Introduction
As I approach the later years of my life, I often find myself longing the distant, simpler times. As my friends disappear, one by one, I can either sit in my loneliness or bring them back, through my memories.
My name is Lily Hartman. I was born in 1910 when a loaf of bread cost four cents, a pound of butter was thirty and eggs were exchanged freely by generous neighbors.
A brand-new Ford Model-T ran about eight hundred dollars. There were 19,050 produced that year, double that of 1909 due to the genius of assembly line production, which had recently been introduced.
I don’t remember any of that, of course. My first real memory came five years later with a visit to Rickenbacker’s General Store in far away Youngstown, Ohio.
It was one of those beautiful sunny mornings that only autumn can deliver. It was dark, cool and crisp when I woke, only to reveal a clear blue sky as soon as the sun rose, as if announcing to the world that it would warm the day. As if announcing that it would be a wonderful day!
I went in with my Uncle George, and the moment we stepped through the door my eyes widened like saucers. The main aisle ran straight back as if it might go clear to the next town. The hardwood floor was worn smooth, and right down the center was a groove, an honest-to-goodness path carved by years of boots, cart wheels, and stubborn feet. I planted my own shoes right in it, because if thousands people before me used the path, it must be the best place to walk.
Shelves and display cases formed smaller aisles that branched off like side streets. I drifted through the first few in a daze, staring up at towers of goods. How could anyone choose just one thing in a place that held everything?
And I felt important because it was my fifth birthday.
Uncle George had put a whole dime in my hand. “Spend it on whatever you like,” he’d said, and then he’d brought me to the one place in town that made a dime feel like endless possibilities.
Uncle George was a truck farmer, one of the few men around with a motor truck. That made him important, because it meant he could take produce to market in nearby towns that didn’t have easy access to a train station. It helped the town’s people to thrive and allowed him to charge retail prices rather than wholesale.
He had ten acres of fields that needed tending all summer. Tomatoes, strawberries, asparagus thrived, and produced consistent, yield throughout the summer. Cabbage was grown in a special patch and saved for sauerkraut. George planted carefully by season, so something was always coming in. Strawberries and asparagus brought early money, and by the time tomatoes ripened, his truck was already a familiar sight on the road.
Harvesting and hauling to market we’re daily tasks, six days a week, all summer. Uncle George would load the truck at dawn and drive to a nearby town, staying until he’d sold the day’s harvest. Then he’d come home and go right back to the fields as if the day had only been half lived. Today, I helped him all morning and my reward was a birthday shopping trip.
Rickenbaker’s had cans everywhere: neat rows on shelves, baskets of them on the floor and stacks that seemed tall as a grown man. No wonder everyone stayed in the groove: you’d trip over a basket of cans without it. I saw labels that I recognized — beans, peaches, things meant for supper. There was even a square can with tiny fish in it, the kind adults pretended they liked.
I decided, immediately, that I was not buying anything that came in a can.
The store smelled like old wood, dust, paper and maybe a hint of molasses, until cigarette smoke rolled over it and claimed the air. I couldn’t see over the shelves, so when I reached the end of the main aisle I nearly jumped.
A man was looking down at me.
Mr. Rickenbacker sat high on a tall chair behind the counter, like a king on a throne. A cigarette rested in his hand on the countertop. The smoke drifted up lazily until a nearby fan chopped it into ribbons and sent it wandering.
Behind him were shelves stuffed with bottles and boxes, and right beside him sat an enormous roll of white paper—so round it looked about the size of my head.
I pointed at it. “Wow,” I said, awestruck. “You must really like to draw.”
Mr. Rickenbacker grinned. “Nooooo,” he said, stretching the word long and playfully. “That’s for wrapping. Let’s say Mrs. Wilson is throwing a party and sends her serving girl, Gloria, down here for wine and spirits. I tear off a piece, wrap each bottle, and then nothing clanks together in her cart.”
He proved it with one quick motion—unrolling a strip, then snapping it off against the metal edge in a clean, straight line. It was so neat it felt like magic.
Then he tilted his head at me. “But I am guessing you like to draw. Here, take this piece. I don’t have anything else to do with it.”
I reached for the paper, careful not to get too close to the big knife built into the holder. “Thank you, Mr. Rickenbacker,” I said.
What actually came out was, “Thank you, Mr. Wreckerer.”
He didn’t correct me. That made me like him a little.
I lost interest in the paper the moment it touched my hands, because when I stretched out beside the counter my palm landed on cold glass. I looked down.
Ice cream!
Not a picture of it, not a promise of it, real ice cream, sitting behind a frosty window in a case like treasure in a chest. I can count the number of times I’ve had ice cream on my fingers and I’m pretty sure I only need one hand. I definitely don’t need my toes!
“We have a special on the penny cups for only four cents. I have vanilla and ...” Mr. Rickenbaker started to answer when he was interrupted by uncle George, who was standing in the front corner of the store eyeing a large display of potted plants and fresh flowers.
He called out as he started walking towards the counter: “Do you always get that much money for flow… CRASH!
