Driving along the other day I spotted an old Prince Albert sign on the side of a shed. The metal was rusted and you could hardly read it anymore. It started me thinking about how you used to see them everywhere, especially on store fronts along with Bruton and Copenhagen Snuff, Wrigleys Gum, etc. When all the old stores went by with time, so did all the old signs.

Then I got to thinking about how much I miss the old stores, the kind I used to visit in Lee County, Virginia, forty or fifty years ago. They usually had a little porch with a couple of chairs and a few nail kegs to sit on. That's where the men congregated for their whittling and story-telling and discussing of the news from far and near.

You could learn almost as much from these men, if you would just listen close enough, as you could learn going to school or church. They could figure out a problem in their head faster than the almighty computer. Some of them knew more Bible than most of our preachers of today and, its for sure, they had a better understanding between right and wrong. To them you were either, a good, morally decent man or you were just as mean as hell, no in-between.

Winter, of course, meant the chairs and nail kegs were moved inside around a pot-bellied stove, which usually sat in the middle of the store. Let's go in there and see if we can refresh our memory about some of our long gone and, sometimes, forgotten past.

The first thing you noticed as you opened the door was the clanging of a small bell which seemed to give you a grand entry and a cheerful greeting from everyone inside. The second thing was the wonderful aroma of coffee, tobacco, candy, dry goods and a number of other things. There was also the smell of the oil used on the floor to keep the dust down. That aroma seemed to give the feeling of confidence, happiness, and general well-being.

On either side of the store there was a long counter that ran from the front to the back with an opening for the owner to pass back and forth. Sometimes there was a gate in the opening. No one else went behind the counter. You told him or her what you wanted and they brought it to you, which ain't a bad idea. If you pay for something why can't it be brought to you?

In the middle of the store stood the old pot-bellied, coal stove. During cold weather you would find at least a half dozen men gatherd around that old coal stove, telling tall stories and discussing everything in general.

One store I especially remember had foodstuffs, tobacco, staples, etc. on one side and on the other side the shelves were stacked high with shoes, cloth, underwear, pots, pans, stove pipes, horse collars, horse shoes and about anything else you wanted, that is, if they could find it. The counter on that side was usually stacked with bolts of cloth, mounds of overalls, gloves and knee-high heavy socks with red or green tops--These were turned down over knee-high boots which, I guess, was considered a fashion at that time.

This store did a good business, but nothing compared to what they do today. Of course, back in those days people raised most of their foodstuff. You could spend hours in there and maybe the biggest purchase you would see would be a twenty-five pound bag of flour, a slab of cheese or, once in a while, someone would buy a chamber pot, or as we called them in that neck of the woods, a "slop jar."

The lady that owned this store had more business sense than two men put together. I can still see her today with that smiling face framed by that ever-present sunbonnet. I can remember my mother sending me to the store with a live hen or rooster to trade for something we needed. Many's the time I would raid the hen's nests at home and slip two eggs in my rear pocket to trade for a pack of Teaberry Gum or a bar of Baby Ruth candy. Then, when I started to smoke I would trade the two eggs for a bag of Bull Durham. When this dear lady would question me about it I would tell her it was for my dad. I don't think she really believed me and she would threaten to ask my parents, but she never did.

I will never forget the cold winter morning that I slipped one egg into each hip pocket and started off to school wtih intentions of stopping at the store for my Bull Durham. There was a thin sheet of ice which you couldn't see, that covered everything. I walked out of the house and as soon as I hit the top step my feet went out from under me and I slid down the four steps and halfway across the yard. There was just no way I could explain to my mother why I had broken eggs in both my pockets!

Well, that's my kind of store. A store with heart, with kindness; a store with tall tales and a store where they discussed religion openly and unashamedly. A store where the strongest drink you could buy was a NeHi Ginger Ale and, most of all, a store with a soul. I remember a few of the people who ran such stores--Joe Doss, Mary Lee Woodard, Clarence Woodard, Bradley and Aubra Dean, L.C. Martin and Jim Poe, Mr. Garrett and Mr. Day at Cranks Creek in Kentucky. I'm sure there were many others just like these.

I would like to turn back time on some cold winter day and walk into Woodard's store and see about six of these old timers sitting around that old stove. I would push my way in and warm my hands, remark about how cold it is outside, turn around, pull up my coattail and warm my rear, then push a bolt of cloth out of the way, hop up on the counter, drink my NeHi Orange pop and listen once again to these men talk of the state of the world and the change that's coming. They would always say, "and not all for the better." How right they were.

When the talking was over and they were all ready to leave, I'd stand at the door and shake each one's hand and tell them just how much they are missed. Then I'd watch them turn their coat collars up, bow their heads and walk away against the wind of change and not being able to do much about it.

So, I want to thank all the old storekeepers for running a store with heart and soul, with an old stove and nail kegs; a place where these old men of wisdom could meet to talk and discuss what Gabriel Heater said on the radio the night before.

So, thank you, Mr. Garrett at Cranks Creek and Mr. Day. Thank you, Uncle Lloyd Martin and Darling Jim. Thank you, Bradley and Aubra. Thank you, Clarence. You put a lot of miles on that old wheel chair. Must have been pure misery having to sit in that thing all the time. But you always had a smile on your face and called all the little runny-nosed children by their names.

Thank you, Mary Lee. And thank you for all the prayers I heard you pray at Pine Grove Church. I think one of them caught up me with years later. Thank you all. You live on in my memories as some of the finest people that I will ever know.

Rest easy there in Lee Memorial Gardens or on a lonely hillside under a cedar tree because you ran a store with love and heart and soul. You wouldn't want to know them as they are today--air conditioned and cold. The reception you get is just about as cold as the air, too.

If, in your travels, you happen to see an old, rustic building with Prince Albert, Garrett Snuff and Clabber Girl Baking Powder signs nailed to the front, some nail kegs and a kerosene pump on the porch; stop in, because there just might be one left somewhere. You know, souls do live on.

Reprinted with permission from Gone...But Not Too Far by K. Carson Kirk.
Copyright © K. Carson Kirk

To see a picture of Mary Lee "Ma" Woodward, click on The Women Page 3.
To see a picture of Clarence Woodward, click on Random Pictures 5.


Page created 24 May 2001