NICKEL & DIME

“Inexpensive toys were one of my favorite commodities.”

My mother had a saying that she often used on me when I was a child. “Michael, you’re going to nickel and dime me to the poorhouse!” What she meant was that I constantly pestered her for change for candy bars and soda pop, something that my brother and I self-weaned ourselves on as children. Nickel and dime has an entirely different meaning as well.

“Dime stores,” as we called them, were located in almost every decent-sized town. Woolworths had locations in Selma, Alabama, and in Lubbock, Texas. After we moved to Anchorage, Alaska, there was one on the notorious Fourth Avenue.

Lake Havasu City had a Yellow Front store in the London Bridge Shopping Center, which was pretty much the same. The current Family Dollar and Dollar General stores continue those early marketing principles.

Five-and-ten-cent stores—often called five-and-dimes, dime stores, or variety stores—were a major retail innovation in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I’m sure this is where Mom got her saying.

They sold a wide range of inexpensive household goods, toys, notions, stationery, and seasonal items at fixed low prices, originally capped at 5 or 10 cents. The model became closely associated with Frank Winfield Woolworth and F.W. Woolworth Company, which helped popularize the format in the United States and abroad.

The roots of the format go back to the 1870s, when merchants began experimenting with bargain tables and fixed-price goods instead of the older practice of negotiated prices.

Frank Winfield Woolworth opened an early five-cent store in Utica, New York, in 1879, but it failed quickly; later that same year, he opened a more successful store in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and soon expanded the price ceiling to ten cents.

One of the most important innovations of these stores was that merchandise was placed where customers could see it and often handle it themselves, rather than relying entirely on clerks to retrieve goods from behind the counter. I’m sure thieves were happy to see the change.

By the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the five-and-dime had become a powerful chain-store model. Woolworth Co. expanded rapidly through volume purchasing, standardized layouts, eye-catching displays, and cash-and-carry sales.

By 1904, it had stores across many states, and by the 1910s and 1920s, the company had become one of the best-known retailers in the English-speaking world. A 1929 commemorative publication from the Library of Congress notes that the chain had grown to more than 2,100 stores in 1,500 cities across five countries by its fiftieth anniversary.

These stores mattered because they helped change how people shopped. Instead of going to several specialty merchants, customers could buy a wide range of everyday items in one place at predictable prices. Historians often treat the five-and-dime as an early form of the modern discount and mass-merchandise store. Inexpensive toys were one of my favorite commodities.

The model also encouraged self-service browsing, attractive packaging, category-based layout, and chain-store buying power—all features that later became standard in department stores, discount stores, and eventually big-box retailers.

Five-and-dimes also had an important place in social history. Woolworth lunch counters, for example, became nationally significant during the civil rights movement—most famously with the 1960 Greensboro sit-ins at a segregated Woolworth lunch counter in North Carolina. That episode made the chain part of a much larger story about public accommodations and desegregation in the United States.

The format declined in the mid-to-late 20th century. Inflation made strict nickel-and-dime pricing impossible, suburban shopping centers and supermarkets changed consumer habits, and discount giants offered even wider selections at competitive prices.

In the United States, the original Woolworth chain eventually closed its remaining U.S. variety stores in 1997, with the company shifting toward other retail lines and later becoming associated with Foot Locker.

By then, the classic five-and-ten had mostly disappeared, though its legacy lived on in discount stores, dollar stores, and other forms of low-price mass retailing.

Inflation has made it nearly impossible for Dollar General and Family Dollar to continue selling items for a buck. Most items are now $1.25 or higher. Hey, stamps are almost a dollar a pop, and they’ll eventually reach it.

Somewhere down the road, inflation will have these dollar stores, just like the nickel-and-dime stores from the past, changing signs. Family Two-Dollar isn’t that far away.

When that happens, sending folks to the poorhouse will become more than just a statement. The answer to the popular Capitol One credit card saying, “What’s in your wallet?” will be, “Not much!”

Customers entering and leaving Ten Dollar General store with sale signs
Shoppers enter and exit a Family Two-Dollar store on a bustling city corner.

TODD MOLD

“Some of the stuff we innocently did was bail out of swings when told not to.”

I first met Todd Mold at Reese Elementary School in Lubbock, Texas. This was 1963. We were classmates in 4th grade and instantly hit it off as friends. Todd’s father, Lt. Colonel David Mold was Reese Air Force Base commander. My dad was an enlisted sergeant, and Lt. Colonel Mold was his big boss.

Todd and I were chummy enough that I was invited to their home several times. He was one of two children, and with his father in the limelight, I often wonder if my pal saw much of his dad. High-ranking officers are always in meetings and traveling places. Todd craved attention and with us paired together, trouble came with each new day. We both had creative minds making for some unusual pranks.

Todd’s mother was extremely nice and their home was spotless. They constantly had get-togethers for other officers and visiting personnel, with Todd having to resign himself to staying out of the way. I was perhaps his only friend from school invited to come over and play. She’d serve us ice cream and cake with Kool-Aid to drink. I remember the dinnerware being much fancier than what we had at our little trailer.

The two of us became such a problem for our teacher, Mrs. Hagan, that our mothers were called in for a conference. Dad was especially worried that my getting into mischief with the boss’s son—repercussions might come his direction. I was told to knock it off or else.

Some of the stuff we innocently did was bail out of swings when told not to. Mrs. Hagan always claimed one of us would break our neck or back while doing so. We’d clown around to get laughs from other students and talk in class on occasion. It was something that some of the other boys did yet their grades didn’t suffer as much as ours. It seems Todd and I put more effort into entertaining than learning.

After unrelenting mischievous episodes at school, Mrs. Hagan recommended to our moms that we be separated. Both parents were in agreement. Todd was to sit on one side of the classroom and me on the other. We weren’t allowed to play together, and I recall that depressing us both.

Lt. Colonel Mold was assigned to another base before 5th grade started and I never saw Todd again. I always wondered what happened to him, because he was constantly bullied and tormented about his name and weight, mostly by girls. I’m sure as time went on he was more than capable of handling such.

Several years ago I decided to reach out to former classmates and was successful in reconnecting with the majority. I sadly found that one girl who was in Todd’s and my class, Larelia Sadler, was killed in an automobile accident four years after graduation in 1976.

For all of my efforts, I could never locate Todd. It seemed as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. I uncovered old newspaper articles regarding Lt. Colonel Mold and his celebrated military service, but nothing regarding Mrs. Mold, their son, or daughter, Edith. I eventually put things on hold until this past week.

Poring through newly released archived newspapers I learned that Todd’s first name was David, the same as his father. I never knew this. Evidently, my old friend went by Todd to avoid confusion.

Searching further I discovered devastating news. On July 4, 1972, Todd was in a car with two friends when it went off the road and hit a large tree. The other boys weren’t seriously hurt but Todd sustained a broken neck. He died several days later in a Massachusetts hospital.

The home address where this tragedy occurred was mentioned in a newspaper clipping. I was able to look this location up and see for myself where the crash occurred. A medium-sized tree is in the Google Earth photo in front of this house. It’s probably an offshoot of the original tree should that one have died back then. Nature has a way of healing itself.

Oddly enough, the cemetery where the family is supposedly buried has no record of them being there on findagrave.com. I assume that’s merely an oversight on their part.

It’s taken me many years to finally find out what happened to my friend. I’m not sure it’s any easier learning now than had I discovered things 52 years ago. I realize that I’m blessed to have made it this far while others didn’t. Just why is a question for which I have no answer. I do believe I’ll see my old pal Todd on the other side.

784 Stoneyhill Road.