My Extra Special Place

Sub Category-Life Experiences

By Carolyn R. Larrimore

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Artist: Carolyn LarrimoreTitle: My Extra Special PlaceSUb-Category: Life Experiences

Local Game: McDowell County Senior Games

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My Extra Special Place

As a child I had many special places to play. There was the hay loft in our barn; the Chinaberry tree in our

front yard where my playmate, Claree and I hid messages in its hollow place in the trunk and the front porch swing

at my Grandfather'S home, where he swung me to sleep at night as we listened to the concert of tree frogs, rain

frogs, and the rich bass of bull frogs. They lulled me deeper and deeper into dreamland with Papa's gentle

swinging. Later as a teen, some changes of favorites were made to accommodate the changes in my life. But one

place remained constant, even through my adult years-my Father's store.

Known as Robinson's Mercantile in Jackson, Alabama, it was typical of general stores of the early 1930's.

There was a single red Texaco gas pump located out front, between two pillars that supported a wide portico. When

business was slow, we would sit out there in summer hoping to catch a cool breeze in Alabama's stifling heat. Just

inside the front door, one was greeted with an avalanche of smells, as few items were pre-packaged in those days.

The first aroma a child would sense would be the heady smell of coconut candy coming from the glass case just at a

child's eye level on the left. In the back of the case was a mirror mounted to the sliding doors, which reflected the

vast assortment of gum, cookies, candy and boxes of Cuban cigars. This made the case appear to hold twice the

mouth-watering delights.

A pot-bellied stove stood to the right of the front door. In winter it produced the inviting fragrance of

peanuts roasting in a pan on top. This was a popular place for the retired men of the community to swap tales, play

dominoes, and discuss local politics or deer and turkey hunts. The most dominating smell came from the uncut

tobacco slabs which were stacked on the wall shelves behind the candy case; Beechnut, Day's Work, Big Apple and

Brown Mule, all offered sweet tantalizing fragrances all their own. The Big Apple slab had a rich baked apple smell

that once tempted me to sneak a chew. Dad was busy and I didn't think he saw me. But he must have been watching

out of the comer of his eye as I carved off a small piece. He said nothing. I went out front, "to get a little cool air",

I said. He still said nothing, just watched from inside. I didn't know you were supposed to spit out the dark juice

that formed in your mouth. I chewed it like chewing gum and swallowed the juice. It wasn't long before I was

really, really sick. My stomach churned nonstop. I fInally ran behind the store and threw up until I had only dry

heaves. When I came back in Dad asked, "Want another chew?" Then he got me a cold coke to help my churning

stomach. Looking back on this experience, I realize he chose to allow this reasonably safe experience to teach me a

strong life lesson. I wish I could tell him, "Thanks, Dad." At that moment, however, I felt no gratitude.

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In the center of the store, the smell of summer vegetables ripening could sometimes, not be all that

pleasant, but would warn us to check the cabbage, onions, and potatoes for spoilage. They were all arranged in big

bushel baskets on the floor, waiting to be weighed for the customer. In the fall, tall stalks of blue ribbon sugar cane

stood behind bright orange pumpkins. The pumpkins were replaced in November with baskets of oranges,

tangerines, and bright red apples, which tempted children to take a bite. These fruits were often the main highlight

of many children's Christmas morning during the Depression. An attractive stack of bright shiny cans of Ribbon

Cane Syrup fresh from Prince Campbell's syrup mill completed this once-a-year display. Other items for sale

ranged from ax handles to zinc wash tubs, clothing, groceries, kegs of nails, and cattle feed. There was a lean-to

shed on the left side of the store where Dad kept the animals he took on barter for groceries. Sometimes it was

chickens singing their "I just laid an egg" song. Other times it might be a goat or a pig. He only kept them there

until the end of the day, when he traded them to my Uncle Bill. My uncle then took them to Morgan's Mule Barn,

located in north Jackson, where he sold them. Much later this area was converted into a shoe repair shop, which dad

managed. He hired a gifted shoe repair man named Charlie, who handled the actual repair work.

