The dress was a classic and I knew it. It was a silky little number, off-white with irregularly sized royal blue and black polka dots. It had a double ruffle at the bottom (cut at an angle), midcalf-length at its longest point. It was a straight cut, no doubt made for someone taller and slimmer than me. And that was its fatal flaw – or mine. I had to have something I could wear immediately, not something that would look great after a couple of weeks of extreme dieting.

But I knew on that day I left Ward Bros. that I had made the biggest shopping mistake of my then 30-some years. And I was right. I don’t even recall the dress that did make it home with me, but today, 20 years later, I can very clearly recall the one that didn’t.

Ward Bros. had a special place in my life growing up. I was, after all, a third-generation shopper. Whenever I was tempted to go to the Bell Shoppes (where the “cool girls” shopped) or, heaven forbid, “The Fantastic Fair,” I’d be reminded by my mom that her mother had always said: Quality always matters in clothing. Save your money and buy something at Ward’s.

And though we didn’t have a lot of money while I was growing up in the ’60s and ’70s, we did just that. And we were always treated like royalty.

The clerks knew us by name, by size and by style. “I’ve got something I know you’ll like,” Edith Olum would say as she led me to a rack, reached in and pulled out a “just right” dress, pair of slacks, suit or a coat. Even the clerks had a certain elegance. And they knew their stuff. They were ladies in the old-fashioned and best sense of the word.

Owner Larry Ward was definitely “in the store.” Shoppers would frequently see him bustling around, glasses sliding down his nose, a shock of thick, dark hair slightly askew over his forehead. No matter how busy he was, he always spoke to his customers.

And I’m sure that’s where I learned the word “mezzanine.” Though I seem to remember wondering exactly what the word meant, I knew it was where the underwear was and the lingerie and the bra slips – a wonderful invention of the ’70s.

But no matter how much I loved the clothes, like any young woman worth her weight in tanned cow hides, what I truly lusted after was downstairs, toward the back. No one had to sell me shoes, they sold themselves. More often than not, Norm Roy – with his engaging grin and ready wit – would come wheeling up for a bit of conversation. He was a master charmer and I always looked forward to our encounters.

Ward Bros. – where I got my first really good costume jewelry and pantyhose, my first “really nice” suit, and the first and last of my ubiquitous London Fog all-weather coats.

They really don’t make em like that anymore. Rest in peace, Larry and Norm.

Editor’s note: Larry Ward and Norm Roy, as well as another long-time Ward Bros. employee, Josephine Desjardins, all died within the last month. Ward Bros. offered women of the region upscale clothing from 1929 to 1987.

Heather McCarthy is senior design editor for the Sun Journal and a lifelong resident of Auburn.