The Store

Rarely is there a Southern backroad that does not feature a scene such as this somewhere along the way. I encounter easily half a dozen of these on any given road trip. Sometimes the rusted remains of old gas pumps still stand guard, keeping company with the faded lettering on an old sign over the door. Wild vines, though, are more prevalent these days. Without the will or the energy or the resources to keep them at bay, and with no heart to tear the old places down, the scenes become a slow march toward the inevitable.

Southern writers, myself included, pay homage every now and then with posts about what used to be. Just about anyone born before the Beatles landed in New York City can testify as well. But it occurs to me that these places supplied more than a cold Coke in a bottle or a few slices of bologna wrapped in butcher paper. They were the connective tissue that bound us together in ways long gone.

We pride ourselves on our enlightenment and convenience, living even now in the post-Walmart age of Amazon where we keep ourselves supplied with the click of a mouse and free shipping. The purveyors of our goods these days have no faces and no names, and we’re just fine with that, because human interaction (if that is what you care to call an electronic message) seems to devolve quickly into some sort of argument that holds about as much merit as railing at a cloud passing across the sun. Social media gives us permission to insult without consequence.

As a result, the bridge back to the scene pictured here was washed out so long ago now that the “Road Closed” sign is even beginning to show its age. But many of us remember the names and the faces that gave these places, and our lives, substance. Even more than the churches that pulled communities together once or twice a week, the store touched us every day, inquiring about each other’s well-being, passing along news, and dispensing wisdom and comfort along with the pork and beans and penny candy. And as the only source of daily essentials for miles around, good manners were a given if we wanted gas in the car and food on the table.

That, truly, is what we have lost, which is why I stop every now and then for a photo. It reminds me that once upon a time, we were better than we are today.

Photo by Beth Yarbrough.