From the back of the store came the smell of a big round of ripe cheddar cheese, which sat on the counter

summer and winter. The cheese round was covered by its wooden hoop. At noontime this was a lunch area for

many CCC camp boys, or WPA workers who came to make purchases of crackers, cheese, sardines, or pickled-pig-

feet and big dill pickles. These were displayed in five gallon glass jars on the counter near the cheese hoop. For

dessert sometimes the men would top their lunch off with either a stage plank or moon pie, for three cents each. The

laborers stood in line for a ten cent slice of cheese and a Big RC Cola. The colas and milk were stored in a big red

cooler at the very back of the store. In the 30's and early 40's the cooler was chilled with 50 lb. blocks of ice

delivered to us by Wilkerson's Ice and Coal, the original heating and cooling company of Jackson. (CCC camps

and WPA programs were started by the Government during the Depression to provide paying work for the many

unemployed in our nation. There was a large CCC camp just outside Jackson at Rabbit Creek.)

My very special place in the store was in the back right comer where one hundred-pound sacks of dairy and

horse feed were stacked on the floor. (The sacks were coarse croaker-sacks during the Depression, but later during

WWII, they were made of printed soft cotton. There was a shortage of fabric during the war, and these sacks were

washed and saved, sometimes traded with other customers, until enough of one print design could be collected to

make a garment, curtains, etc.) This area was screened off by racks of second-hand clothes hanging from the

ceiling. On Thursdays, when the feed was first delivered, they were stacked as high as a man's shoulders. By

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Saturday night, Big Trade Day, the stack dwindled to only two or three sacks. When I was very young, these sacks

provided me with imaginative play. Sometimes the sacks were horses that I straddled and rode with Roy Rogers; 1

was Dale Evans, of course. Or they might be mountains that I climbed with Buck Rogers in some imagined space

adventure. There was a drop light directly over this area. The light was seldom turned on, but when I had

homework to do, or became bored with this type of play, Mother would turn the light on, and Dad would restack the

sacks to make a table on which I could do my school work. We always had to stay open late on Saturday night for

three or four customers to finish their trading. Many Saturday nights I went to sleep on these feed sacks, smelling

the delightful aroma of sweet feed under my face as I watched lights flicker through racks of clothing. They cast

strange and wonderful shadowy images against the back wall. I would lie in the shadows and listen to the adult

conversation as it all drifted farther and farther away and sleep over took me. I would feel, only vaguely, the

comforting touch of my Mother's hand as she tucked a warm blanket around me. In my very early years, I would go

to sleep on Saturday night in the store, and awaken on Sunday morning in my own bed at home on Cherry Street.

From this secluded spot I heard about local politics, of which I under stood very little, but I learned the

names of people my father considered fair and honest, and also those he considered unjust. I was usually able to

recognize them when I met them later. In addition to his political interest, he was a champion story teller, and

people often gathered around the potbellied stove to hear him expound on either-but I think they most enjoyed

hearing him tell a story or bit of news told his way. By the end ofthe week, I knew the next line of each week's new

story by heart, and I quit listening. Then I made up stories of my own, using those shadows on the wall for

characters in my stories. I don't remember ever being afraid of the dark, nor did I fear being alone at night. I feel

certain the security provided under the protection of my family gave me the freedom to create my own

entertainment, the opportunity to enter into and retreat from the adult world, at will. These early years granted me

the security I've always had. The old store provided the stage for this.

Of course, as I grew older, so did my responsibilities in the store. Soon it became no longer, "my father's"

store, but "our store." By the age of six I was stocking the shelves, marking prices on canned goods and making

change for small items. Gradually Dad taught me to use the adding machine to total-up large orders. He taught me

to balance his checkbook. He trusted me to do banking for him and pay bills for him. This gave me opportunity to

know other merchants and learn how their business was similar to, or different from ours. I learned how ice was

made down at the Wilkerson's Ice Plant. I was allowed to see behind the show-room of Noble's Bakery, into the

kitchen. Dad sent me once a week to pay for our daily bread delivery. Oh! The wonderful smell of fresh baked yeast

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bread and dough-nuts that filled that bake shop was pure heaven. There I would visit with Nancy, one of my

classmates, who worked in her dad's bakery business. When I went into the back of Beck Kervin's Pharmacy to pay

our bill, I saw how Dr. Beck compounded ingredients to fill prescriptions. As I grew into adolescence, I filled large

grocery orders which I took over the phone, as well as delivered the close-by small orders on my bike. I loved our

customers as they became like extended family to me, but I was irritated with the occasional customer who, when I

asked if I could help her, turned and said, "No, just looking," after she had tumbled and disorganized the shirts and

pants I had just folded and stacked.

