Taylorville was my home, my playground. I knew it like my backyard. There wasn't a street I had never ventured to; I used to draw maps of the town from memory while doodling on school papers during those less-than-exciting classes at Hewitt School. Some of the more interesting places that bring about more than just a slight memory are the Court House with the town clock, which strikes a "gong" for each hour of the day, every hour with the dependability of time itself. The Court House was the center of the universe, a square block area with a massive limestone building rising out of the vast green, well-manicured courtyard filled with giant trees. If a soundtrack of my childhood were to be recorded, the first two tracks would undoubtedly contain the sounds of the Court House Clock and the sound of one of the many Wabash freight trains that pierced the town during all hours of the day and night. Other interesting places for a kid included the drug stores around the square. My fascination with drug stores probably stems from frequenting the soda fountains of what I believe was a Walgreens on the south side of the Square, now occupied by part of First Trust Bank. I remember it as large and dark, with what seemed to be an incredibly high ceiling from which large ceiling fans hung. Other drugstores like Pearce's, Rene's, and Mortons were all places that served the exotic drink that was impossible to get anywhere else, a "cherry Coke." There were other unique places, which I now remember just like yesterday. These places were full of sights, sounds, and smells.

 

Walker's Five and Dime on the north side of the Square. The small, tightly jointed hardwood floor squeaked as you walked, and the glass partitions on the displays separated the small plastic toy cars from the big plastic toy cars. But most of all, I remember the tall racks near the checkout counters hung long clear cellophane wrappers that contained individually wrapped "jawbreakers" connected from end to end. From the top of the display to the floor...and surrounded by candy of all kinds. I never knew the clerks by name, but they knew me and always talked to me like my grandmothers. But who they were wasn't important at the time. The toy cars and the candy were important.

 

Sherman's Department store was important. It's not exactly a place you would think would be important to a kid, but my mother worked there. I didn't know what she did. I suppose she arranged the shelves like my closet at home. She also ran the cash register, I guess. I remember when they remodeled the store and how disappointed I was when the project was over, and the only change was to the front ten feet of the store, but if you stood outside, it looked great. I also remember the radio at Sherman's. It was a table model perched on a shelf above the cash register, located near the center of the front half of the store. It blared with the hometown radio station WTIM. I remember all of the features of the station, Three Star-News, Four-Star News (which, to this day, I haven't a clue as to the significance of the counting stars what it had to do with radio news), The Swap Shop (a sort of classified ads on the radio program) and The Fourteen Ten Club( the local station's attempt at rock of roll radio).

 

But the memory that drives all of the senses is that from the front of the Capitol Theater....right under the marquee. It was a huge structure that jutted out from what seemed to be the second-largest building in the universe. I had never seen, or have yet to see, a more enormous marquee on the front of any theater. It must have had a million clear light bulbs running along the edges and under the great canopy. I can still smell the popcorn and feel the rush of cool air-conditioned air when the chrome-plated glass front door of the Capitol opens. I can still hear the sound of the Court House clock as it struck "one" or "seven" before the matinee or early show when standing in line to approach the box office for a ticket.

 

It was a place so mysterious yet inviting, so large yet intimate, so dark yet enlightening ....it was my old friend, the Capitol Theater. It was the most colorful building on the square, with its vast blue, red, and light gray porcelain tiles, which went from the sidewalk of Main Street to the sky above, and the string of moving lights that ran from the base of the marquee to the top of the building. However, the most notable part of the exterior of the building was the marquee. Under the marquee was hung the item that indicated the season, just as dependable as the opening of the Dairy Queen. This large banner hung below the giant marquee, which stated, "Air Conditioned"! Under the marquee, the blue-colored sidewalk with its neatly placed expansion joints which divided it into large five-foot squares, and on the street, out front, where the remnants of hundreds of formally chewed sticks of Double Mint, Juicy Fruit, and Spear Mint Gum. It would be hard to imagine them not being part of the original construction plans for Main Street. There they were, just beyond the red-painted curb, probably cast aside with the anticipation of the buttered popcorn and Frosty Malts that were minutes away.

