The General Store

My grandmother worked at a general store in northern Vermont for more than thirty years.

It had creaky floors, penny candy by the register, seed packets in spring, and a little bulletin board where half the town’s life was pinned up. Lost dog. Firewood for sale. Church supper. Snow tires.

She knew who needed credit and who needed a conversation more than groceries. She wrote everything down in a spiral notebook and pretended not to notice when people paid late.

That store is closed now, but I still think it held more of our town than the town hall ever did.