Summit's Kitchen

Dear Grandchildren,

I have many fond, and a few not so fond, memories of Pappaw Lewis’s store. If Pappaw was not there to swat at me with his damnable cane for being underfoot, I played in the store and even held down the occasional job: sweeping, stacking pop crates, carrying coal for the potbelly stove. I bet that when I was growing up, and probably long before, Summit’s population considered Pappaw’s store the hub of the community. It was central to the community in proximity and everyone, except perhaps the really snooty folks (both of them) got their groceries there. In a home, the hub of the family is where you eat your food, have family conversations over a cup of coffee, make plans, and take the temperature and heartbeat of your family – the kitchen. I think of Pappaw’s store as Summit’s Kitchen.

Summit’s kitchen

Northern Kentucky winters were cold when I was a kid. The cold days were usually accompanied by lots of snow – oh the glorious snow. The Boyd County road crew was used to the bad weather, so usually had enough snowplows and salt trucks available to handle most any situation. But on occasion, the forces of nature were too much for the county and its equipment, even the hated salt trucks. On those rare occasions when the elements worked their magic so well as to even foil salt trucks, we kids found ourselves confronted with the glory of the blessed snow day.

Except for Christmas, snow days were probably the best days of the year for school kids. They were magic. I saw the same magic reflected in my own kids’ eyes when they drug themselves out of bed, peered into the white cold of a snowy morning, and screamed for joy when their groggy brains made the connection between the snow and the fact that there would be no school today. It is like an unadvertised Christmas. And just like Christmas morning, they didn’t think about eating or showering; all they wanted to do was get to their gifts, but on a snow day their gift was snow.

When I was a youngster, snow meant snowball fights, snowmen and, most importantly, sledding – happily, the same thing it means today. After building the requisite snowman in the front yard, I made sure my sled runners were nice and slick – rust filed off, bacon fat smeared on; eat a bit of breakfast because mom wouldn’t let me go sledding without something in my stomach; and then make my way to one of the many sledding locations. If there was plenty of smooth ice on the roads, one of the best places for sledding was on the road just across the railroad tracks that ran in front of Pappaw Lewis’ store.

Twenty or more kids spread out along the quarter-mile sled run in front of the store in various states of sledding: making their way up the hill, streaking down the icy path to their potential doom on the railroad tracks or in front of a car, lying at the foot of the hill after a successful run, or for those less fortunate, wrapped around the foot of a mailbox, telephone pole, or tree. Snowballs mercilessly crashed on and around the descending sledders by walkers getting back at kids that had unleashed a similar barrage on them just moments before. Regardless of well-placed snowballs to the side of the head, mailboxes, and the long walk back up the hill, there was little that could dim the joy that this snow day had created in our hearts.

A few yards beyond a sharp curve in the road marked the top of the hill. There, a bunch of kids huddled around a roaring tire fire, stomping their feet and holding gloved hands to the blaze, as if paying homage to some god. The black smoke from the burning tires billowed into our little lungs and faces on its journey into the sky. Still, its warmth far outweighed the discomfort of occasional coughing or shifting to get away from the smoke. We gave little thought to the fact that cars might have a difficult time getting around the fire. When one did come along, they seemed to make it around us just fine and with few complaints, or they just took another route. The adults seemed to like the fact that we were out playing in the snow. Maybe it reminded them of their good old days.

But even with all this joy, all the tromping, stomping, running and even a roaring tire fire, we could not keep the bitter cold of a Northern Kentucky winter from infiltrating our skinny bodies; it took its toll on even the most die-hard sledding maniacs, which included most of my friends and me. Our hands and feet succumbed first. We tried to keep the elements out, but for most of us, a thin pair of cotton gloves covered by another thin pair of cotton gloves was the best we could do for our hands. Gloves ranged in quality and character from the crème de la crème wool and leather gloves to a couple of layers of sock-mittens. Sock-mittens – yes, socks; the kind you wear on your feet – were as warm as the cotton gloves many kids wore, but a kid sledding down a hill with socks on his hands…well, it was just not very impressive to the little girls that might be watching. – Girls, by the way, always seemed to have those pink, blue, white and multi-colored fuzzy, “pretty” gloves. And they did more standing around and watching and talking than the boys. – Alas, I usually donned sock-mittens, not necessarily because we were poor, but because the single pair mom let me have always turned up missing within a week or two, and she got tired of giving me yet another pair. Socks worked fine.

And yes, my little ones, I know what you are thinking: But you had a store, grandpa; couldn’t you just get another pair from there? That is a story in itself, but the simple answer is, no, it just didn’t work like that, especially with my mom. Something about a business sense or some such thing. Ask your grandma Emmi; she knows about that stuff.

