The Red & White stocked what this rural community needed, and was even able to rescue a floundering school assignment
The farm where I grew up was near the local hamlet. The community consisted of a school, an elevator, a post office and the Red & White general store, a fascinating place for a small girl to visit.
The store boasted two large display windows on either side of the front door, one holding an enormous red geranium the size of a small tree. No doubt the sunny south exposure encouraged it to bloom year-round — the pride and joy of the storekeeper, who dabbled in horticulture as one of his hobbies. Each fall his regular customers were presented with a bouquet of colourful gladiolas, bundled in newspaper and secured with shop cord.
Read Also
Stock dogs show off herding skills at Ag in Motion
Stock dogs draw a crowd at Ag in Motion. Border collies and other herding breeds are well known for the work they do on the farm.
The display window opposite the big geranium was usually occupied by several local retirees, mostly men who had a good vantage point from which they could view the goings on along main street.
Often, I scooted past them to avoid a bald neighbour called Fred, who threatened to cut off my long thick braids to make himself a wig.
Another regular on the gossip bench was my Uncle Bill. He relished telling the story about the community spinster who caught a ride to town with a stuttering farmer on his way to deliver a load of crabapples with his team and wagon.
The passing train blew its whistle, the horses spooked and despite the farmer’s desperate attempts to shout “Wh..wh..wh..whoa,” the horses ran away, upsetting the apple cart and dumping out the farmer and spinster right in front of the general store. Nothing was hurt except their dignity as they crawled out from under loads of crabapples.
Whenever the phone rang in the general store, shoppers and the men on the gossip bench paid close attention. There might be news about the latest death.
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, I will post the obituary on the door.”
There followed a few moments of quiet contemplation.
Or it might be that the stork had landed in the hospital 15 miles away.
I remember the day a local farmer who had seven girls in a row hung up the phone and exclaimed, “the wife just had a baby with mother’s features and father’s fixtures,” soliciting a hearty round of applause.
While Mom visited with the storekeeper, I wandered around at will. One area had red and blue block salt for the cattle farmers and a few plaid shirts and bib overalls folded on shelves along the wall.
Next to them were a few bolts of fabric that gave off that new cotton freshness plus a few sewing supplies for potential seamstresses. A shelf held a few boxes of shoes and boots, smelling of new leather.
On the other side was a small selection of school supplies and next to that the produce bins.
I always hung around to sniff the bananas that we could seldom afford. Apples were cheaper, mostly McIntosh.
While Mom stood at the counter, I surveyed the shelves behind it, stocked with everything from tins of Player tobacco to nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla, liniments for aching muscles, salve for scraped knees and cans of Blue Ribbon baking powder.
Everything was on display except the 100-pound sacks of Robin Hood flour and big bags of rolled oats, which were kept out back.
Should just one customer ask for something not in stock, within a day or two the requested item would arrive.
Bologna sandwiches were my favourite and sure enough, while Mom waited, the storekeeper was wrapping up a few slices in waxed brown paper that he had torn off a roll at the end of the counter, deftly securing it with shop cord that he unwound from a big cone. As the storekeeper rounded up other items on Mom’s list, I sipped on a bottle of cold Orange Crush in its ribbed brown bottle, a five-cent treat.
With her groceries placed in a brown paper bag, the handwritten bill of sale tucked in the bottom, it was time for Mom and me to walk the mile home.
Little did I know that about a year later the storekeeper’s wares would inadvertently bail me out of a childhood dilemma. My Grade 1 teacher wanted each of us to bring a picture of a cow to school. All the way home I pondered where I would find that picture and then I got home and forgot all about it.
About two in the morning, I woke with a start. The cow — I need a picture of a cow. I tiptoed to my mother’s bedside to tell her of my plight.
By the light of the coal oil lamp, we started going through the pile of newspapers. No cows. We tried the catalog. One cow. She was standing behind the chain-link fencing Eaton’s sold but she was not a very nice cow. The tears started and Mom said, “Let’s make some cocoa to warm you up.”
She opened the cupboard door and there was a cow — the nicest, neatest cow I had ever seen — on the side of the Cow brand baking soda box that Mom had recently bought from the general store.
Without a moment’s hesitation Mom dumped the contents into a bowl, grabbed the scissors, cut out the picture and I got an A plus on my lesson.
