followed by myriad other failed ventures. I tried climbing back up the hill to spin the Time Wheel back into the 19th century, with full intent to promptly break it fixed there. It was the only way to save the old train station.
But the umpteen layers of dollar store epoxy on my decrepit $5 sandals were no match for the searing, steep incline of Depot Street. They split open, leaving my naked feet on the hot asphalt. I scraped my bare soles, heel to toe, slowly and agonizingly, all the way up the hill.
Upon reaching the topside of North Main Street, the horses and buggies were all gone. Only one Concord Coach could be seen, but it was not horse-drawn, just on display in front of the Food Co-op. The warped wooden floors of Woolworth’s and Newberry’s were replaced by brand-new cement handicapped-accessible entrance ramps to differently named stores, compliments of Complete Streets, Concord’s Main Street Project of 2014-16. Edwin Booth’s playbill turned into a modern-day flier on some upcoming concert event. Even old City Hall vanished, and took the Civil War with it. The Statesman Building remained, as it does today, but Gen. Ayling is long gone, as are Stockbridge & Sanders around back.
I went to the Market Days Festival for 2017, but never found my $5 sandals. All I got was generously handed to me by a Dunkin’ Donuts staffer, late Saturday evening. It was a complimentary gift card worth – five dollars.
(Scott Preston Hardy lives in Concord.)