Jefferson Weaver

By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer

A locked country store is an admission that a community is dying.

Twice, I’ve had a vacant country store in my front yard. While my current landmark, the old Lagoon store, is tightly shuttered against the elements, the tattered ledgers and receipt books from M.J. Johnson’s store were still under the counter when I chased a runaway cat through the sagging door one summer day.

The books stretched back to the 1870’s, and recorded everything from fatback to flannel, salt to syrup, charged against accounts to be paid off with tobacco, hogs, corn, cotton, or in one case, simply “work.”

The store was a fixture for decades. Oddly enough, not very many customers were “uncllctble,” as the notations sometimes read. Even when the Depression came along, there were more references to “work” than “uncllctble”. That says something about people.

But like the community it served and the family who ran it, the old Johnson store is now gone.
At least it didn’t have to endure the indignity of becoming a chicken house or a hay barn; rather, somebody tore it down for the wood, at least that’s what I heard.

I only hope the broad counters were saved, and the permanent dark spot under the molasses dipper was cut out, preserved and framed. It’s not often people stay in a place for 10 or 20 years anymore; for a molasses dipper to stay in the same spot for half a century is, to me, remarkable.

Changing lifestyles and economies and demographics and attitudes have eaten away at most of our country stores.

The places where one could buy a cold drink, a pack of Nabs, a pound of nails and a bag of feed were becoming scarce when I was a child. Of course, Monster-Marts are gnawing away at all small retailers, along with federal regulations about gasoline and anything else bureaucrats can tax.

I try to stop at least once at every country store I find. The most valuable products at country stores are never for sale, but you can always find a healthy dose of entertainment, common sense and philosophy as well cold drinks and buckshot.

My good friend Bill Weatherly and I were talking one day about country stores. We were sitting by the potbelly stove that dominates the Kelly Store – even though it was originally Potter’s and now is Potter’s again, it will always be the Kelly Store, even if that isn’t the proper name.

Mr. Bill pointed out, rather sadly, that he felt the days of the country store were numbered. Gas had already topped $2.50 at discount places then, and despite his best efforts, costs are always markedly higher in the country.
You can’t make a living in a country store, he laughed, but it’ll keep you from starving – for a week.

Mr. Bill and Miss Margaret bought the store when they first returned from Durham, more to help the community than to make a living. The Weatherlys’ daughter and son were often behind the counter, and the grandchildren – Anna, Sam, Levi and Billie Grey – grew up playing in the aisles.

Some months back, Mr. Bill sold his store back to the Potters, the original family who built it. Kendale Potter took on the heroic task of adapting the old fashioned country store to the modern age.

Kendale’s son plays in the aisles sometimes. It’s not unusual to find his parents or wife behind the counter, and it wouldn’t surprise me to see his granddad, Mr. Sam, back there. Once upon a time, it was Mr. Sam’s store anyway. He grew up there, too. Country stores are like that – they’re about family.

Kendale added a grill, and changed some things around, and I think he’s doing okay.
With no other store, gas station, counseling center, public rocking chairs, or short-order grill for miles, everyone in Kelly hopes he’s there for a long, long time.

The country storekeeper has to be content with the knowledge that the loaf of bread someone picks up may save them a trip to town and give them an extra hour with the family.

The gallon of gasoline given on a vague promise of later repayment might be the gesture to help someone turn themselves around. An ice cream sandwich or handful of candy might make the memory a child cherishes forever.

The advice of an old man in a rocking chair on a bitter winter afternoon could make the difference in a failing marriage, a career change, a bumper crop, or a shot at a trophy deer.

There is stability and reliability in country stores. There’s common sense behind those tired old counters, a common sense that can only be found in places where the drinks are cold, the advice is free, and molasses dippers hang in the same place for generations.