Very early my father taught me about the profit margin on which we operated. As we checked invoices

together, he taught me to take a larger mark-up on the more perishable items. The summer I turned fourteen, Dad

had to have surgery in Selma. Mother went with him intending to stay only three days. As soon as she came home,

Dad had a setback, and she had to turn right around and drive back to Selma. She remained there until he came

home two weeks later. I ran the store by myself for those two weeks. I had to order what was needed from the

wholesaler to restock our shelves. I did everything, except the deliveries. Dad had made arrangements for one of

our customers, Joe Malone, to make deliveries late each afternoon after he got off work. Joe walked me home each

night after closing, where my Grandmother was waiting for me. We never left money in the store overnight.

I learned about overhead as I paid rent and utility bills for him. I learned about taking care of customers

during the Depression. When World War II came, bringing with it rationing, I remember the pulling together of

most of our customers to take care of each other. Our regular customers understood that we saved the few cans of

evaporated milk for the mothers with babies. We were only allotted one case a week. I remember one day a man

who was not one of our regular customers, came in and said, "My cook, Tillie, came to work today with six cans of

Pet Milk. I asked where they came from and she said she bought them here on her way to work. She said that you

got a shipment last night. Give me six cans; I haven't had any cream for my coffee in two months."

My father refused to sell him the milk, saying, "Sorry, I have to save this for my customers babies who are

still on formula. I receive only one case each week. One can makes only one day's formula. I have four moms who

need all twenty-four cans." (He divided a case between the four moms which supplied them formula for only six

days. Then the moms had to ration the milk to their babies in order to make six cans last seven days.) The man

became indignant saying, "You let Tilley have six cans, and she's black. You like niggers, don't you?"

Dad became heated himself, but tried to explain that the milk was for Tillie's grandchild. The man then

said he intended to report us to the ration board. "The government does enough rationing; you can't do more than

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they do." Dad strongly invited him to do just that and-to leave our store. While 1 learned about sharing and caring,

unfortunately, 1 learned also about greed and hoarding from some who did not share this concern for our babies'

needs, or the needs of our boys on the front It was foreign to me, that a grown man didn't feel the same

responsibility to ones community and country as 1 had been taught at my young age.

There was a little girl in my first grade class who came to school one freezing January morning wearing no

shoes and no coat or sweater. 1 cried as 1 told my mother about how terrible her feet looked. Mother went to school

the next morning and asked the teacher to step outside and point out the girl, so that she could determine her size.

She asked the teacher to try to get a tracing of the girl's feet sometime during the day when no one was around and

send the tracing home with me, which she did. Later the next afternoon, after all of the class had left school for

home, Mother Came back with a little red coat from our second-hand rack, a pair of new shoes, and five pairs of new

socks. They were all wrapped up so the teacher could give them to the girl, without everyone knowing what she had

been given. She asked the teacher not to tell from where the things had come. The following Saturday night, a man

we had never seen before came in the store. He was so drunk it was even obvious to me, a six year old. "I want you

to buy these things my daughter don't need no more," he said. Dad explained he could not buy clothes from

individuals, "All my stock comes from a dealer in New York. It has all been cleaned and shipped to me from there,"

he said.

The man insisted, "But these clothes are all like new," as he pulled out the familiar little red coat, new

socks, and shoes. My father's jaw dropped. He grabbed the man's arm and ushered him outside. We could not hear

Dad's entire conversation, and 1 sure can't repeat the things we did hear. But one thing I heard clearly was, "My

little girl is in the same class as your child. If my daughter comes home one day and says your daughter didn't wear

this coat to school that day, you are going to answer to me." That poor little thing wore that red coat until the last

day of school in May, which was a scorcher in lower Alabama.

