“This is Linda Harris at the lunch counter of Harris Store. At extreme left is the wooden refrigerator. This contained deli meats that were sliced on the chopping block under Linda’s meat cleaver. To the right is a roll of butcher’s paper.
Filed under Harris' Store, Photos, Uncategorized
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Linda Harris in front of the candy counter. Mrs. Harris peering over the top.
Harris’ Store
Filed under Harris' Store, History, Photos, Uncategorized
Harris Store. Rendering by Carolyn Mason.
It’s strange how things are revealed to you when you begin to write about your past. When we were young, and that little rag tag group of kids made their daily trek up to Paul Harris’ country store to wait for the school bus, I didn’t see it as a backdrop for our lives, a place we all gathered and grew up together, first shooting marbles and playing tag while waiting for the bus, and later, shyly flirting with each other, but seldom actually dating because we knew each other too well. Over the past few months, as I’ve written about my childhood, I find myself mentioning Mr. Harris’ store repeatedly, and only now do I realize what a central role it played in our lives, and not just for the children but the adults also.
In the front of the store two old fashioned gas pumps maintained a vigil. The uneven, lopsided roof seemed to have been dropped by a clumsy giant. There were two pear trees just to the left and behind the store, and a huge oak on the right sheltered the small dwelling. A long, low bench stretched across the front of the store till it met the front door. Our little group of ‘Deep Creek Road’ kids used to sit there on rainy days while waiting for the school bus, and all the old men used to sit there in the afternoon, solving the problems of the world.
It’s humble appearance would never reveal to the casual observer the substantive nature of the place. How much could such a small and unimpressive structure hold. Well, I’ll tell you. You could purchase anything from overalls to Popsicles, from cheese to peanuts. I defy anyone to find a one room store that stocks the quantity or variety that Mr. Harris’ store did. He carried kites in March, socks in December, there was bubble gum with baseball cards, marbles, candy, string and any number of weird and wonderful objects hidden in its dim interiors, and only he knew where every single delight was hidden. He would disappear to the back of the store, and after a few minutes he reappeared with the requested item. If he didn’t have it, we didn’t need it.
On Mother’s Day he had coconut cakes that always donned an artificial pink carnation, adorned with bright gold leaves, and the words ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ were emblazoned across the top in bright, shiny gold paper. My brother purchased that cake for my mother every single year when we were kids.
Mr. Harris catered to his customers, large and small. The kids went to him with their nickels and dimes for penny candy, Popsicles, Coca-Cola, kites, tops and peanuts. I always looked forward to a grape Popsicle during the ride home on the school bus on a hot day in late May or early June. As soon as we filed off the bus every kid with a nickel went into the store. Then the search was on for that one particular treasure for which we would part with our precious nickel. Every kid dreamed of having a whole quarter to spend in Mr. Harris’ store. I used to seriously consider each thing I would purchase if that unlikely event ever occurred.
As we left the bright sunlight behind, our eyes made the adjustment to the dimmer light of the interior. As we looked around there wasn’t a shiny surface to be seen, no neatly stocked isles with endless products screaming from the shelves, no bright overhead lights to illuminate the interior; it lacked rows of fancy cash registers, and industrial floors, and long open freezers filled with frozen entrees and vegetables and Cool Whip. Every surface was worn; the wooden floors were bare, and it had it’s own, distinctive smell. As in all things we take for granted, we thought it had been there forever and always would be.
As for our parents, they could buy gas for 29 cents a gallon, lunch meat, canned vegetables, household items boots and work clothes. On election day they voted for their president at Mr. Harris’ store. Gracie Mason, our grand dame, supervised the process, ensuring that everyone was accounted for, and got their say in who would run the country.
An old drink box stood to the left as you entered. As you looked straight to the back there was a meat slicing machine. Mr. Harris stood there, slicing Bologna, salami, or cheese, and placing it in white butcher paper, and tying it up with a string. To the right of the door was the most important place of all. The counter was only a few feet tall, but there was a glass case on top of it. It was protected by two metal rails that ran horizontally the length of the glass. Too small to see over it, I remember as if it were yesterday, wrapping my little fingers around the rail, and in the summer time, positioning my bare toes on the molding that ran around the base of the bead board at the floor, and hoisting myself up to peek into that glass case. It was the candy! It was all there, beautiful and plentiful, wrapped in brightly colored papers. Some of it was even two for a penny. I loved the Mary Janes and Tootsie Rolls, but I always perused each piece, just to make sure I was making the correct decision. It was a simple pleasure, filled with anticipation no matter how many times I did it.
A number of years ago I went home to visit my father one weekend, and took a drive around the neighborhood to see what had changed, as I occasionally do when I go home. As we approached the spot where Mr. Harris’ store was supposed to be, I was dismayed to see an empty lot with a pile of rubble marring the landscape. That pile of rubble was all that remained of the store. Even though this was years ago, and I had yet to reach the length of years required before I would begin to cherish my past, I knew that something unique, something solid and nurturing had passed in the night without ceremony. I felt a sick and empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Mr. Harris had died. I’m not sure, but I heard that after awhile there were those who viewed the store as an eyesore and complained. The store was taken down. All that remains from those days are the two pitifully old pear trees from which we used to snatch pears every fall. Only we would ever know what had once stood there, or how it had loyally served a community for a space in time.
Sometimes you wonder if others have been impacted by an experience in the same way. Recently I walked into my brother’s house. As I passed through the living room into the kitchen my eyes fell upon something. There was a framed picture sitting on a bookshelf. It was a black and white etching, and it looked familiar. I picked it up to examine it more closely. I said, “Is this what I think it is?” He said, “Yes, it’s Paul Harris’ store.” A friend had found it in a shop in Williamsburg and gifted it to him. As I looked at it I could picture all the little ‘Deep Creek Road’ kids sitting there on the old bench, worn smooth from all those years, and all those little bottoms sitting there on those long ago rainy days.
Then I looked a little closer. Who was the artist; who would care enough to immortalize ‘our‘ store? At the bottom of the picture in the right hand corner, small but clearly written, was the answer, Carolyn Mason, none other than one of the ‘Deep Creek Road’ kids. She had lived only two houses away from the store. So, now I know I’m not the only one who wishes to give a tip of the hat to a safe harbor from our past, a place where we all gathered to feel the power of community, the security of the familiar, and where the delicious anticipation of a grape Popsicle could always be counted upon.
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Last year, before Mrs. Harris died, I sent her a copy of this essay.
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