Ode to Country Stores

Hey friend,

Got time for a story? I’ve got country stores on my mind. You may remember that we just finished hosting our grandchildren for the 7^th Annual Pops and Keggie Kamp. The Beloved Farmer and I have mostly recovered. Mostly. ~smile~

We packed tons of lovely chaos into our time together but somehow between our morning devotionals, visiting with their great grandparents, four-wheeling on the farm, and afternoon water sports on the lake, we never visited Ingleside. That’s a miss in my book.

Ingleside is our local country store. It sits on Lake Providence, accessible by land and water, if you’re up to climbing the combination wood steps and concrete path leading from dock to door.

Mind you, The Beloved Farmer made numerous bait runs to Ingleside to keep the grands’ fishing poles jerking, but the kids and I never pushed her rusty metal door open to step into the past. This feels like a serious omission. Two of our six grands are city kids. I figure they need to experience country stores while they can. But don’t we all?

If I had my way every country store from sea to shining sea would be grandfathered into the National Register of Historic Places while they’re still hanging on by their fingernails and single digit sales.   

Ingleside is not on my beaten path. I seldom stop in more than a couple times of year, but I’m making a mental note to change that. Ingleside has a way of transporting me to the country stores of my own childhood, draping me in memories of honeybuns and chocolate milk so real I need to swallow.

Such was my chosen combo on those long-ago summer mornings when my maternal grandfather would load us kids in the bed of his pickup and tote us down highways and byways to his fishing camp, safety issues over our mode of transportation concerning exactly no one. The name of that small country store where we made our careful selections has faded from my memory, but standing in line with my cousins has not. The other adults would soon follow our path. We kids thought we were getting the jump on ‘em. I’ve long since realized they were getting a break from us.

Papaw’s camp sat beside a body of water carved out and left behind after one of the Mighty Mississippi’s detours the adults called The Old River. I thought it was ocean big. Papaw’s camp was a hodge podge structure forged of second-hand trailers merged together with miscellaneous carpentry materials and uncommon ingenuity. The result was five-star resort perfection in my little brown eyes. I’m sure there’s a scientific reason buildings, people, and places always loom larger in our memories, but don’t tell me. I prefer the mystery.    

My childhood memories hold two other country stores dear. One was in Natchez, MS where our grandparents traded with the Buckles. I can’t bring Buckles into focus. I get sporadic snapshots at best. I can stand on the street with my hand on the door, but once inside, sketchy images of a wood floor and glass cases fade in and out. I know Mr. Buckles is there. I can’t make out his face, but his aging hands hold free candy, same as always.

Back home our small farming community in northeast Louisiana depended on the Cramers’ mom and pop establishment for most anything a person needed and everything there was to know, which accounts for the charm of country stores that moves me to lobby for their preservation. Some might wonder if a country store could differ that much from a convenience store. I feel sorry for these people.

Frequenting a convenience store comes with few social expectations. Beyond the possibility of a “please”, “thank you” or “have a nice day”, conversation is kept to a minimum and eye contact is brief, if it happens at all. Country stores encourage social engagement. A girls’ orange sherbet push-up could melt in her hand while her mama visited with the owner and any other patrons who happened by, but that little girl would be wise not to whine about wanting to leave. Country stores are built on an ancient practice called customer service. Folks behind the register aren’t glued to the floor because they truly appreciate your patronage. I don’t imagine many people recall buying groceries at the big box store with nostalgia. Not so with country stores. They homestead in your memories.       

I went by Ingleside earlier because I could.

Didn’t really need anything, but I made a small purchase and took some pictures because I could.  

Country stores remind me to slow down. I need that. Don’t you? Long live the country store.

Hugs,
Shellie