 

In the center of the building, neatly protected by the marquee, was the box office, flush with the front of the theater. It was a glass cage with a small hole about mouth level (for adults) and a mouse hole opening above the chrome counter surface where tickets would mysteriously appear from small slots. Inside the cage were the "ticket girls" and the telephone I used many times to call for a ride home after the movie. Hanging within was a small back panel framed in stainless steel that housed information about the current show, like title, showtimes, and prices. The earliest ticket prices I remember were thirty-five cents for children under twelve and fifty cents for adults. The box office was surrounded on each side by double doors made of stainless steel and glass with vertical pull handles, which, upon opening, made the doors feel as if they weighed a ton, even though they opened as smoothly as any door I've ever opened in my life. On either side of the door were displays of movie posters headed by "Now Showing" or "Coming Soon." The theater front was so large that it also contained other storefronts. To the left was a barbershop, and to the right was the snack bar until the Capitol went through a remodeling. At this time, the snack bar was moved from the right side of the storefront off of the lobby to the interior. That left the storefront area vacant for another tenant, an insurance agent, or a travel agent. I don't remember, but that's not important. What was important was the Theater itself.

 

The lobby was small. The pattern of its tiny white tiles on the walls was broken by an occasional red, blue, yellow, or black tile and covered only by the movie posters contained within stainless steel frames and headed with "Coming Soon," "Now Showing at the Ritz" or "Now Showing at the Frisina Drive-In Theater." The floor was slanted from the street level to the openings of the interior lobby, which contained the snack bar. The opening to the left was the exit. At the other opening, a ticket was torn and deposited by many a teenage uniformed employee into the podium, which stood just above waist level. The ticket was funneled into the small slot at the bottom just a few short inches from the top. I had always envisioned the basement below the lobby containing every torn ticket from the days of the silents to the current showing. The procedure of tearing tickets was always a mystery to me, I mean, after all, you paid to get in the lobby, why did you need the tickets? That's just one mystery that had no answer. It was just all a part of the theater "ceremony."

 

The dimly lit interior lobby was just a large hallway across the rear of the auditorium. It was symmetrical, with carpeted stairways at each end leading to the upper lobby. The front wall was painted black. The thickly carpeted stairways could run up or down by even the rowdiest kids with only the slightest rumble. The entrances to the auditorium consisted of two openings which had twin padded doors with a small porthole window from which late moviegoers could estimate just how late they were while waiting at the snack bar by looking to see if the cartoon was showing, the coming attractions or the movie.

 

The snack bar was a glass countercase surrounded by the same multi-colored small tiles adorned the lobby. The tile was below the glass front, displaying many an overpriced and brightly colored plastic or cardboard container of theater candy. Along the counter was the popcorn maker, in which the sound and smell of freshly popped corn filled the interior lobby and flowed out onto the sidewalk. A menu board of prices for each of the treats was hung from the wall behind the snack bar, also of tile. Popcorn, plain and buttered, Coke(at least I believe it was Coke; I don't remember any other offerings, although I'm sure there were others), candy bars, licorice, and others are all expensive for my budget, it wasn't nearly as fun as the soda vending machine. This is one in which you deposited fifteen cents and below was an opening in which a cup would magically tumble from above and then some ice and a mixture of dark liquid and clear liquid would fill it, you would then reach inside the opening and pull out the cup containing your soda. Along the snack bar, there was also a display that contained frozen treats like my favorite, The Frosty Malt! For 20 cents, I could enjoy chocolate malted ice cream in a cup and eat it with a flat wooden spoon. Many times, though, after the initial ticket price, popcorn, Frosty Malt, or soda, my only activity with the snack bar was with the drinking fountain located near the left stairway.

