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| Wynoose Store (Photo rights reserved by Shugacan's) |
You've seen them. Ramshackle country store buildings clinging to a dilapidated front porch, windows shuttered or blind with dark and dusty panes, the clapboard of their facade loose and slipping, or missing. They are part of the ubiquitous landscape of a drive through the country and the remnants of an old rural community. But more and more are beginning to fall victim to new construction, new gardens, or merged into crop fields. Or they just fall. Period.
Every drive from the north back to Mt. Erie takes me past the Wynoose Store. Usually I drive by without giving it much notice. But occasionally a spectre from the past reaches out to grab my memory, causing me to stop and see what may be invisible to everyone else.
Next time you go by, slow down and have a look. If you squint your eyes just right you can see a shimmer of the 1970s and a bunch of kids in their early teens sitting astride their motorcycles. A lot of Levi and Jordache jeans, "Keep On Truckin'" t-shirts, aviator sunglasses, and feathered hair going on. Not sure there's a driver's license among them. But that's ok, because they're rebels, with a super-fine sprinkling of dust on their faces from traveling the dirt and gravel roads of the countryside, which has also left a fine grit in their teeth. They laugh and swagger their way to the storefront, disappearing in dazzling sunlight, then reappearing as ghosts in the shadows of the covered porch as they enter the cool darkness of the store.
This place has stood there for as long as they can remember, nestled among the houses and farms that swaddle the churches and chowder grounds of an already-old, wooded riverside community. Their boot-clad feet on its worn, wide-planked floor announce their arrival, as does their snickers and giggles, and a few macho throat clearing coughs from the boys. Their hands reach into the icy water of the Coca-Cola soda cooler just inside the door, find a bottle, then pick through the few aisles of dry goods and foodstuffs to find peanuts and potato chips. A few in the gang buy a bologna sandwich at the counter, then nod begrudgingly yet respectfully at the old men who sit around a table at the back, smoking their Camel cigarettes, Swisher Sweets and pipes, swigging coffee from heavy mugs. Dust motes fall like snow and compete for space with smoke tendrils in the sunbeams that shine through the window behind the lounging men.
The kids turn their backs to the old men and smirk as they walk away, while the old men do the same - a few spitting chew tobacco into a nearby rusted coffee can. "Kids," says an old man as he shakes his head and chuckles. "Old people," say the cool kids as they roll their eyes and out the door. They climb on their bikes, kickstarting the rest of the afternoon. They're not sure where they're going, these boys and girls of the 70s, but as they spin off down the road they know wherever it is, it's certainly nothing the old-timers can appreciate. Some girls ride behind boys, their arms wrapped around the driver's waist, their faces laid caressingly against warm backs. Other girls ride solo, including that white blonde, sunburned chick on the beat-up silver Honda. This is typically where she gets left behind, cursing as she kicks and kicks and kicks to start that old bike.
In fact, I think she was there in the shadows of the porch when I last stopped and snapped a photo, peering at me over her reflector shades and smirking her crooked smile. And the autumnal wind that blew across the road carried this sound ... "Keep on truckin' ... old-timer."
(Content copyright of Leandra Sullivan/Shugacan's)