It was unusually late one night when we closed the store. It had been raining for about a week, and the

street was wet and slippery. The ditches alongside the road were a quagmire of slime. The weather had warmed and

a heavy fog had set in. Dad turned off the headlights and turned on the car's yellow fog lights. Just as we

approached one particular deep ditch this 'creature' crawled up the side of the ditch, then slid back, while it tried

desperately to grip the side of the bank. It was completely covered in mud so that one could not tell if it was animal

or human. "What is that?" Mother asked in an alarmed voice. "It's Mr. C .... ," Dad answered. The car slowed to a

stop, while Mother loudly insisted that he drive on, saying, "I don't want Carolyn to see this."

"But 1 do," Dad protested. Then he addressed me directly, "You see, this poor man has allowed alcohol to

control him. He can no longer control his life. This is what happens when you let anything control you. He is in a

hell of his own making. He can't get out by himself." After stopping just long enough for that picture to sink deeply

in my memory, Dad drove us to the house and returned for the man, bringing with him an old spread they used in the

fall for raking and burning leaves. He carefully wrapped the car seat with the spread, and drove back to get Mr. C ....

and took him home. Dad did not tell me that 1 must never drink, but the memory of that poor creature climbing up

out of his own personal hell, then slipping back into what appeared, in the dim yellow light of the old car, to be a

deep abyss, was forever burned into my brain. Because of this late night experience, at such an early age, I have a

vivid picture that 1 will never forget, of addiction, and the hopelessness of those who lose all control of their own

life. After 70+ years I can close my eyes and still see that wretched scene. Yes, it was terrifying, but perhaps it

saved me from even more personal terror later in my life. Later that night when Dad returned home, 1 heard him tell

Mother that Mrs. C ... accused him of taking her husband off and getting him drunk. Mother was horrified and said,

"I hope you got her straight on that. That was unfair of her. You probably saved his life"

Then Dad said something else I will never forget, "I have no control over what she thinks. Her thoughts and

feelings came probably from somewhere in her past experiences. She may not even know why she said those things.

1 can only control zsv action. When you do the right thing, sometimes it backfires on you. But you do the right thing

anyway. My conscious is clear. What she feels or thinks is her problem, not mine."

One day we were all working in the store filling orders for two customers, when this ominous big black

1920 something hearse pulled up out front. 1 had never seen anything like it and didn't know what it was. In addition

to the front headlights, it had two brass carriage type lights on each side just behind the front doors. But Dad knew

what it was immediately, and who it was; merchants had alerted each other of this groups existence in town. Dad

told me, "Go stand in front of the cash drawer and don't move, no matter what, until I tell you." About twelve

children and an olive skinned woman piled out of the automobile and swarmed over the store like ants on a mission.

They couldn't all be her children; they were all too near the same age. It was impossible to watch them. They were

everywhere at once, picking up things, creating commotion by fighting, while others were in the candy case, behind

the counter, asking question of my parents to get them distracted from what the others were doing. It was a wild

fifteen minutes. Just as quickly as they had descended on us, they left, without purchasing a single thing. After they

were gone dad estimated they had lifted at least $25 worth of merchandise, and we didn't see them pocket a thing.

But worst of all, we didn't have ration stamps to replace the stolen merchandise. Not only did they steal groceries,

but two sheets of ration stamps were missing. We had all the loose stamps we had collected stored in a cigar box in

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candy case. At the end of the day we pasted them on the correct sheets to trade wholesalers for supplies for the next

week. The entire box was gone. The ration board would not issue replacement stamps for the items that were stolen.

We thought we were going to have to close the store, at one point, because we could not replace the needed rationed

merchandise. Then two weeks later, two of our customers who were in the store when this took place, came to our

aid. They signed sworn statements that they were present when we were descended upon by a horde of Gypsies.

