Bit of a Pickle

You hear a lot of stereotypes about the south, fried foods, collard greens, pecan pies, and more. But, one I don’t hear enough of, one that was pretty much a staple of my childhood is the Country Store.

Looking more like a shack than an establishment, Mr. Connie’s was the quintessential Country Store located in the middle of highway 375 with no sign of civilization for miles. The old-timers sat on rockers in front of the building by the gas pumps, gabbing about crops and the way things used to be as my mother and I went inside to browse.

While momma talked with Mr. Connie, I’d head to the back of the store and watch the worms burrow into the dirt inside of the coffee cans. Cane poles sat next to them with the promise of a good catch of brim. The smell of boiled peanuts filled the entire area, and the salt had my mouth-watering.

I’ve never been one for sweets, my tastes veer towards the acidic variety, but I attest that to being a Floridian. A place where tangy, tropical fruit and sour citrus are plentiful and used in all aspects of South Florida life.

While my mother shopped, Mr. Connie would hand me a dill pickle wrapped in white paper. The giant of a cucumber had been sitting in a jar since the Civil War, absorbing every bit of that vinegar, until it turned white. Soft and sumptuous, the first bite caused my jaw to tingle and the juice to dribble down my chin.

Sooner than my liking, we would have to leave Mr. Connie’s Country Store with our homemade jams, Tupelo honey and the anticipation of the next visit.

Country Stores have been driven out by big corporations or just the dwindling state of our economy, but many have tried to emulate that nostalgic, familial business. Some have accomplished, and I’ve watched them flourish in small communities and played my part as the loyal consumer.

I’m hoping one day, to go back to Smith Creek, Florida and spot that old, dilapidated building in the middle of nowhere. I’ll step onto the porch and greet the old men that are whittling the day away, then head into the store, relishing in that squeaky door announcing my arrival. I’ll go to the counter where my lovely dill’s still sit, waiting for me. I only hope to hear, “Welcome home, Natalie.” from Mr. Connie as I dip my hand inside to take one.

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Letter Beyond The Grave

A love letter is an intimate moment between two people with the freedom to be vulnerable without the fears that come from being face to face. The paper itself is the messenger with words that transcend it’s edges, seeming to pour into the soul of the reader and touch them in ways that words spoken never could.

We gathered love letters, from friendly volunteers, and picked our top three favorite. Not the most eloquent by far, nor does it hold sonnets by Shakespeare or whimsical poetry. But it is heart-felt, endearing and just so happens to be the correspondence between two people we love dearly. My parents, Inion’s Nana and Poppa.

Their first was over fifty years ago when a seventeen year old boy dared to sneak a letter into a mailbox.

Dear Ginger,

I’ve been in love with you ever since Barbara’s party. Can I buy you a cherry soda? I know it’s your favorite.

Love, Barry

The second was four years into their marriage and two sons later. During one of the many hectic days at their family owned business, he wrote a note on a letterhead.

Baby,

Let’s get away from all of this. Meet me by the car tonight and we’ll go dancing. Who knows where it will lead?

We watched as Ginger, my mother read the note with tear-filled eyes and it was as if the words transported her to that very day. The last would be an email, which arrived one month after we buried my father.

Dear Ginger,

By the time you receive this, I’ll be gone and you and the kids will have buried me. I’ve written so many of these to you over the years, but this will be the final one and I hope it brings you some peace.

My first letter was filled with doubt and anxiety, the ramblings of a love-struck, skinny kid. But, I was man enough to admit that I was in love and brave enough to take the first step towards it, towards you.

I have only known one love, so it only makes sense that I will keep that love with me forever as I move forward. Know that I will be waiting, patiently until the day that you meet me for a cherry soda, in the place where love never dies. And, when you walk up to that scared boy, remember that he’s never stopped loving you and he never will.

Barry

Having been privy to read great love letters and receive a few of our own, we inspire all of you to take pen to paper and cherish the simplicity of a check yes or no, the intricacy of a letter written beyond death’s door and to remember the stories that are held within those passionate scribbles and ink splattered nerves. Love is a deeply rooted creature that is sparked by a sudden look, by a brush of a hand, by a song, by a letter, by three words, “I love you.”

In memory of Barry F. Mallory Sr.: Father, Poppa, Great Grandfather, Minister, and above all, Husband to Ginger. We love and miss you daddy.