General Store – A Seasonal Dream
I was here before, briefly, back when my birth-mom told me of Toby and the store he lived in. When I was still very small, she had pulled me into her ample white mane below her chin and told me yet another story about my ancestors. My siblings were busy romping and trampling each other with great enthusiasm. I must have drifted off during her story.
I found myself in a large indoor space with counters, shelves, and a big Royal Oak wood stove in the center. Several chairs and stools sat empty around the stove. I looked around for Toby, who I was told was a massive white dog with pointed ears, one of those ears bearing a long scar. It was night time and dark, but even with the moon shining through the storefront windows, I didn’t see him before one of my “beefier” brothers rolled across mom’s head and landed on top of me, waking me before bounding away. Mom checked me over and lulled me back to sleep, washing the inside of my ears, but I didn’t return to my dream.
All these years later from that dream, here I am again. I instantly knew where I was. It was morning this time, and the store’s owner was behind the counters, cleaning the glass top that displayed many jars of candy. He was chuckling along with several men gathered around the stove. They must be the “spit and whittle club” birth-mom had told me about.
I looked around from where I was sitting for Toby, even turning to look out the front windows to see if he was outside. No luck.
One of the oldest men seated around the stove was very animated when he spoke, and being seated in a rocking chair, he was traveling with his chair in little rhythmic spurts whenever he felt he needed to emphasize something. A big can that was next to his chair moments before, was now slightly behind him and this explained the stain on the wooden floor, and why they were called the “spit and whittle club”.
One of the other men stood up to refill his cup from the coffee pot on top of the stove, and looking out the front windows pointed his cup towards the front door exclaiming, “Here come the buggies, Hezekiah.”
All eyes, including mine turned to the windows as we watched several horse-drawn wagons and cutters pulling up to front of the store. Children and parents disembarked in heavy winter garb, trudging or bounding, (depending on age), through the morning’s snowfall, up the stairs to the porch where the older folks handed out pennies to gloved children’s hands.
I heard the owner say, “you’re up, Toby.” I turned to see what looked like a white lion or bear unfold himself from behind the wood stove. Instead of heading to the door where the sound of children wafted into the warmth of the store, Toby headed to his Dad and sat as near as he could to him while watching the door.
I was so taken with his apparent strength and size. I swelled with pride at his patience and regal bearing as the doors flew open and children made a noisy beeline for the candy display. Some greeted Mr. Hezekiah Wilson, most greeted Toby with quick head rubs and pats. Toby in response panted and smiled, but kept his station, near his Dad.
On the other hand, Hezekiah Wilson was very busy as the younger children had trouble making up their minds, while the older ones spoke over each other with their choices. Hands exchanged coins and sweet morsels.
My eyes were drawn again to Toby, and I noticed neither of his ears had scars. Wait, maybe I’m wrong, but whoever he is, he’s a lot like me. Business and duty first.
The men around the stove bantered with the children between the chewing of candy on one hand and the chewing of tobacco on the other. From their fragmented conversations, I heard the children and their parents outside had just come from church and were excited about the Christmas service they were going to in the evening. I hadn’t noticed until the children mentioned it; a large Christmas tree in the corner of the store with banners and garland strung above it from the high ceiling. My tail started wagging as the holiday season is one of my most favorite times.
Toby’s Dad then handed out ornaments to all the kids to add to the tree and as they were busy doing that, Toby pricked up his ears and stood up listening intently above the chattering and laughing. He turned towards a back doorway behind the counters, but then sat again as the children began to wind down and say their goodbyes to the men around the stove.
One boy and his younger brother stopped in front of the store owner while the older boy coaxed the younger. “Go ahead, ask him,” he repeated nudging his brother’s arm. The younger looked up sheepishly, “Mr. Wilson, were you in the war?” The boy pointed up to a very large painting hanging above all the shelving.
The painting depicted some kind of battle with canons and soldiers. It was so large it was hard to take it all in. There were hills and trees, farmhouses, and every section had a skirmish of one kind or another.
“Yes I was Timmy, I was even in the battle in that painting.” Mr. Hezekiah Wilson had turned to look up at the painting when the old man in the rocking chair spit, (and missed the can, again), said, “Hezekiah, tell him where you are in that painting.” The store owner chucked softly, “Timmy do you see the big oak tree in the middle of the field?” “Yes sir,” the boy said shifting slightly to get a better look at the tree. “Well, I’m hiding right behind it, shaking like a wet kitten.”
The burst of laughter from everyone around him made the young boy wonder if he was part of a joke and his face had flushed slightly when all of a sudden Toby leapt and raced past everyone through the back entryway, and a loud crash followed. Mr. Wilson ran after him and yelled for one of the men to come and help him. More crashes and shouting, then Mr. Wilson came back into the store walking Toby by his thick mane. One of Toby’s ears was bleeding.
Everyone gathered in a circle around Toby and his Dad as he knelt pulling off his apron and applying pressure to Toby’s ear. “A raccoon got into the store room and was after the molasses, Toby must’ve heard him,” Mr. Wilson said to no one in particular. The young inquisitive boy asked if Toby was going to be OK. “He’ll be alright…can’t say the same for the raccoon though.”
One of the old men handed Mr. Wilson a brown bottle of something to put on Toby’s ear. You could tell Toby didn’t like that one bit, but he didn’t make a sound or try to pull away. He even looked directly at me for some seconds. I didn’t know I could be seen in this dream, but as he looked right at me, I realized that I had come from good stock.
I looked around at the people, the festive decorations, the painting of a war from long ago. These people had all come through something hard and heartbreaking, but their community, their hearts, still carried a warmth for each other. One of my great-great grand-dogs was there with them doing his best with patience and loyalty.
The room began to fade and as I floated towards wakefulness. I heard the old man in the rocking chair say, “Hezekiah, you should give Toby a medal. Ya’ cain’t have gingerbread without molasses…and ya’ cain’t have Christmas without gingerbread.”
Happy Holidays to All,
Tucker Oso
