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The Feed Store - By Randy Kraft |
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The Feed Store (1954)
"Hey, Bub, if you ride your bike down by the feed store, would you pick up some chicken feed?" Dad, said. He passed by me and turned into the garage, where his workbench was. He was repairing our only remaining chicken coop, and he had a small wire door in his hand.
When we first moved to Orange County, part of Dad's plan was to raise chickens commercially, and at one time we had a good number of them, raised from baby chicks, in several large coops in the backyard. But it had not worked out, and by 1951 all but a few chickens were gone.
"Sure, Pop." I said. "I'm almost done with this." I was cleaning my bike. I had already washed and waxed it all, and it gleamed bright red in the sunshine. Multi-colored streamers hung from the handlebar grips. But the grimy wheel rims had some rust and would not wash clean, and they looked crummy. Dad showed me how to clean them--with Ajax cleanser and a rag, scrubbing in-between and around each spoke. It was hard work, hard on the index finger, and it took a long time --scrub six-inch sections, rinse, dry, wax and then repeat. It worked well, though, and the rims came out really clean and sparkling. I was working on the grass next to the back porch, and was about 90% finished with the second rim.
Dad came out of the garage. "Looks good," he said, indicating the rims. He reached into his pocket and brought out some change. "Here's a quarter," he said. "Get a bag of all-purpose mash. I think it's a quarter ...well, here, take a dime, too, just in case." My hands were covered with soapy goo, so he put the coins on the porch for me. "If there is any change left you can get yourself a bottle of pop or something."
"Gee, thanks," I said. I finished up the rest of the rim quickly and buffed it to a high polish. Now the whole bike gleamed. Neat!
I put the 35 cents in my pocket, and then ran into my room and got four old playing cards. Outside again, I got four wooden clothes pins from the clothesline, and pinned the playing cards onto the forks of the bike's wheels: two on the front and two on the back. When the wheels turned, the spokes hit the cards and made a loud racket like an engine. Since the bike was sparkling clean, I thought it appropriate to have it sound really good too. Then I hopped on the bike, turned out of our driveway into the back alley and waved to Dad, the cards flap-whapping into a smoother purr as I gained speed.
After a hundred feet the bumpy dirt alley turned into paved street. I pedalled hard to get to full speed, and then glided standing up on the pedals. It was exhilarating: the loud flappy-purr of the spokes hitting playing cards, the streamers whipping from the handgrips and the wind in my face. I looked down at the radiant, shiny bike under me, and I was proud of the job I had done, satisfied that it was time well spent even if my finger was a little sore.
The feed store was little more than a block from home. It faced Jackson Street, just behind a row of businesses on the far side of Bolsa Street. It was large, as tall as a two-story building, but not really substantial, having the look and feel of a barn or a walled-in hay stand, which, in essence, it was. It had a huge door on-each end, nearly as tall as the building, allowing big trucks to drop off or pick up bales of hay and bags of feed and then drive through. It was long enough to hold two or three large flatbed trucks, maybe sixty feet. An alleyway separated it from the stores along Bolsa, but residences crowded next to it on the other side.
It serviced several nearby farms and dairies as well as horse owners and other people, like us, who kept some critters in the back yard. There was an established group of horse owners and showmen called the Tri-City Wranglers, the Tri-Cities being Midway City, Westminster and Barber City, and many of them patronized the feed store.
I pedalled up to the Jackson Street door, coasted my bike inside on one foot and parked it out of the way in case any trucks arrived. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the far door... deep into the store, illuminating it. It angled to the right, casting the left side of the interior in shadow. The air was heavy with fine dust that hung suspended in the wide slice of sunlight, like a golden fog and belied recent activity though nobody was there at the moment.
An insistent bouquet of hay and alfalfa engulfed me in a soft embrace. It was at once heady and soothing, sweet yet slightly astringent. It spoke of activity, of being outdoors, of traipsing over fields, of harvesting a crop, of mowing the lawn. And as well it suggested moments of introspection, even in my youth, when I lay under a dome of blue sky with a blade of grass on my tongue, its gentle, unadorned scent kissing my nose. The smell of the feed store accosted my senses, speaking its own primal language, insinuating its message, and, unconsciously, my shoulders relaxed and breathed deeply. I stopped just a moment to nose the air again, as though acknowledging the communication, and I sighed in admiration. It was pleasant, harmonious, and cordial, and it permeated every corner of the building.