Nearly all of us had a pair of those waterproof rubber boots that buckle about 8 inches up your shin – nearly to our knees for many of us. They were excellent for keeping the water out unless there was a hole in them somewhere because they were ten-year-old hand-me-downs from your brother and the rubber was rotting out…because your brother’s feet had been in them. Even if a kid’s boots did not leak, they were nearly always covering little more than a pair of tennis shoes. Neither the boots nor the tennis shoes were insulated, and cotton socks repelled the cold like a sponge repels water. The buckles never seemed to stay fastened and refastening the snow- and ice-caked catches pretty much guaranteed frozen fingers. So, it took little more than a couple of runs down the hill to chill us to the point where the tire fire just wouldn’t cut it. And even if the tire fire was sufficient to warm us, why should we walk all the way back up the hill when the Lewis Grocery (Pappaw’s store) was conveniently placed right at the bottom of the run where we were at our coldest?

Pappaw’s store was not very big, occupying maybe 750 square feet of actual store space, with about that same amount of space in the back for storage. Still, it was big enough to make Mammaw and Pappaw Lewis a very good living. It was later passed down to Uncle Adrian, making him and his a good living as well.

Upon entering Pappaw’s store your eyes took a moment to transition to the darkness, especially on bright, sunny days or snow days when everything was coated with a brilliant blanket of white. Dull, yellow bulbs hung from the 15-foot high ceiling, their light barely reaching the store’s corners. Recessed nooks and crannies were little more than small, dark caves. Two large storefront windows and several porthole-sized windows that framed the top of the outside walls gave about as much light as the lightbulbs. To the left of the entry, complete with a screen door that screeched and slammed just like at Roberson’s Market in Ironville – must have been a family trait or something – were the pop and frozen treats cases, where I often lingered. Beyond the cases, illuminated by one of two large front windows, was a little isle where fresh produce was kept in a cooling display case. Directly in front of the door was a set of white metal shelves with bread, cakes and pies, lunch cakes – Moon Pies! Yay! – crackers, and other quick snack goodies that folks could easily reach on their way to the checkout counter, where Pappaw totaled your bill on one of those old hand-crank cash registers. Pappaw had made it convenient for patrons to come in, grab what they wanted, ask for a pack of cigarettes (Camels, Winston, Salem, Pal Mall) Chewing tobacco (Beechnut and Red Man) from behind the counter, then pay and get out, all in one easy two-minute stroll.

As your eyes adjusted to the dark, they might make out the shining rims of a pair of glasses looking your way from behind the counter. Usually, behind those glasses you would find Pappaw, either sitting in his thread-worn stuffed chair or waiting on a customer. He always greeted a perspective customer warmly, “What can I do for ye?” or “Be right with ye.” I preferred Uncle Adrian or, even better, Mammaw Lewis to be behind those glasses. Then I would also get a warm welcome. To Pappaw, I was just family, not a perspective customer; to Mammaw, I was one of her babies. Mammaws are good that way.

Cigarettes, chewing tobacco and other sundry items men needed to get them through the day were kept on a shelf directly behind the store counter. To the right of the counter, closest to the other large storefront window was where Pappaw kept his chair. To the left of the counter was a glass-encased candy counter. It was beautiful, with glass front and top so that even little kids – little kids especially – could see all the brightly wrapped goodies and hound their mothers until they gave in or threatened a “swat if ya don’t quit botherin’ me.” – Swats and the threats of swats were an acceptable part of parenting back then. – In front of the candy counter was a fat pot-belly stove. Beyond the stove there were more shelves with the kinds of foods mothers did their meal shopping for: flour, canned food of all sorts, sauces, cereal, etc. – the ingredients for the magical stuff moms created, making it good to return home each day. And at the back of the store was a long, white, glass-fronted, enclosed meat counter filled with rows of cheese, bologna, ham, bacon and other meats. To the left and behind the meat counter was a door that led to a near-dark storage area where extra non-perishables were kept: pop, crates of sugar, feed for horses and cattle, canned goods, and hundreds of wooden pop crates that we often used for kindling in our fireplace at home. Back then they were so plentiful that we burned them; today they’re antiques. Dang, I’m getting old.

Stretching out from wall to wall behind the main counter were several shelves that reached to the ceiling. Many a sundry items were stored on these shelves, with the most bizarre and least-often sold gathering cobwebs and dust on the upper shelves: coal buckets, nails, stove pipes, coils of chicken wire, hammer and axe handles, pots and pans, belt buckles, leather straps for god only knows what, bits, reins and bridles (yes, for horses), and too many other “things” to be counted. But on occasion someone would come into the store, ask for one of those “things” and Pappaw would point it out up near the ceiling and then point to the ladder that they could climb to get to it. With his “bad crippled” – mom’s words – leg, Pappaw could barely walk, much less climb a ladder. But if the customer was lucky, a kid or two would be loitering and Pappaw would press them into service. I was drafted on multiple occasions while loitering in the parking lot just outside – “Rodney, come in here and help me,” Pappaw would order. And being the good grandson – hoping for a pop or candy reward – I did his bidding.

