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“Consider yourself at home.
Consider yourself one of the family.
We've taken to you so strong.
It's clear we're going to get along.
Consider yourself well in
Consider yourself part of the furniture.
There isn't a lot to spare.
Who cares?..What ever we've got we share!”
~ Lionel Bart, Consider Yourself (from the musical, Oliver!)
Portland, Maine has never been a large city. It’s really more a town with neighborhoods around a diminishing center, than a metropolis. Portland has been enduring an eviscerating past several decades. What postwar “urban renewal” and shopping centers did not dislodge, the covid pandemic era and hypergentrification scattered to the winds. The longer any resident has been here, the more they’ve witnessed departures of cultural fixture businesses and community hubs. A few successors have cropped up, but most of the spaces gave way to elite housing and hotels. One of the most heartening recent stories of its kind was the purchase of Portland’s 61-year-old doughnut and pastry bakery by its principal baker who has joyfully kept it the same lovable place. Public elation around the continuity of Tony’s Donuts has been palpable. Last month, downtown Portland lost its longest-running store: the 94-year-old Joe Wigon Office Supplies, and there was no successor to lead the business. Perhaps stationery and office materials may not have the present-day demand that doughnuts and crullers have. Indeed, the latter cannot be easily bought online. Economics and retail trends notwithstanding, a beloved downtown fixture is now gone and already missed by many. The business started by Joe Wigon in 1932 was owned and managed by his daughter Sally Wigon from 1951 until this month. At age 106, Sally decided to retire, and on a high note: she perceptively and generously gave her remaining inventory to teachers for their classrooms. All they had to do was show up, and they did. I walked to the store to express my thanks and best wishes- as many others did- alongside teachers with canvas totes and carts for their acquisitions.
Sally was really one of the furniture in this small city, cherished by her customers and neighbors. Her business outlasted the much larger and competing nearby Loring, Short, and Harmon store on Monument Square. The latter was dethroned by suburban big-box suppliers, while Sally held her own. A customer could walk into her shop and buy one pencil, or one folder, not to mention a dozen office chairs- if that’s what was needed. Cases and reams were also fine. An errand to Wigon Office Supplies was an occasion for a conversational visit. The shop was cash-only; no credit cards and no electronics. Sally did all the math with pencil on the paper bag, and handwrote the receipt. Instead of a cash register, the store had a large antique console with a large button on the countertop that released a heavy drawer for the transactions. As old-fashioned general stores did, Sally or an assistant asked you for what you needed, and they would weave the aisles to find the material, after which all would be settled up at that bulky counter that resembled a safe. Requests and searches frequently turned into chats about stationery. A rarity today. And the more you’d shop there, the more Sally got to know you and what you do. Trading grateful Sally Wigon stories with fellow customers, I realized I had a few of my own. Sally was my source for typewriter ribbons. On one occasion, realizing I was short on cash, Sally assured me with “Just take it with you, and you can pay me later, dear.” I most certainly did. A frequent suggestion of hers was “Save your spools!” -reminding me that I needed to move the new ribbon that was on a generic spool onto the two that fit my Olivetti. Two doors away from her shop is the very hip Arabica Café, and they love Sally. I only recently heard that the Maine College of Art Library insisted on buying from Sally. Lots of people did, and I knew that.
I used tape to make the grid.
Sally knew her regulars, and was a great listener, eventually knowing a lot about a lot of us. When I began my graduate school odyssey, which lasted nearly four years of working multiple jobs while shuttling between Portland and Boston, I knew enough to keep very careful notes about all my projects. During a workday in Portland, I noticed my all-important notebook was missing. Anxiously retracing all the steps and stops I could recall, I needed to get back to work to finish my day’s obligations- in panicked and frustrated defeat. Returning to the workplace, there was a message to Call Sally Wigon. I didn't know she knew where I worked! Maybe I had ordered something? When I returned her message, she sweetly said, “Your notebook is here; I bet you’re looking for this. Come on over before five.” I excused myself from work for one more errand, sprinting up from York Street to Free Street on my bicycle. To my elation there was my notebook, worth its weight in gold, on the counter at Wigon’s. Sally handed the well-used treasure to me, along with the gift of a brand new dry-erase whiteboard with accompanying markers she taped to the shrink wrap. “I think you can use this,” Sally said, “to help keep things organized. You can hang this on the wall.” I used that board as an assignment scheduler all through my Masters projects, including a book I wrote amidst those years. After I graduated, I gave the board to another student. I have a good idea that Sally helped numerous people in that same spirit.
Below: Papermates, and the pen is still running with a Papermate refill.
More recently, and right up to this year, Wigon Office Supplies was my source for folding study-stands. I'd give them as gifts to my student representatives in my Philosophy classes, and used those book stands for my own research sojourns. Sally typically had these in her window displays. Wigon's was also my go-to for things called "thimblettes," which I'd buy for my archives volunteers, who would use these rubberized finger caps for counting and sorting index cards. I even gave some of these to a supermarket cashier I often saw struggling with tightly-layered paper money. And true to form, customers could buy as many or few as they wished. Sally kept many things in stock that few others had anymore. Her shop was also my source for Parker "Quink" fountain pen ink, and Papermate pens and refills. At work, I'm still using those high-mileage metal refills in those rugged, American-made Papermates. The mechanical pencils use 0.9 graphite. These sorts of things still need to be made, as the tools themselves are as durable as their proliferation. During her final week of business, along many other well-wishers, a few journalists, and teachers who were gratefully stocking up, I stopped in a few times for my greetings and gratitudes. And lingering from this little city will be memories of Wigon's to parallel New Yorkers' memories of places such as Kroll's, Pinsky's, and Bostonians' memories of Pad&Pen, Black Ink, and Bromfield's. I’ve surely saved my typewriter ribbon spools, following Sally’s wise advice.