 

At the top of the stairs was a place of mystery. It was so mysterious that it was nearly always off-limits. It was the BALCONY! It was a tradition to check before every movie to see if it was open. Still, unfortunately, the hallways that led to the forbidden territory were usually graced with a chain with the sign hanging in the center, "Balcony Closed." The upper lobby was also home to the cigarette machine and a sofa. Those who couldn't sit through an entire movie could go to the upper lobby and smoke. I don't think I ever saw anybody take advantage of that comfort, at least anyone over 21. Most of the smoking took place in the restrooms, which were a couple of steps above the upper lobby and graced the area over the main lobby. The men's restroom was a large open area with several sinks along one wall and three small rooms containing the toilets. Each small room had a wooden door resembling a door you would find in a bedroom or closet.

 

My trips to the restroom were limited because of the fear of being "beat up" by some of the smoking teenage "bullies," who seemed more interested in hassling smaller kids and smoking than seeing a movie. I knew that if I had to use the restroom, I would scout it out, perhaps taking several trips to the upper lobby to listen outside the door to ensure I heard no voices or anyone in there. Then, it was a rush to exit as soon as possible to reduce the risk of running into one of the "bullies" Before he needed another nicotine rush.

 

The auditorium was huge. It was graced with two aisles leading down from each door on either side of the snack bar. The isles were covered with the same sound-deadening flowering carpet that covered the stairways. Down the aisles were small lights illuminating from small slits on the aisle side of about every third seat. The seats were relatively small folding theater seats, well-cushioned, the back of which had been painted many times over the years. I remember that after one remodeling the Capitol undertook, the back of the seats changed from black or some other dark color to a lighter brown. The floor was a typical theater-slanted hardwood floor, in which years of soda syrup and candy had accumulated to make maneuvering down a row of seats a unique challenge. Although I never found it, I was sure that somewhere at the front of the theater was a large pit in which all of the M&M's and other round candy had rolled to and mixed with the spilled soda that ran into it during the last few decades.

 

The walls of the auditorium were probably typical of theaters. They were framed in large rectangular rectangles with brownish wall coverings and sizeable round art deco lights hung flat against the wall in the center of the inserts. Two large speakers were hung on each side, one about a third of the way to the back and another near the balcony.

 

The stage at the front of the theater was large enough to hold most of the movie's action if it was a play. In front of the stage was an orchestra pit and a courtroom type of rail, which divided the pit from the isle running along with the front row of seats. The curtains of a rich red velour seemed so incredibly large. From the stage floor and reaching into the heavens, or so it seemed, those curtains would open to reveal the large, white, slightly curved reflective movie screen. The screen also included one flaw. That flaw could be quite a distraction if you let it. I heard that that flaw was caused by someone throwing a soda bottle at it during some awful movie.

 

At each side of the stage, above the obligatory exits that allowed one to leave in case of a fire in the popcorn machine, were two areas of complete fascination to me. These areas were separated from the two side walls of the auditorium because they were not part of the sidewalls and came out of the sides at a slight angle, probably to deflect the sound from the stage area out to the audience. On these wall surfaces, along with woodwork to make it look like box seats were two wall murals, the subject of which probably wouldn't be allowed today. There appeared to be two unclothed maidens, one on each mural, and each covered by just a thin veil, looking into the stars. Were they waiting for the next show?

 

I probably wouldn't mention the auditorium ceiling, but I do hold some significance in explaining the "facts of life" to my little brother. At a Saturday matinee, I explained to my brother, who was ten years my junior, that the large hole in the ceiling (actually a substantial dark stain from some leak years before) was where babies come from. "That's why many couples go to the movies," I told him, "they all come here to have a baby. While they're watching a movie, a baby will come floating down from the hole in the ceiling and land in their lap." I never thought too much about it, but he did reveal in adulthood that the prospect of procreating in that way haunted him throughout his childhood.

 

My favorite place to sit was "The Peanut Gallery." It was on the left or right side of the auditorium, about five or six rows back, right next to a sizeable quarter-round area just to the back of the exit doors and the walled area, which included the "women in the veil" murals.