But it’s the big, black, potbellied stove positioned like a sentinel in front of the candy counter that I see most clearly when remembering Pappaw’s store. It stood a bit over three feet high and had a flat top, big enough to support a kettle for heating water and other miscellaneous items that needed heating and drying, like little cotton gloves and sock-mittens. A stovepipe rose from its top to the store’s ceiling. As advertised, it had a wide potbelly stuffed with burning coal. Beside it sat an old coal bucket. When the bucket was empty, Pappaw would bribe some candy-starved kid with a stick of gum or sucker to fill it up from the pile of coal behind the store – unless I was caught loitering to be pressed into service. Several pop crates were situated around the stove that, when stood on end, made adequate chairs. There was one real chair with a cushioned seat and a footstool in front of it. This was reserved for Pappaw. When times got hard, which they often did, men in various states of unemployment would park themselves on the pop crates, drink their RC Colas, smoke and lament their sufferings.

And so it was that Pappaw’s store – say, pot-bellied stove and candy counter – was a source of refuge for our frozen bodies. The only drawback was that Pappaw was the proprietor and usually stayed true to form – as mean as a snake. When Pappaw was a young man, he had a serious accident. The accident left him with a severe limp and an even more severe temper. He was as quick as an old rattler, striking out with his cane, swatting little legs and butts that got in his way. Because of this, we were usually afraid to enter the store unless we had money. If we had money and were willing to spend it, Pappaw would greet us with open arms, at least until the money ran out. But on cold winter days, when the tire fire had failed us, hands and feet freezing, with or without money, we were bound and determined to gain a foothold of refuge next to Pappaw’s potbellied stove.

In addition to Pappaw’s “bad crippled” affliction and ornery character, he could not hear much better than a rock. When talking to him, you always had to shout and even then, he could only hear well if he cupped his ear toward you with his hand. Over the years, I learned to take advantage of that disability. And given his temper and that damnable cane, nope, I don’t feel the first bit of remorse for doing so.

If you were a customer searching the isles for groceries on a cold, snowy day, you might notice something like the following: Magically, the store’s door gently opens and closes. You glance over to say hello but see no one. You go back to your shopping. A few moments later, quiet, elf-like, two wet youngun’s cautiously appear side by side, hands extended to the pot-belly stove. A few more moments, then whispers, boots unbuckling, steam rising from gloves neatly placed on the potbelly’s flat top and, boldly, by Pappaw’s kettle. The door opens again. Scuffling, buckles, a soft cough. “Shhh!” Four little ones, red cheeks, bright eyes, shoulder-to-shoulder, church mice. Steam, the warm smell of roasting cotton… Open doors – once, twice, three times – shuffling, more steam. Smoke? Sock mittens roasting, rubber a bit too warm. Sniffling, sneezing, coughing, little voices softly buzzing, giggling, picking up volume, reaching to the dark corners of the store. Pappaw, from somewhere in the back – Customers?

And there, as innocent and pitiful as we could make ourselves appear, we huddled, encircling the potbellied stove, a heard of muskoxen in a circle defense against wolves – Pappaw. Often ten kids or more, arrayed around the hot stove, with our wet cotton gloves and mittens spread out on its top to dry, our boots snuggled up to its base, and so many sniffs, coughs and sneezes that it sounded like a crowded emergency room. We had to turn our gloves often to keep them from burning. More than once, an over-exuberant kid would be ogling the so-close-but-yet-so-far goodies through the glass candy counter while his gloves roasted on the stove. The tell-tale odor of holes burning into cotton, wool or socks brought us all running back from the candy counter to see whose hands might get a little colder when we went back outside, or who might be in trouble tonight for ruining yet another pair of gloves.

I can only imagine what it must have been like for Pappaw from the other side of the candy counter. All those little faces glued to his candy display case, snot and other drippings from wet jackets, hair, runny noses, and thawing hands making a mess of his once-clean showcase and puddles on his clean floor. From his viewpoint, about all he could see would be a row of little hands holding tight to the top of the display, and the tops of bobbing heads and wishful voices simultaneously asking, “How much is that?” “Is that new?” “What is that?” “Is it good?”  He would grin mischievously and tell us, “Ye only gonna know if ye buy it.” And those of us with money did, and being good kids, those of us with money shared.

Pappaw tolerated us being in his store if we were spending money and didn’t get in the way of the real customers. Sometimes – maybe it’s just my wishful imagination – he even liked having us there even when we weren’t spending money, at least for a little while. I suppose we were probably entertaining to the old guy. But after a while, usually enough time to warm ourselves and get at least partially dry, he shook his cane at us threateningly, and shooed us out to make room for his paying customers.

With joy, warmth and sugary energy racing through us like a Christmas morning, we raced to the top of the hill. Once, twice, maybe three times, down the hill and back up, slowly growing cold, inhaling black, billowing smoke, stomping our feet, stuffing our hands under our arms, pulling hats over our ears, rubbing snot and debris on our sleeves. And then, magically, the store door opened – two, maybe three, elf-like munchkins stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder…

I love you my little munchkins,

Baba

Ahh… my babies, that one really makes me smile. When I read it, I am drawn back to those wonderful times, and I can see it all again – close my eyes and I magically appear in Summit’s Kitchen.