This old building sits alone and deserted in the midst of an encroaching woodlands. Folks tell me it used to be a country store and post office for a prosperous mining community back around the turn of the twentieth century. It looks as if it might also have served as a boarding house, as it is quite large.
What a busy, bustling place it must have been. The community that surely would have surrounded it is largely gone now, with few hints of those who must have lived nearby. I find myself strangely drawn to the old building and grounds, and often find myself there, walking and listening. It’s very quiet except for the small rocky stream that flows nearby, but sometimes amidst the sound of that trickling water, I catch the sounds of horses and voices and laughter . . .
Granpap Ed runs that store, and his wife Mam is the postmistress. They seem old to me, but I bet they’re only in their mid-fifties or so. Their kids — they had nine of ’em and one dead, all growed now, with kids of their own, so grandkids are always around underfoot somewhere. They took over the store when old man Turner, who owned the mine and the mill and the store and the cannery and most everything else around here died. They live in the back of the store, and have a big ole garden out back, where, once Mam gets all she wants to feed her family, and preserve and can, she’ll sell the rest to customers. That Mam, she’ll sell anything, prob’ly the shoes off her feet. An’ Granpap’s feet, too. Anyways, they have a cow, too, and she sells butter and milk and cream, if they’s any left. Times are hard and gettin’ harder since ole man Turner died, and his sons started runnin’ the mine and the cannery into the ground. It’s still a’goin’, but most folks are just markin’ time, and worrryin’ about the future.
The store’s gettin’ kinda rundown, but it’s the only place around where folks can buy stores, and they don’t care anyway ’cause their places look the same. It’s a two story building made from rough unpainted wood. They’s a big old rock that they dragged from the quarry that they use for a stepping stone onto the front porch. Nail kegs and barrels and a couple of rockers on the porch make mighty good places to sit and chew and loaf and trade gossip. Most folks walk to the store, or if it’s too far, ride their horses, and they’s a hitchin’ post by the porch.
Inside the store there’s a great big ole pot-bellied stove right in the middle with more nail kegs for settin’ and drinkin’ coffee from the pot that’s always on the back of the stove, even in summer. Those nail kegs are almost always occupied, as they are right now. I see ole man Zigler tiltin’ back on his keg while he dips some snuff, and start in to tellin’ one of his everlastin’ stories. This must be a funny one, as the men are all grinnin’ or snickerin’. I move in a little closer so I can hear.
“Yeah,” he says, “That ole black autymobil buzzed up the wagon road in front of ole Bob’s place, and his lady and the young’uns ran into the house and crawled under the bed. Ole Bob, he run into the house and grabbed his shotgun, loaded it, ran back out on the porch, aimed that gun at that big black booger with four wheels, and boom went that gun. The man who was a’drivin’ that car jumped out and ran for the woods, as fast as he could, an’ ole Bob’s woman and young’uns came back out.
“She asked him, ‘Did you kill it?’, and he says, ‘Nope, but I sure made it turn that man loose. See him a’runnin’ yonder toward those bushes!’ ”
Ole man Zigler slaps his knee and chokes on his snuff as he let out big ole snorts of laughter, along with all the other men gathered round. Even some of the ladies in the store smile, while some of ’em just look disapproving and turn back to their shopping.
I notice a real pretty young girl kinda wistfully fingering some thin white material with little yellow flowers on it, but her mama takes her by the hand and jerks her away, kinda mean-like, and I feel bad for her. I’ll bet she would look real pretty in a dress made outa that. But I think Miz Riddle, she don’t have much money, cause her husband Joe, he’s a miserable ole drunk.
Maybe about now, you’re wonderin’ how I know so much about these folks. That’s a real puzzle to me, too, I don’t even know how I came to be here, but it’s alright with me. I wanna know all I can about this place. Maybe I’ll nose around some more, and let you know what I find out the next time I write.
(Stay tuned for the next installments of The Old Country Store and Post Office on Sundays throughout autumn.)