 

This area had more leg and foot room than any other area of the seats. You could even prop your feet on the large black cover of the quarter-round piece of something that was part of the building. The real reason the building had this object was another mystery I thought I'd probably never solve. Later in life, I assumed it housed two rotary fan cylinders that drove the conditioned air into the auditorium.

 

It was at the Capitol that I began my moviegoing habit. My mother told me she took me to see Gone With the Wind at one of its re-release dates when I was just a few months old (she couldn't get a sitter, I guess). She would change my diaper, stick a bottle in my mouth when I would get restless, and burp me all the while Atlanta was burning. I can't recall the first movie I saw, but it probably was a Disney movie. I remember seeing movies with my parents, like "Operation Petticoat" and various John Wayne movies. Still, I recall many times I went either with school friends or alone to the Saturday matinees.

 

They were extraordinary! The Three Stooges film festivals, in which they would show what seemed to be a dozen of the short twenty-minute features back to back, were a real treat. Combine that with a cartoon or two and a full slate of previews and cartoons, and you'd have a Saturday afternoon made in heaven. All that for just thirty-five cents and maybe another twenty cents for the "Frosty Malt."

 

The previews in which statements would come bouncing across the screen, like "Never Before on the Screen" and "Their Love Forbidden," were all a part of the experience. The Twentieth Century Fox newsreel in which we would see current events unfold in glorious black and white with the voice of the narrator describing the action, as the cartoons, the Warner Brothers cartoon cast, the Harvey Comics Cartoons, the travelogues, in which we could travel to some far off land and see people react on cue to the camera were all a part of the movie-going experience which doesn't exist today.

 

The Beach movies, and the variation of the traditional beach movies in which various Coca-Cola drinking teenagers would be spending the night (girls in a separate part of the house, of course) and it be haunted, or a movie with some mad scientist stalking visiting a co-ed group of teens was the fare in the mid-'60s. "Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine" and "Beach Blanket Bingo" were typical Friday night movies. One movie, in particular, the name of which escapes me, was probably one about which the movie "Matinee" was about in the 1980s. The movie "Matinee" featured a guy, played by John Goodman, who would do things within the movie's presentation, which would draw moviegoers with audience participation. My best friend at the time, Mike, had a brother who was once recruited to participate in one of these "stunts," as he would dress up in a gorilla suit and run out at an appropriate time and pick up a member of the audience. The gorilla chose the target person, who wore a red sweater, then tossed the girl over his shoulder, and he, as the gorilla, took her back to the stage and behind the curtain. Of course, we didn't know that would happen when the usher came to where we were sitting to ask him if he would like to make "a couple of bucks."

 

So here we are, watching the film when a gorilla searches the house for the teenagers when the film "breaks." The lights go up, and from behind the curtain, the gorilla appears amid the screams of the teenage and younger audience. The gorilla runs to and along the north aisle, picks up a young girl wearing a red sweater, and exits at the stage area behind the curtain from where he appeared. Then the lights go down, and the movie begins again, with a scene of the gorilla carrying the girl with the red sweater. It was one of the most memorable moments of my childhood!

 

It was truly remarkable when the Beatles' "Hard Days Night" and "Help" were released. It was the only movie I ever saw in which you couldn't hear anything other than the screams of the audience. It was as though Paul, John, George, and Ringo were there. I remember seeing "Help" in the second row, on the right side of the balcony. It was one of the few times the balcony was open. The Beatles were a hit in Taylorville, too.

 

I saw some of my favorite movies all by myself at the Capitol. "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World" back in '63 was a special film for me, as was "Ensign Pulver" with Robert Walker Jr., "The Great Escape" with Steve McQueen, "Bridge at Remagen" with Robert Vaughn, "Thunderball" with Sean Connery, "The Nutty Professor" with Jerry Lewis, and countless others were all blockbusters which were so memorable I went by myself as not to be distracted perhaps by a friend who maybe didn't appreciate the films finer points. Others include John Wayne films like "North to Alaska", "The War Wagon", "True Grit" and "The Hell Fighters".

