Stickney's Store

A row of jingling bells announces my arrival when I push the door open. It’s a friendly sound; the teenage neighbor girl behind the counter smiles and says hello as I step in on the creaky, narrow boards of the tongue-and-groove hardwood floor. This building has been a landmark here beside the Cross River gorge since 1929, but I don’t know that. I am just a little girl, and I have come in this store almost every day of my life. To me, it is a familiar place, but beloved all the same. 

There is always a sense of intimacy paired with one of anticipation that makes my heart beat high as I walk in. Very little changes from day to day, yet something is always new.

I breathe in the mixture of smells I know so well: paper, leather, peppermint, sausage, and a bit of mustiness, and smile with satisfaction. On my left, the round table and chairs sit in a flood of sunshine coming in the large square window, just as they did yesterday; but an abandoned Cook County News-Herald lying there open to the sports page tells me someone has been catching up on the Vikings’ losses since then. To the right, the long glass-topped counter stretches out, full of marvelous things resting beneath the glass, just waiting to be admired: agates, beaded Indian coin purses, knives with Lake Superior stamped on the handles, souvenir spoons. Turning post card displays and a massive old cash register anchor the two ends of the counter. Straight ahead are several dim, musty aisles loaded with overpriced pantry staples, necessities such as diapers and aspirin, even a few dusty toys; most of which sit there longer than they should because only tourists would buy them at those prices. End caps are dominated by the obligatory shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with Cross River, Schroeder, Minnesota, or Lake Superior; stuffed moose, black bears, and loons; cups, pens, and key chains. A typical, over-crowded, small tourist-town general store; but it is the wonders located at each end of the store, like brackets, that make it worth the walk every day.   

On the north end of the store, beyond the sunlit table, is a bank of postal boxes. Beautiful old copper boxes with rotary combination dials at the tops and tiny glass windows beneath, the numbers painted on the glass, four hundred of them in perfect rows.

 

 

Terminating the tiers of copper boxes is the tall, narrow post office window with the letter slot beneath; and there, leaning on the small metal counter in the window, is the postmaster, a twinkly-eyed man named Skip whom I have never seen without a smile. 

“Well, well, well,” he says, like he has a thousand times before, “if it isn’t Jeannie with the light brown hair!”

I try to act annoyed at the clichéd greeting, but I secretly love the attention. I beam at him, and then turn my attention to our mailbox while my parents take up a conversation with Skip. I know my parents have known Skip for forever, but I don’t know or care that the wall behind Skip partitions off another part of the building which used to be an inn owned and run by the Stickneys, his aunt and uncle.

I haven’t heard the story, yet, that my own mother’s very first job was there, working for them in the inn for a dollar a week when she was fifteen. 

I just know that the post office is my favorite part of the store, and I’ve already seen several slim, white envelopes leaning at an angle against the side of the box through the little glass window. Carefully, I turn the small brass knob clockwise to line the pointer up with the seven, then counter-clockwise to four, then clockwise again to eight-and-a-half. The little door opens when I twist the latch below the dial, and I draw the excitement of the day from inside. I am just ten years old, but half of the letters are for me. I may live in a town of two hundred people, but I have pen pals in several states and a few foreign countries.

I finish reading my mail, and notice that my father, serious and stern, is deep in a discussion on politics and religion with Skip, who still hasn’t lost his devil-may-care smile. The conversation shows no signs of tapering off any time soon, and tantalizing, spicy aromas draw me across the expanse of creaky wooden flooring to my second favorite place: the meat counter on the south end of the store. 

The locals may not buy the cans of pork and beans off the shelves, but they all buy meat from Bill Jordan’s meat market. A chalkboard on the wall lists his 100 specialty sausages, all of which are worth the price he puts on them. He’s there now, his massive frame wrapped in a white apron, sleeves rolled up to reveal a tattoo. He grins at me, his teeth gleaming in his swarthy face beneath a black mustache. For the thousandth time, I think he looks like the picture my imagination has painted of a pirate. He gives me a tiny sample slice from one of his famous sausages, and I close my eyes to savor the symphony of flavors on my tongue. A neighbor clad in plaid flannel shirt and jeans lounges against the counter, idly gossiping with Bill, conversation that always wanders down interesting avenues. I gaze at the meats all attractively arranged on display in the case: roasts, steaks, chops, thinly sliced cold cuts, and, of course, sausage. I have no idea that Bill graduated from the University of Minnesota with a BA before I was born, or why he chose to spend his life in this tiny store making amazing sausage. To me, he is just Bill, the meat man in a white apron who looks like a pirate and tells engaging stories. 

Too soon, it is time to go. I wave to Bill, and he winks at me while the neighbor playfully pulls my braid. My mother gives permission for me to spend the rare pennies in my pocket, and I contemplate the array of gum and candy in the wooden displays on the front of the cashier’s counter. I finally decide on a pack of Fruit Stripe, because the stripes are the coolest thing ever. The neighbor girl chats with my mother as she rings up the sale. The stick of lime Fruit Stripe on my tongue begins to banish the spiciness of the sausage with its sweetness. 

The door opens, and the thundering roar of the Cross River, rushing always onward to Lake Superior, fills our ears. Taking my dad’s strong hand, I step out of the heart of my hometown and into the bright sunshine. I’ll be back tomorrow.