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Nearly ninety years ago, my childhood recollections included Saturday night sojourns to
the Village General Store. I still fondly recall riding to the village, with my parents, in a horse-drawn buggy;
or a cutter during winter months, with sleighbells jingle jangling.
Upon arrival at the store’s unpainted structure, Mother and I got out. Father drove on to tether our horse at a
public hitching post.
Excited, I accompanied Mother into the brightly-lighted interior, illuminated by kerosene-burning lamps placed
at intervals.
The interior, crowded with farm family members, always amazed me.
Mother, after consulting her handheld needs list, approached the lengthy counter where one of the clerks, momentarily
idle, moved forward to wait on her.
The list, while not at all lengthy, included products farm acres did not provide, including salt, sugar, spices
(for pickling cucumbers), breadmaking yeast, canning supplies, and kerosene to fuel the family lamps as well as
Father’s barn lantern.
The clerk, bringing one item at a time, jotted the price on a flattened, brown, paper bag. When all items had been
assembled, the young man totaled the amount, then looked at Mother expectantly.
After checking the penciled figures carefully, she paid the amount in hoarded cash, receiving change from an under-the-counter
cash drawer.
While Mother completed her purchasing transactions, I sauntered about the store, examining displays.
In the meantime, other farm children joined my meanderings. Someone pointed upward to smoked hams and bacon slabs
suspended from ceiling timbers. I shook my head, remembering our family smokehouse which provided hams and bacon.
The cheese display triggered my imagination. Slices cut to order sold for thirty-five cents a pound with crackers
added at no other cost. I thought of cheese and crackers for a late night snack.
As though of one accord, we moved to the glass candy case. With our noses smudged against the glass, examining
the display behind the glass cover, I realized my parents had insufficient funds for candy purchases.
Live chickens, rustling in their caged quarters, reminded me of our family flocks that included ducks, geese, and
turkeys as well as chickens.
Realization suddenly smote me. Our farm acres and garden plot provided much of the food my family ate.
The garden plot, which I helped to weed and water, provided red ripe tomatoes, carrots, cucumbers, corn-on-the-cob,
as well as potatoes, squash, and other fare.
Crates of fresh-picked peaches, priced at one dollar a bushel, made me aware that our trees provided not only peaches
but also apples and cherries in season.
I saw no flour in evidence. The local mill ground farm-raised wheat whenever flour was needed.
Father, suddenly appearing after chatting with friends and neighbors, asked me to help carry Mother’s purchased
supplies to the waiting buggy.
Before we left, Sam Weinberg, the genial store owner, presented each of us children with a candy-filled brown paper
bag.
I accepted the gift delightedly and thanked the generous donor. Sam only smiled and nodded. Perhaps he hoped that
one day we youngsters would become paying customers.
On the way home, I offered to share my good fortune with my parents, but they declined, perhaps realizing how much
the candy gift meant to me.
Tentatively I sampled one piece. I placed it in my mouth, smacking my lips delightedly while watching the moonlit
road recede behind us.
Years later, when I became an adult, I sometimes thought back to the Village General Store, and I’ve often asked
myself a question. How did Sam Weinberg make sufficient money, with such low prices charged, to pay for the cost
of his store operation?
Perhaps his considerable clerk costs could have been eliminated with pushcarts and self-service, along with checkout
counters.
Answers to my questions will never be known. One winter night, fire destroyed the store building and its contents.
Without insurance, the structure never was rebuilt.
With no store to operate, Sam Weinberg retired, spending time gardening and socializing with neighbors. One night
Sam died in his sleep; and he lies interred in the village cemetery. A simple granite marker records Sam’s name
and the time he spent on earth.
I think of a more fitting epitaph, carved in stone. “Here lies Sam Weinberg, a caring merchant who served his fellow
man and an adoring community.”
If you have questions or comments about this Web page or site, e-mail: mary@vanmeer.com
© 2002 Leo VanMeer
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