I stopped off at a little grocery store the other day to pick up something for my mother. While in there, I found many of the things I remember eating as a child. It was almost as if the place were frozen in time. The store, now tiny by modern standards, was once considered a large grocery store. It is still laid out pretty much the same way it was when I went there 30 something years ago as a child. With the exception of the cash register: The old manual push button models are now gone, replaced by computerized equipment that would rival any big store. Most of the rest of the store looks about like it did then. Old-timey butter, bushel baskets of dried beans, corn and other produce on display, fresh cut meats, a produce selection that looked more like a produce stand than a grocery store, all complemented with the usual assortment of items that are most often found in a grocery store. My family used to sell (and sometimes buy in quantity) October beans and other produce there in the fall. I really enjoyed spending a little time there—it was almost like unexpectedly peering through a window into the past.

That made me think of the other stores where we used to shop, places named after their proprietor like Dale Lyon and Howard Hill. (Howard once gave me a leather wallet with a dollar in it for my birthday. I still have the wallet, but the dollar is long gone). Those stores used to be in every community.

Yes, the little stores that once dotted our landscapes are definitely disappearing quickly, with most already gone. Better roads and transportation have definitely taken their toll, but competition has also played a role.

We now enjoy stores that offer much greater variety, competitive prices and exotic fruits and vegetables that many people probably never had the opportunity to eat even 60 years ago.

I recall a story relayed to me by a native Alleghanian in which an old man was taken a fruit basket containing bananas, apples, oranges and other fruits. When asked if he liked it, he noted, "Most of it was good, but that funny corn you brought was all cob." Obviously the bananas must have only been partially ripe and kept some of their green color.

Fruits with names like kiwi, mango, papaya and plantain would never have found their ways into our diets if not for globalization and the big grocery stores. Then again, most people didn't set out looking for papayas when they went to the store 40 years ago. They were instead looking for the basic staples of life. For our family, those were Dad's Lucky Strikes, coffee, sugar, flour, pepper, salt and cornmeal. Prepared foods and frozen food items really weren't part of the diet. It's funny, but I remembered the little white packs with the red seal and LSMFT (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco) logo as I typed that last line. For most of Dad's life, he had a pack or two of those in his shirt pocket and a cup of strong black coffee in front of him at the table. I also remember rolling a pack of them up in my shirt sleeve and trying not to cough while smoking one.

What we are losing are our community centers, our daily gathering place to see and be seen or just sit and talk on the porch or stoop for a spell. We also lost that personal touch that only a small business owner who is serving friends and neighbors on a small scale can accomplish.

If I get behind people having a lengthy chat at the grocery store now, I get perturbed. I find myself thinking,"Why are those people blocking the isles with their idle chatter?" When I was a kid, waiting in line while the grocery talked to the neighbor lady about her husband's illness wasn't unusual. People just weren't in such a big hurry that they felt obliged to run over people with a shopping cart or get upset over a delay. Besides, there usually weren't many people waiting in line any way.

I can remember my grandfather taking me to Dale Lyon's store to pick out a flashlight. When I got a cheap one, he guided me to one made of steel. "Always buy good tools," he told me. That store was about the size of a big convenience store these days, but back then it passed for a grocery store.

All of the stores at which we shopped were small, most ran their own charge accounts for people and most were operated by a family or individual whom everyone knew by name. I'm sure it was the same everywhere else as it was when I was younger. Since my father farmed some, cash sometimes was hard to come by and he ran an account at several stores in between times. He must have paid the bills, since I can't ever remember him being turned away.

I can remember going into the store with my mother and asking for something. "We can't afford that," she said. "Sure you can, you just sign your name and he'll let you have it," I responded innocently.

In Mrs. Kegley's store in Galax, Va., there was always a crowd of people setting around a smoky old wood stove toward the back of the store and narrow shelves that stretched up toward the ceiling, shelves that weren't designed to help people reach the merchandise easily, but to display items. The clerk would usually fetch whatever it was you asked for.

Soft drinks were kept in the back in a regular refrigerator, a '40s or '50s model made of heavy gauge metal with rounded top and corners. Candy was found on the counter in little glass canisters with metal lids.

As you can guess, I couldn't tell you where the washing powders or lima beans were stored, or even if frozen foods or meats were sold there. As most children do, my mind was usually fixed on those two locations. The wood stove was merely a stop-off on cold days where one could sip a cold Nehi in the company of the local pundits, who generally knew at least a little more than the ones I see these days on the evening news. They usually kept the fire going in the store, throwing in a log or fetching wood now and then as if the stove were their own.

It was dark and dusty inside the store, and the owner/operator wore what appeared to be lipstick on her cheeks in little red circles like Raggedy Ann. She was always nice, though.

Another place I remember was the fruit market where the proprietor saw me eat one of his grapes. "Did you pay for that?" He asked me. "No," I told him. He asked me how much money I had, which amounted to about eight cents. He took it in payment for the grape and in doing so, sold me a lesson to boot.

The old neighborhood stores that survived are now mostly gas stations that also sell grocery items. Some of the older stores also sold gas, especially the most rural ones.It is too hard to compete with the bigger stores and such, so most of the small independent grocers are gone.

We still are blessed to have a few small stores here at which to shop, a phenomenon that is not as common towards most of our cities. As the older generation that usually operates these stores passes, I often wonder if the tradition will continue. As time goes by, I'm starting to understand the nostalgia that affects older folks. It gets easier to understand daily.

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