 

A nearly empty theater marked the end of the Beatles era to see "Let It Be." The seventies brought more James Bond movies like "Live and Let Die," which I saw a record eight times within two weeks. Only one other movie ever came close to achieving the repeated record and that was "American Graffiti".

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My first actual "date" included a movie at the Capitol, "They Shoot Horses, Don't They," with Gig Young and Jane Fonda. The date was great, but the movie was rotten. Another real "bomb" was one that Dustin Hoffman probably wouldn't claim: "Who Is Harry Kellerman, and Why Is He Saying Those Terrible Things About Me?" Well, there had to be some bad with the good.

 

Only a few weeks passed without at least one movie at the Capitol. It probably wasn't until I was in college that the lure of the multiplex theaters in Springfield or the massive "Senate" theater drew me away from my weekly visits. One of the last movies I saw there was the prophetic "The Last Picture Show." I think the Capitol closed soon after I moved from Taylorville.

 

It's never closed in my memory. Whenever a movie pops up on television, which I recall seeing at the Capitol, I still remember the smell of the popcorn, the look of the amber-colored lights on the wall, the sound and the echo of the squeaky chairs as they fold down for another theater patron, the short stabs of light as it shoots between the padded vinyl-clad doors between the snack bar area and the theater auditorium as someone enters to find a place to sit among its many seats.

 

It was just a few days ago, in reviewing weeks of Breeze Couriers that my parents save for me, so I can catch up with local events, I saw that the theater building was to undergo a revitalization. I saw a picture in which the theater appeared to be undergoing more of a razing than a remodeling. I had to see it for myself, so I made the trip back to Taylorville. Sure, it's only a two-and-a-half-hour trip back, but my schedule and family commitments make trips back rare.

 

I drove around the square to check out the front of the theater. There it sat as it has over the last few years....naked. Stripped of its colorful exterior, marquee, decorative lights, chrome front doors, and ticket booth have been removed and replaced by an unsightly plain wooden door and a small window. The nakedness of the building showed only the plain gray-colored skeleton of the structure. I looked up into the women's restroom window to see that one of the restroom stall doors was open, covering the window to prevent anyone from seeing inside.

 

My curiosity was growing intense. Would I dare look around at the back of the building? I had to. After driving around to the rear of the old majestic theater, I saw the remains of the last section of the Frisina Hotel. I had worked in a building to the rear of the theater, across the alley, that was torn down earlier as the former home of WTIM radio. There were many. In the evening, while working the late shift at the radio station, I could hear the movie's sound as it reverberated through the back brick wall of the Capitol into the alley. But now, here I was, walking under the yellow ribbon strung around the area to keep the sightseers out like me. I walked to the temporary metal door, a final obstacle to keeping people like me out. It also was to keep me from seeing inside, but a small rip in the door made it possible for me to look with one eye. Just one eye saw the unthinkable. The far wall was now gone.

 

Bricks, concrete, sand, dirt, and tons of rubble were the only sites between me and the front wall. Below the top of the wall were the projection booth windows from which hundreds of films on dusty beams of light pierced their way to the screen. Below was the balcony where tons of debris rested among a few of the last remaining theater seats. THERE was the seat in which I sat when the screams of the audience kept me from hearing the dialog from the Beatles' movie "Help". Across the front of the balcony was the huge bare steel beam that supported it. It was old and rusty, but it was still doing its job. I remember my parents commenting that they didn't want me to sit under the balcony because they feared it would cave in. I pointed out a fact to my father, who made the journey with me to investigate the ruins.
 

Then, an image will probably remain with me as long as the Capitol itself: those padded vinyl-clad doors still hang from their hinges, showing the signs of the devastation around them. They were exposed to sunlight for the first time since they were installed, but they are still separating the snack bar from the auditorium.

 

I'm sure many people have many memories of the Capitol. After all, it dates back long before my time in Taylorville. These memories may not be entirely accurate, but this is how I remember them—and how I want to remember them. The Capitol was my friend. It is an extension of my home and a part of Taylorville, my hometown. Goodbye, old friend.