I love that in our little village I can have my watch fixed in Russian, although we do wonder if the whole thing is a fence. You see, the store is two doors down from another that looks enough alike that I become confused about which is “my” store. And neither ever has a customer inside. When I go in there once every three years, it takes ages for an actual person to appear from “the back”. And he always looks a bit unshaven and his voice is gravelly.
We said goodbye to the Japanese grocery store with the cashier who regally bowed and returned change with both hands. The Florist/Communion Dress/Muffler store has become a Spicy Chickpea. Not that I ever shopped there, but it was always comforting to know that I could quickly get my hands on a great variety of products.
Perplexingly, the crystal shop remains, as does the baggy women’s clothing store. I think they might have some nice things but because there are 92-108 outfits displayed in the window, it’s really hard to get a sense of anything. So many times I’ve been tempted to march in there with a roll of white camera shoot paper and a tulip or two and make a really killer window display. I know exactly what I would do. There might also be a shabby chic stool involved.
Peter, a carpenter I knew in the Berkshires, would sit on a Main Street bench once a week for a few hours so that he could catch up with friends, even relatives. When I admired the quality of his life in Stockbridge, he’d say “Yeah, but you can’t buy nails.” And while we have all kinds of local color, we can’t buy milk.