This story first appeared in September-October 2006 Georgetown Tide

 

Back to the Store

by Rich Start

It was 6:30 on an overcast weekday morning.  There was nothing remarkable about the new day. No birds singing.  No gentle breezes off the ocean.  Just a nondescript weekday morning.    The coffee maker had just made its first gurgling attempt to push heated water through the coffee beans I had just ground.  I was just about to hit the TV remote to get the latest weather when a scent from somewhere in our house stopped me cold.  I was five years old again, and I was climbing the step to the Five Islands General Store.  The south wind off the Sheepscot Bay was pushing the store’s complicated smells out the door at me, firing my enthusiasm and excitement.

 It was time to pick up the mail, I remembered.  My father had volunteered to make the short walk from our family’s cottage to the center of the village to the store and Post Office, and he asked me if I’d like to go.  My wide eyes and frenetic jumping in response got my grandfather’s attention and he set down the scythe he had been using to mow the field across the road long enough to fish his change purse out of his worn woolen work pants pocket.  He handed me a nickel, patted me on the head and told me to spend it wisely.

With the nickel safely in my pocket I took my father’s hand, all the time planning how I would spend my new-found fortune.  The noon sun was hot, but the breeze off the water was cool as we set off down the dirt road towards the store.  It was July and the grass along the side of the road was high and vibrant green.  Reaching over, I grasped a long shaft of grass that resembled a small green cattail.  Pulling it out of its leafy scabbard, I chewed off about an inch of the soft stem and put the rest of the blade in my mouth tasting the moist, sweet flavor on my tongue.

Cresting a shallow rise I caught the first glimpse of the open ocean.  Far out on the bay, I could see specks of lobstermen in their boats, tending their traps.  The noonday sun shone high in the sky and danced brightly off the waves in sharp contrast to the deep green evergreens crowding the ledges at the water’s edge.  As my father and I descended Store Hill, it was apparent that the mail was in, but that it had not yet been sorted as cars and people were in a holding pattern in front of the store.

The two benches flanking the store’s front door must have been pews at one time, but the ravages of time and exposure had given them a worn and weathered look that said they belonged where they were.  Both benches were full of the most eclectic gathering of humanity one could imagine.  The old fisherman with a wrinkled face and rubber boots, the teenager caught between the old traditions and the modern assaults on local culture, the housewife taking a moment to catch up on the latest gossip, the over-dressed “summer complaint” from away, the sailor just back from a four year hitch, the local politician chatting up his constituents.  They all seemed in perfect harmony to my young eyes and ears.

Climbing the single step and crossing the stoop that was scalloped with tens of thousands of footsteps before us, my father and I entered the dark recesses of the store.  I knew the layout by heart.  The counter was on the left; the produce was on the right and just beyond was the alcove with the Post Office.  At the entrance to the alcove was the soda or “tonic” machine.  In the middle of the store was a row of shelving for bread and other less perishable items.

My mother had instructed my father to buy some cheese to make a “cheese muff” – a kind of soufflé that used only the strongest cheddar.  “Strong enough so it needs to be chained in the back shed,” my grandfather always insisted.  When my father questioned how strong the cheese was, the store’s proprietor, Percy Savage, hauled an enormous wheel from its resting place in a glass-covered wooden case and put it on the counter.  Taking his pocket knife from his pants pocket, Percy nicked a sliver of the crumbly golden curd and proffered it to my father on the knife’s blade.  Placing the cheese in his mouth, my father closed his eyes, arched his eyebrows, shivered slightly and said he’d have two pounds.

Cookies were next on the list.  These weren’t packaged cookies, these were cookies sold in bulk.  Fortunately my favorites, Mary Janes – a sharp tasting molasses cookie, had just come in and were the freshest.  When Percy had piled a few handfuls in a brown bag our shopping for the day was finished.

Somewhere in the evolution of the grocery trade, the art of communication between merchant and customer has been swallowed up by cash registers and barcode readers.  Our transaction that day was consummated with quick addition done in pencil on a brown paper bag and a slip that indicated how much we had just added to out account – the original for Percy and the carbon copy to us.  With a few passing comments on tomorrow’s weather, it was time for us to get the mail.

I had been patient, but now was the time.  “Dad, I’d like to get some candy,” I said.  Geneva Rowe, Percy’s co-storekeeper, overheard my comment and said, “Now what would you like, dear”.  In my lifetime, I have been honored by people who thought I deserved respect for some deed or act, but at no time have I ever felt more respected than when I stood before that candy counter.  It was noon and the store was packed with customers, yet Geneva smiled patiently while I took the nickel from my pocket and gazed at the array of candy before me.  “I’ll have a Bullseye, a Turkish Taffy, a Lemon Drop and, and, and…”.  The customers milled behind me, but Geneva never showed the slightest impatience, concentrating only on me.  “And, and, two Hot Balls,” I spouted.  Geneva put the candy in a small bag and handed it to me taking my nickel and thanking me for my business.

Popping a Lemon Drop into my mouth, I followed my father across the store to the Post Office.  My father lifted me by my armpits so that I was able to see into the inner sanctum of the sorting room.  When Alice Grover, the Postmistress, appeared in the small window, I looked her straight in the eye and announced, “Box one, please”.  Alice’s head vanished for a second and reappeared along with an assortment of mail for our family.  She smiled briefly at me and then went back to sorting the mail.

As Dad put me down, I could see he was eyeing the tonic machine conveniently placed nearby.  Of the things my father and I have shared over the years, probably the one thing I remember the most was his whimsical addiction to the soda known as “O-So-Grape”, and his need to share that addiction to its tart, artificial, carbonated grape flavor with me.  I licked my lips in anticipation as Dad searched his pocket for two dimes.  Finding them, he opened the lid to undoubtedly one of the greatest engineering accomplishments of soft drink dispensing.  Not only was this a means to get refreshment, it was entertainment as well.  There before us in a horizontal tank of refrigerated water were dozens of assorted soft drinks in glass bottles suspended by their necks in a series of parallel slots.  All the slots terminated in one perpendicular slot that led to a gate arrangement.  The gate, of course, was operated by the insertion of the correct coinage.

But, the entertainment did not end there.  Invariably, the desired soft drink bottle was at the end of the slot opposite the gate.  That meant that all of the bottles between the chosen bottle and the slot with the gate had to be shuttled to other slots to allow your bottle to be brought towards the gate.  If the machine was full, several minutes could ensue before your bottle was ready for extraction.  When at last your bottle reached the gate and was lifted out, it was a feeling of accomplishment that went hand-in-hand with the enjoyment of the beverage.  Years later I found some O-So-Grape in a shelved vertical, cooler with a glass front.  I reached in and grabbed one; and, when I tasted it, it was nothing like I remembered.  I guess it’s not so much the flavor as it is the total experience.

With our errands done, Dad and I made our way to the outside past the hanging fly paper, the long-billed fisherman’s hats and the cellophane-wrapped pine car fresheners.  Still drinking our O-So-Grape, we joined the others congregated on the long stoop.  I’ve heard so many conversations outside that door that I can’t remember what the topic was that day.  It might have been the upcoming presidential election or shedders coming in early, but what ever it was, I got the feeling that everyone was glad they were there and were also glad that everyone else was there with them.

Trudging up the hill from the store Dad and I were each absorbed in our own thoughts and we didn’t say much.  I don’t know what he was thinking but I can tell you I was thinking of the upcoming evening meal – cheese muff topped with a generous dollop of Concord grape jelly.