I’m writing my story about country stores that’s running in next week’s food section, and my mind keeps wandering back to Gafford’s store, the main country store in the tiny town where my grandparents lived. Mr. Gafford was a retired college professor who moved to Gallaway and opened a store, before I was born, I guess. The store was on the same side of the street as my grandparents’ house, plus Mr. Gafford lived across the street from them, so I was allowed to walk there by myself.

But–my memory isn’t completely clear why–I was NEVER to go to a competing store. Whether it was across the street (please, the street was hardly traveled back then) or that the store was unsuitable for a young girl (I’ve always had it in my head that the proprietor DRANK ON THE JOB, but that could just be a story I invented), it was off-limits to me. Too bad that I had such a weakness for blue freeze pops that I would defy my grandmother on occasion and go anyway. I don’t know why Mr. Gafford didn’t have the blue ones.

One day I went home and she asked me where I’d been and I said I’d gone to Mr. Gafford’s. She told me flat out that I was lying, I was busted, and to go get a switch. This scenario played out more than once, but I finally caught on: If I was going to eat a blue popsicle, I’d darn sure better stay away from her until the blue wore off my mouth! But it took me a good while, and all that time I just thought she was all-powerful and all-knowing. And had one mean switch hand.