Missy and Ken Miller ran Bussy’s, the corner grocery store where we had a charge account, shopping there almost every week, often more than once popping in for something. I ran over there occasionally from my dad’s store to pick up an order my mom called in, usually meat or a mix of some kind she’d forgotten to pick up; Ken used to seem so angry, standing behind the butcher counter; he scared me, but Missy was nice, and always so well-dressed, hair perfectly permed, cats-eye glasses with those rope-y thingummies to hang them about her neck, pearl earrings, make-up.
They had a really friendly cashier lady, whose name I never knew; she still lives in town and shouts out, “Hi, Margie” to me just like when I was a kid, and, like a kid, I smile and say ‘Hello’, or ‘Hi’ but with a comic book like bubble floating blank where her name ought to go – too embarrassed to ask after all these years (I think it’s Shirley, but don’t quote me).
Everyone knew my mom and dad, and they knew everyone, too, but they didn’t always say the names, ‘Why hello, Shirley! How are you today, Shirley!’ or Stan, or Flo, or Jack – and – along with a certain level of name blindness (not an actual diagnosed, medically recognized thing except and unless you have it!) – that has made remembering names hard, especially for those people you just ought to know because c’mon already!
Bussy’s had sawdust on the floor, and carried everything you might need for the home, including hardware kinds of stuff and a row of vegetables on the right-hand side of the first aisle, and farmer type clothing including boots. Canned goods. Cake mixes. Twine. So many choices of bread, all white as snow in plastic wrap because we don’t have to bake it ourselves anymore, said the old people.
It smelled of hay and leather and green grass and cheese; it smelled of freshness and familiarity; it smelled like adventure because even if we just went around picking up the usual things, you might find a new item, a corner you’d never noticed filled with candles of all sizes, or socks that were wool and cotton and high or low or boxes of matches in colors and shapes you’d never seen before as there were just so many shelves with so much to explore!
It was in truth very small, Bussy’s, but so was I. There were just two cash registers, and the sloping entry had to be navigated carefully when carrying paper bags of groceries, and other stuff. Do not let the potatoes roll out of the bag. Do not squash the loaf of white bread. Do hold the bag from the bottom. Do remember to thank Missy and Ken for their help. Do hope that dad isn’t too upset when all those bills come in; he’s the one, after all, who loves his meat and potatoes!