This morning I got a text message from my cousin, Anthony Watkins. There was a photo attached of the old Pettway Grocery in Hobe Sound, Florida. I had never been in the store but the picture brought back memories of my years in that area.

There used to be thousands of these tiny stores scattered through every community in the country. On a cool, rainy summer afternoon I was driving up from Pineapple to Hayneville. Along the way, I passed the ruins of an old store and realized that it was one of those places that lived in my memory from childhood.

When I was a kid, my grandfather and dad leased the hunting rights to some property in the Gordonville area, southwest of Hayneville. They lost the lease in 1972 and I had never been back since. They hunted dove and quail and I grew from a little guy lugging my bb gun behind them to taking my place beside them as a teenager.

Nearly every trip involved a stop at an old store where the county road met the state route. The ancient clap boards were weathered with peeling paint. There was a portico at the front with a couple of gas pumps at the end closest to the road. The pumps had little semispherical globes of amber glass mounted on the sides. A small ball would bounce and roil inside when gasoline was flowing. A little bell rang with each gallon that was dispensed. An attendant would be on hand to pump the gas and many a time I heard Dad say, “Fill it up with Ethyl”.

Wooden benches sat on either side of the steps leading up to the door. On a Saturday evening, the place would be would be crowded with the black men from the community. Clad almost exclusively in overalls, they would be smoking and there was always laughter and teasing. They would nod and speak to us and we would nod and return the niceties. The screen doors had metal push panels across them emblazoned with “Colonial is Good Bread!” The spring loaded hinges squeaked pleasantly as they opened and closed.

Inside, one would immediately become aware of the myriad sights and smells. You could buy just about anything at one of these establishments. There was a refrigerated counter at the rear with bacon, bologna, fat back, souse and I don’t know what all. The walls were lined with rows of items like fan belts, radiator hoses, clamps, ladies hosiery, various tools, flash lights, work gloves……you name it!

A wood stove sat roughly in the center of the place and during cold weather, several men might be backed up to it. There was a black and white television with “rabbit ear” antennas and I remember one evening when the mighty Crimson Tide was playing on it. I was transfixed as the fuzzy, squiggly screen revealed heroes that had, up to this point, existed only on the radio.

The old man who ran the place sat in a wheel chair behind the counter. I never knew to what degree he was disabled. He had lost a son in Viet Nam, as I recall. He called my dad by name and they would chat briefly as he rang up our sale. If it was a lunch stop on an all day quail hunt, we would usually buy a chunk of souse, a piece of hoop cheese, crackers and drinks. If it was late afternoon, the choice would be a coke and candy bar for me. (For my northern friends, coke is southern for “pop”. So, if asked, you might order a coke, to which the next question would be, “What kind”? “Oh, I don’t know, make it an orange Nehi.”) The drink box sat near the front and you could slide the top aside to reach the glass bottles. There was a bottle opener attached to the side with a receptacle to catch the bottle caps. In those days, the metal caps were lined with cork. There was a two cent deposit on the bottles if you took them with you.

Large glass jars sat on the counter top with packages of Tom’s peanuts or bubble gum.

I turned my truck around and drove back to the gravel siding and getting out I walked over and peered through the gaping doorway into what was left of the place. The roof was in a state of collapse and the room smelled of decay. There were boxes and trash scattered about and I could make out the opening in the ceiling where the stove pipe used to pass through. Nothing was as I had remembered. As I got back in the truck and turned onto the highway, it occurred to me that I am several years older than my father was back then.

I wondered if maybe on a cold, clear night the ghosts might return and gather in their old haunt around a glowing wood stove. If they do, I’m sure they’ll hear the distinctive sound of the old GMC V-6 and the excited barking of bird dogs, anxious to run the fence rows and bottoms of the “old cotton fields back home”.

Hal F. Leary