I walked into the store to get a coffee and some milk. Some of the regulars for that time of day were in. A few were sitting in the morning sunshine outside holding forth over their coffees and discussing the more important topics of the day, like the officiating at the Olympics, and whether there would be a federal election in the works. A couple were sitting at tables inside either reading the paper from Toronto, or working over some scratch & win tickets. If you listened through the buzz, the conversation was the usual.

“Hey John, you workin’ today?”

“Ayup. I work every day.”

“Shit, you call that workin’?”

The store. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to call it THE store. The only real hub of commerce in the hamlet. Gas station, general store, coffee shop, propane exchange, and video rental. Used to even be a little restaurant. The Big Time in a little place.

“Son of a bitch,” one guy cursed quietly, and tossed his scratch ticket down in mock disgust. No one but his companion and I heard it, but I answered, “I am so.”

He looked up and grinned. “Well, at least you’re honest about it, not like John here.”

I said hello, and began to work on getting myself the coffee.

The lady working behind the counter came in from pumping gas, and asked me how my mom was doing, and how she was finding life in the nursing home. I told her Mom was fine, and with a knowing smile she asked me if I’d killed her cat yet. It’s kind of a small joke. My mom was in the hospital for a while, and kept telling everyone that I’d killed her cat. Every time I’d visit, the other people in the room would glare daggers at me. Mom would ask about her cat, and usually I’d just seen the thing alive and well an hour or so before. I’d tell her she was fine, since she was. But the next day, she’d be telling them the same thing.

Small places have a peculiar way of thinking. If you’re not from one, you’ll probably never understand. My wife and I will always be considered newcomers since we moved there. Doesn’t matter how long ago. My kids are accepted as being from there, plain and simple. Doesn’t make sense, doesn’t have to. That’s small-town. It’s life in a goldfish bowl. Everybody knows you, and even if they don’t mean to, they know a bit about you. If some calamity should befall you, it’s more than likely that store will be the focal point of the place’s efforts to help out. That’s the other side of the coin. The store is, and always has been a fixture of life in a small place where news is exchanged (or made up), the locals see each other, and the store staff are like the unofficial mayors. That hasn’t changed since there have been local stores and flypaper. The only thing that can compete is the local legion, if the place is large enough to have one.

I’ve been in this little place for more than 19 years and come to the store most every day. Right now, it’s owned by a nice Korean fellow. He wonders why my friend and I don’t buy his gas. I keep telling him that Harleys are just fussy, and he doesn’t sell the high-grade stuff. My Yamaha could stomach regular, but my last two bikes need 91 octane. Before him there was a young WASP family, from Newfoundland originally, I think, and before them it was a Vietnamese family. That’s as far back as I go, though the place has been here forever.

People ask me why in the world I’d ever live there. The question used to bother me. I knew why, but how to explain it in a sentence or two? Now I just shrug and say “Because I never hear sirens there.” They still don’t get it, but I do. I don’t mention the things I do hear; cicadas, red-winged blackbirds, spring peepers, chickadees, bullfrogs, bumblebees. The howling winter wind becomes the gentle spring zephyr puffing gently as it blows past my ear while I look over a meadow to watch a shy faun follow her mother back into the cover of the trees. I’ve heard coyotes, and seen wolves. A whole horizon of bright stars. Clouds, high wispy cirrus clouds, and towering cumulonimbus threatening to try to beat you down with rain and hail. Lightning that lights the room like a flashbulb followed by house-shaking thunder. The power fails again, and we bring out the oil lanterns. We’ve always chuckled when the same kids that can play video games forever tend to go to bed as early as chickens when there’s no power.

I remember back when we’d just moved there. I was coming home from work on my old 500cc Yamaha. I’d had the thing so long, and had so many adventures, I sometimes wondered why I’d never named it. Then I realized that I’d already narrowed the short list of names down to two possibilities, and could never decide if it should be “Trouble” or “Misery”. I was coming through the town south of mine, and remembered that I’d better get some milk, bacon, and eggs before I headed any farther toward home. I pulled up in front of that town’s store, and as I flicked down the side stand, I noted the old-fashioned ice cream sign, and suddenly wished that I wasn’t in such a hurry.

This particular store had been open for so long that most people just assumed it had fallen off the ark. I nodded to the owner, and made my way back past the shelves of outdoor clothing most likely to be needed by the area’s farmers in the upcoming weeks as the summer was beginning to fade. Grabbing the stuff I needed, I went up to the counter, and placed my things in front of the man. I added a couple of packs of cigarettes to the order, and as he turned to get them, I noticed that there was no cash register.

The small elderly man put his hand lightly on the item nearest to him, and recited the price aloud. At the next item he did the same, but added a silent comma, and then said the total. This went on as fast as I could follow it until he came to the last item. He recited the price, paused for a split second, told me the total, and then calculated the Goods and Services Tax as well as the Provincial Sales Tax, and then gave me a verbal total for the whole thing. There was no calculator. He stood there smiling at me in a shy, but friendly way, waiting.

If this had been a Warner Brothers cartoon, my jaw would have fallen off. I pulled out some cash, and he began to scribble a bill with lightning speed. I couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure?” He stopped, and looked at me in a kind of wounded way. His hand began to reach toward the first item again. I stopped him, explaining that I’d become used to people who had no clue how to make change anymore without the cash register telling them how much to give. In contrast to that, I was amazed. He just smiled with some small pride, as I handed over the money, and he gave me my change. He began to scribble the bill again. I smiled back at him, and told him to take his time, that I’d be back in a minute. He nodded and kept scribbling as I went outside, and put my stuff into the saddlebags.

I walked back in, and as he handed me my copy, I asked for an ice cream cone. On completion of that transaction, we got down to the really important things, and talked about the weather while I worked on my cone. I felt a whole lot better as I swung out the kick starter and booted the bike to life. I always made certain from then on that I stopped at that store at least twice a week. I never knew his name, and he never knew mine. It wasn’t important. What was important was the smile that he offered whenever I walked in.

A year or so later, another store opened up across the street in that town, and this one offered a short order menu, rented out videos, and had a couple of pool tables. It didn’t take long for the old man to realize that he was out-gunned, and he folded in the face of the competition. He had some health problems, and for a brief time after his passing, his daughter ran the place. But I think it was a lost cause, and it eventually closed. I missed my nameless friend, and felt as if some small, yet important detail had disappeared from the Earth.

To my surprise, I found that I harbored some quiet hostility toward that new place as I rode by, and I made sure that if I couldn’t get what I needed at the store where I lived, I’d ride to the larger store in the next town. I just couldn’t help it. It was then that I realized that I’d become small-town myself.