We were warned. The Coronavirus pandemic would result in a new normal - a change in the way we work, live, go to school and spend money. Stories of struggling brick & mortar retailers during these tough economic times flood the media daily. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the surprise that greeted me this week - the closing of all Ann & Hope outlet stores in New England (or Ann & Hope Curtain and Bath Outlets, as known in recent years). Sadness came over me - not so much about the closing of the chain of retail outlets, but more for the demise of the one and only, the Big Kahuna of them all, the original Ann & Hope store located in the sprawling mill complex of the same name in my home town of Cumberland, Rhode Island. Founded in 1953, Ann & Hope was the first discount department store, a pioneer that would eventually pave the way for other retailers with names like Zayre, Mammoth Mart and K-Mart.
Ann & Hope expanded over the years, opening other stores in Rhode Island and Massachusetts. These paled in comparison, aesthetically speaking. For those of us who resided in and around Cumberland, there was only ONE Ann & Hope - the historic brick mill built in 1886 that would forever be part of our landscape and our lives. The original mill store occupied two floors of everything a family could want - toys for the kids, tools for Dad, kitchen wares and linens for Mom, appliances for the home, and clothing for everyone, at prices only the hardcore cheapskate would dare complain about. There was even a pharmacy and an optical department for eyewear. As a teen in the 1960s and 70s, I could usually be found spending my allowance in the record department stocking up on my collection of vinyl albums and 45s.
Summer brought patio furniture, lawn mowers and a garden shop to the store. Winter brought snow shovels and Santa Claus! No Christmas was complete without a visit to the Ann & Hope Santa when he arrived ceremoniously by fire truck or maybe even a helicopter. A photo would be taken, after which the jolly old elf would patiently listen to a long wishlist only a child could dream up. Leaving Santa’s lap with a coloring book and candy cane, the next stop was the snack bar for a slice of pizza, which was only the best damned pizza pie on the planet.
But the most unique thing about this shopper’s paradise was the carriage conveyor. Customers needed to get their loaded shopping carts from the first floor to the second, or vice versa, and what better way to do that than with the help of an electric conveyor to carry the cart from one level to the other. One would simply drop their cart off at one end of the noisy contraption, ascend or descend the stairs, and meet up with the cart at the other end. Every so often, the thing would get stuck leaving its owner in limbo while the machine underwent a quick repair.
In contrast to the impressively cool brick mill, the other boxy looking stores were ordinary, cold, antiseptic and plain unexciting, like Ann & Hope's poor cousin in Danvers, Mass.
Ann & Hope, the mill store, on the other hand, had character, like the way the wood floors creaked under your feet, or the way the wheels rumbled across the floor of the warehouse overhead. Rather than one big open space, the various departments at the mill were splayed out in a mismatch of open floor and smaller random spaces at multiple levels. Lower level and upper level had their own entrances and parking areas, and scatter brains like me would sometimes forget where I came in.
When I turned 16, I was not only an Ann & Hope customer, but also a seasonal employee. I got my first job - as a bagger. In those days, cashiers apparently were thought to be incapable of multi tasking, so they paid us kids minimum wage to bag the purchases, straighten out the merchandise, and otherwise look busy. I only worked a few weeks during the holiday season and, as I recall, I was sick with a bad cold or flu the entire time. So I wasn’t too broken up when I got the pink slip after Christmas. So ended my brief career at Ann & Hope.
All the Ann & Hope stores were a booming success from the 1960s through the 1990s. Malls hadn’t yet taken off, and we - at least my family - didn’t venture to the city to shop. We didn’t need to. As the saying went, if Ann & Hope didn’t have it, it didn’t exist. And if you couldn’t afford it outright, not to worry - there was always Layaway!
Sadly, the prosperity wouldn’t last. In 2001, during a particularly weak New England economy, when national chains like Walmart and Target could compete where regional retailers couldn’t, Ann & Hope discount stores around New England were downsized to the current format of Ann & Hope Curtain and Bath Outlet, just a shadow of its former glory. Small as they were, the curtain and bath outlets did well, and I shopped at the mill store for curtains and household stuff. But, mostly, I just wanted to reminisce. The outlet now occupies only a portion of the upper level (the lower level being weekend flea market space), and the non-working cart conveyor is still there, behind a glass door on the upper level, showcased like a museum exhibit.
So ends an era. Coronavirus has claimed another victim, not as devastating as the human kind, of course, but sad nevertheless. Ann & Hope mill will be open for a few more weeks while it sells off its inventory, and it’s my mission during the current pandemic to pay a visit at least once more for old time’s sake. Maybe I’ll hear the floors creak and perhaps encounter a ghost or two within the walls of the old mill.