About a month later, Dad called Mother and told her to send me down to watch the store for about an hour

so he could go to the Town Hall to take care of a tax matter. It was hot summertime, and I sat out front under the

shade of the portico when I had no customers. I looked up to see the fearful big black hearse coming in my

direction. I hurried inside and flipped the thumb latch on the door and slammed it. I then ran for the phone just as

the hearse stopped out front. My cousin was the operator. I screamed into the phone, "Jean, call City Hall, Daddy is

there, tell him the hearse is back. Tell him to COME NOW!" Dad had walked over to see Tommy Howell, the City

Clerk. In only minutes, my daddy, Mr. Tommy, and Mr. McMullen the Chief of Police and the fire chief, were all

there, to find the Gypsy Queen screaming at me through the screen window, "Let me in there girl. You can't slam

the door in my face like that. Let me in, I tell you!" When she realized I was minding the store alone, she thought

she had total control and was anxious to take full advantage. She removed a pin knife from her pocket and was about

to slash the window screen, when she heard the police siren and saw the flashing lights. She called to the kids and

they all swarmed back into the hearse as quickly as they had piled out of it; that is all but one tall lanky boy, who

apparently had gone behind the store when the hearse first stopped, either to relieve himself, or to try and enter the

store through the back. When he heard the sirens, he ran back around front only too late. Gypsy queen had left him

behind. We last saw him running behind the hearse, down Carrol Street, waving his arms franticly.

This scared me terribly, but I learned from this experience that some people feel that they are entitled to

take what they want from others hard work. Even today I recognize this attitude in lazy people who use welfare

programs intended for the widow, orphan, elderly and handicaped (the truly needy in our society.) I suppose they

too learned this irresponsible behavior from the generations before them, just as the gypsies had.

The Store was a school-for economics, politics, merchandising, and responsibility. It was a church,

teaching empathy, love and caring for my fellow man. I learned to discern the acts of people; those who try and

those who are users. I learned early about the pitfalls of addiction. It taught me patience, caring, sharing, real

values, and what really mattered to me. In some ways the lessons learned at the store were more important than

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those I learned at home. Here we worked for a common cause; shared common values, and trusted others to react in

a predictable way.

As time went by and I had a family of my own, I looked forward each week to shopping there and visiting

with my dad. He always had the tale of the week, told his way, to entertain the children and me. I regret that my

own children had so little time to work in the store with Daddy, and to interact with adults the way I did. But I'm

ever-so grateful for the time they did have with him and the experiences that they too remember.

After my father died I had no trouble returning home for visits with Mother. I missed him terribly the first

time I went to the house after the funeral, but I could not bring myself to enter the store which had been rented to a

new business. For a long time I didn't realize why I found myself turning around in front of the store and heading

back to the house. Finally, I realized that going into the store, I expected to see Dad. Several years passed and I still

was not able to visit the store which had been converted into one of those quaint boutiques'. When I helped my

mother pack the last of her things, after the sale of her home, so she could move to Brewton with us, I realized I

probably was visiting Jackson for the last time. I gathered my courage and drove to the store. The outside had a

complete face lift-a remarkable cosmetic improvement but it wasn't THE STORE. Upon entering, I expected

some of the same smells to greet me. I guess I expected some to linger in the old wood somehow. But only the

overpowering sweet smell of potpourri wafted from a bowl somewhere in the center of the shop. The fronts of the

original counters had been painted off- white. The tops had been sanded smooth, with many coats of polyurethane

applied to give them a rich warm beauty. The shelves along the wall that once held can goods and dry-goods now

had a soft green and cream Waverly print wallpaper behind them. A graceful arched facade had been attached to the

face of the shelving, to display a collection of expensive gifts. The old candy case had been refinished and moved to

the rear of the store, displaying a selection of heirloom needle-work. The shop was beautiful, but it bore no

similarity what so ever to the store I remembered. As I focused on the candy case and its contents, I realized that

they were becoming a blur. I turned hastily and started toward the front door before my emotions got the best of me.

A voice came from somewhere in the back, "May I help you?"

How strange, I thought, to have someone ask that of me in OUR STORE! But as I glanced back in the

direction of the voice, the fancy decor loudly proclaimed, ''This is no longer your store". I realized-neither the

store nor the man who shaped me existed any longer, except in my memories. I would not dare start a conversation

by telling her who I was, or why I had come. With my emotions as over powering as they were, I could only reply,

"No thanks-just looking."

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