This place is so great--better than just best--that we feel as though we're violating a sacred oath by telling people about it. We're pretty sure we're not, but we still have mixed emotions about doing so. See, if we tell people, they might buy something we want before we have the chance. On the other hand, if enough people buy things, the store will stay open, so we can keep shopping there. It's a double-edged sword, which, by the way, we think we saw there for sale. Bon Ton is a vintage wonderland, a weathered general store building with books, framed art, baseball pennants, knickknacks, children's clothing and other detritus on the ground floor, watched over by a white-haired man in suspenders and Converse. His wife keeps shop upstairs in the retro-clothing gold mine with everything from old military and marching band uniforms to every piece of women's clothing needed for a Hitchcock film, including dainty sheer stockings, feathered hats and demure dresses. 'Round back in a separate storefront, their daughter keeps the groovy '60s and '70s shop with Nixon campaign buttons, mushroom-print dishes and a Hollie Hobbie tea set. We've never walked out empty-handed; nor should anyone else. It's worth the hour drive south. (It's past Waxahachie.)