In his excitement, George had run right into a pyramid of cans that extended into the main aisleway. “ I’m so sorry. It’s just I was so excited. How do you charge so much money for flowers? Where do they come from? How often are they delivered? Are you interested in an alternate supplier?”
Mr. Reichenbacher put out his cigarette, lifted his large frame office chair and came back to help with the cleanup “Don’t worry, we’ll have them stacked back up in a jiffy. This has happened before. I really need to move these cans …if I only had somewhere else to put them.”
“I just have a soft spot for fresh flowers.” uncle George told him. “When my wife, Mary, was alive, we planted flowers all around the farmhouse. She had her yard looking like the grounds of a French castle. I know how to grow flowers.”
I interrupted before they could keep talking about boring things like flowers “They have ice cream ice cream, real ice cream!! And it’s only four cents. Let me show you. It’s in a cold box by the counter.” I grabbed him by the hand and started dragging.
“Four cents, that’s almost half your dime there! And ice cream is a lot better when it’s hot outside. Certainly you can find something better.” Uncle George said, the way grownups say things when they believe the matter is finished.
I scowled and was about to object! He said I could get anything I want and now he’s probably thinking anything I want that comes in a stupid can.
Mr. Rickenbacker interrupted and pointed toward the back of the store. “Did you know we have a candy counter back there, young lady?”
I wasn’t a lady, I almost thought. But all I could really think about was candy.
“It’s my birthday,” I announced, as if the whole store needed to know. “I’m five years old and my uncle George gave me ten cents to spend however I want. And I want candy.”
Mr. Rickenbacker’s eyes crinkled. “Well, then you’d better go look. And on your way, you’ll see our cracker barrel. There’s a little square opening—just big enough for your tiny hand to slip in and come back out holding one cracker. Help yourself.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “But remember: only one. Take more and you’ll get stuck.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rickerer!” I chirped, and took off like my shoes were on fire. I left them standing there talking about stupid flowers. I had better things to do.
The cracker barrel was an old wooden thing about as tall as I was, and the square opening was right at the top. I climbed a little—just enough—and plunged my hand inside.
The crackers felt wonderful—dry and ridged and plentiful.
So of course I grabbed a whole handful.
And that’s when I learned that grownups are sometimes right in the most annoying ways.
My hand went in easily. My hand did not come out.
I tugged. Nothing.
I tugged harder. Still nothing.
Mr. Rickenbacker ambled over on his way to the candy counter and stopped to watch me struggle like it was a show he’d paid for.
“Remember what I said,” he told me gently. “Only one. Hold it between your fingers if you want it to come out.”
I stared up at him without saying a word. I wasn’t about to surrender. Not on my birthday. Not with crackers at stake.
I squeezed my fist tighter and yanked as hard as I could.
The crackers crumbled instantly, breaking into sandy pieces between my fingers. My knuckles scraped the wood. My pride scraped too, but I didn’t care. The moment my hand popped free, I shoved the broken crackers into my mouth before anyone could take them away.
Mr. Rickenbacker bent toward me and I panicked—HELP, my brain shouted. What’s he going to do?
But he started laughing. Not a polite adult chuckle, either. He laughed so hard he couldn’t stand up straight.
When he finally caught his breath, he wiped at his eyes and said, “That is the funniest thing I’ve seen all week. You are one determined young lady.”
If only he knew how accurate he was!
He didn’t tell Uncle George. He didn’t make me clean up the crumbs. He only smiled at me like we shared a secret. Strange for an adult—but kind, too.
I finished my illicit crackers and walked more slowly to the candy counter, trying to look innocent while chewing.
And then I saw it.
Half a wall of giant glass jars, lined up like jewels, each one full of candy. Peppermints, drops, twists, chews—colors and shapes I didn’t even have names for yet. It was so glorious I froze, staring with my eyes wide.
In that instant I decided Rickenbacker’s was my favorite place in the whole world.
Of course, my world was very small at the time.
After a long, serious debate—plus a couple of “samples” that Mr. Rickenbacker gave me—we discovered my dime would buy four peppermint sticks and one package of Goo Goo Clusters. Peppermint sticks are my favorite, but I couldn’t resist something called a “goo goo cluster.” The name sounded like delicious. It looked even better: chocolate and marshmallow and nuts, what a treat.
I handed over my dime. Mr. Rickenbacker gave me a penny back.
“Thank you, Mr. Ricker-baker,” I said, as properly as a five-year-old can. “Thank you for the wonderful time in your store.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he said, and slipped my candy into a small paper bag. “You’re welcome to come back anytime. Happy birthday.”
Then he added something extra—just because he could—and pressed a few butterscotch candies into the bag like a secret gift.
Butterscotch was my favorite too.
On the way out, I took one more look at the ice cream sitting deliciously behind a thick glass door. When I touched it, my hands were sticky from the candy.
Stick… pop.
Stick… pop.
I did it again because sticking to glass was a little bit funny and a little bit satisfying, like I’d discovered a secret game.
And I walked out of Rickenbacker’s General Store with sticky fingers, a full heart, and the firm belief that ten cents could buy happiness, especially if you stayed in the groove and didn’t get caught at the cracker barrel.
