Our spur of the moment trips always mean a stop in Cumberland at Marion’s Bi-Rite for milk, eggs, bread, some local veggies and Marion’s famous home-made, “rite here in tha store”, ‘minna cheese and chicken salad.
Half way to the “Farmacy”, Marion’s is the last store you’ll see unless you want to hit the Food Lion in Dillwyn and the Food Lion is well... just that, a chain store; well equipped, but a chain store non the less. Marion’s is different, it’s got “flavor”. There’s an ice box out front and a soda machine that only takes two quarters and then gives up the coldest Pepsi you ever want to taste. I could have a 12-pack in the cooler, but I would still stop just to pick up Cheetoes and drop those quarters in the machine to hear the cha-clunk as they hit the tender box and the rollin thunder of that cold soda as it slides down the cue.
When you go in the Bi-Rite, the door creaks and an old cow bell clangs loud enough to draw attention and give Marion time to put down the latest edition of People magazine and greet you proper. She knows me now, but not by name, Marian’s not good with names; she calls me, “Miss Outta-towna”, a name she gave me when I had to search for a check the first time I didn’t have enough cash, cause Marion’s doesn’t have a card reader. "Well, lets see, Miss Outta-towna, you need to just put your phone number on this and I guess you're okay.
A country store has seasons; in the fall it's about, apples, pumpkins and huntin'. Its nothin' to pick up some buckshot along with your country butter and fresh-kill sausage, the kind so loaded with red pepper and sage that the grease turns orange and stains the plate. November's about politics and firewood, the woodstove's goin' in the back, you can feel it when you open the door; wood heat and strong opinions.
Come winter, along with bottled milk and hoop cheese; snow shovels, tire chains, and sleds crowd the shelves. Around Christmas, Coca Cola Santa comes out from his “workshop” in the back, cheery despite a little water damage suffered durin' his months of seclusion. If you buy a Christmas tree from the lot out back, you can help yourself to mistletoe and runnin' cedar. Country hams hang like stockins from big hooks along the back behind the meat case. Now that’s the smell of Christmas; smoked ham and fresh cedar.
In spring there's baby chicks in the window, dyed pale green, pink and blue; light bulbs keep’um warm until Easter when they turn up in a basket on the kitchen table and not long after, in a pot on the stove. Harsh I know, but that’s the country, never, fall in love with live stock.
I think summer might be the best “store-season” hands down. Cantaloupes and watermelons, fresh corn and home grown tomatoes cover the raised tables in the back. No fine spray needed to keep things fresh, it comes in that way everyday.
Growin' up, the outside coolers were always filled with ice for whatever might need it; be it fresh fish caught over at Whittles Mill or sodas for the softball game. Cokes were in the squat, red Coke Machine outside, but RC and Pepsi were on ice inside, the opener screwed into the side of the counter next to the cash register for obvious reasons. Tom’s peanuts and crackers were in big ole jars on the counter. Few things taste better than a bottled soda filled to the neck with salted Tom’s peanuts, the trick was to finish it before they started sinkin' to the bottom of the bottle.
I always liked the way the screen door creaked when you opened it, and slammed when you left, there was no sneekin’ in or out of “tha store”
But anyway, I started down this road cause last trip out, as I pulled into the parkin lot beside the Bi-Rite, Buck commented on how empty the lot was and then wondered “out loud” if they were even open.
I’m thinkin to myself, you know this store is open, people gotta eat for God’s sake, and I dismissed that observation as jus plain naïve. I have to admit however that even as I grabbed my shoppin bags and headed up the incline, somethin’ just didn’t feel right. When my hand hit the door, it didn’t budge and then I noticed the soda machine was neither hummin nor sweatin. I squinted the way I do when I don't have my readers and pressed my face against the glass. The isles were empty, no chips, no chicken salad, and no wise crackin' Marion at the register.
I guess I just stood there for a minute while I wrapped my brain around what my eyes were seein’. It’s was kinda like having a friend just up and move out of town without even tellin’ you. It was hard; I felt it in my heart.
As I walked back to the car, Buck pointed to a truck in the back, loadin cold-cases. I went around and asked, “You takin’ those in or out?”
“Store’s closed,” was all he said and then on back to work. I don't know why it hit me so hard, lots of stores are closin these days, but Marion's was the last Bi-Rite, and even though I was an "Outta-towna", it still hurt.