To the right a window looked out onto Jackson Street, and next to it was a tall, cylindrical birdcage with a cockatoo. It sidled back and forth, eyeing me as I parked my bike, its orange and yellow topknot stretching slowly up then down as its head bobbed. It was supposed to talk, but the only thing I ever heard it say was, "Pretty bird." Two different macaws had been there previously, and I never heard them say anything at all. Another cage held two bright yellow canaries rubbing beaks. And next to them was a stout ceramic bowl with several small turtles in a little water. Against the far wall was an incubator holding several-layers of trays, each tray containing about fifty baby chicks. Only a glimpse of their little orange feet was visible, but their "peep, peep, peep," never stopped, and, amazingly, it echoed throughout the store, continually announcing their presence. Nearby, deep ceramic bins held various bulk animal foods for sale in small quantity. One of them looked like the chicken mash that we used, so I went to the door of a small office and asked for help.
A lady came out, and when I told her I wanted a bag of all-purpose chicken mash, she asked how big a bag I wanted. I didn't know, so I told her that my Dad said it cost 25 cents, and with that she said, "Oh, a five-pound bag. We have some already packaged. I'll get you one."
While she went off I looked around some more. A shelf held some pet supplies: flee powder, cuttlebone, birdseed and a wire brush. All of which looked to have been on the shelf for a long time.
The lady came back with a brown bag taped shut tightly. It had "MASH" written on it in big letters, and it cost exactly 25 cents, just like Dad said. That left the whole dime for me to spend. The bag was heavy, and I hefted in the wire basket on the front of my bike, and then pedalled out.
"Hey, Randy!" someone yelled. I hadn't gone twenty feet. It was James Vest, boy five or six years older than me- whose family lived a few lots down from our house. We played together now and then. "Hey wait up!" he called. He was coming down the alleyway behind the market, so I stopped and waited for him.
James was a good kid. About a year previously we had a dispute over some toy, and in the struggle I accidentally hit him in the face. He got a black eye, and he was really embarrassed by it coming from a little kid like me. But he knew it was an accident, and he didn’t hold any grudge. A few years later, in High School, James got into trouble. I don't remember what he did, but a judge gave him two choices: either enlist in the military or go to jail. He enlisted.
"What ya doin?" he asked breathlessly, running up.
"Just got some chicken feed for Dad," I said, patting the bag.
"Cool, Daddy-O," he said. He was always showing up with new words, like "Cool" and "Daddy-O." Older kids talked like that. One time he showed me a new dance step, The Bop, but dancing meant nothing to me at the time.
We walked down the sidewalk beside the hardware store as we talked, me pushing my bike. "Gee! You washed your bike!" James said. "It looks cool, man. Where you going now?"
"In here," I said, nodding toward the wall. "I'm gonna buy something, maybe a kite. Where you going?"
"I just turned in some pop bottles at the market," he said. "I got sixty-five cents! I had some big ones."
That was a lot. The most I ever brought back for deposit was four or five, and at two cents each that gave me a dime. The big quart-size bottles were worth a nickel each. Finding bottles and taking them pack to the store was a way kids like us got some money. We were alert to bottles everywhere: on the side of the road, in vacant lots, anywhere people left them.
"What are you going to buy?" I asked.
"Nothing now," he said. "I'm saving up for something special."
"Like what?" I asked.
"I don't know yet, maybe a motorbike," he said. "I've got almost ten dollars so far."
"Golly!" I exclaimed. I could not imagine having that much money to spend, and I shook my head in disbelief. A word written in big letters on the wall caught my attention. It said, "FUCK." I stopped and asked James, "What does that mean?" And I tried to sound it out, "FFFF--UUUU ..."
"Never mind," he said.
"Come on. Tell Me!" I insisted.
"You're not old enough to know that yet," he said. He nudged me along and changed the subject. "You want me to help you pick out a kite?”
"Nah," I said. "But would you keep an eye on this while I go in and look at them?" I patted the bag of chicken mash.
"Right-O," James said. "I'll look at some magazines while I keep an eye on it."
We reached the corner where the entrance was flanked by a large window on each side. Once inside, James stopped at the magazine racks. My bike was right outside the window.
We called it the hardware store, but its actual name was Midway Hardware & Variety. The back half was hardware: nails, shovels, paint and such. That's where the cash register was. In the middle, Notions was to the left, and Toys to the right. A soda fountain and counter occupied the front/left, but it was out of business.
A box of kites was in its usual place, standing on end by a counter, and I realized immediately that it had just been opened. Two-dozen new kites were packed closely like straws, and I had first choice! Only the two-notched sticks of each kite was visible, so I picked through them carefully, pulling one partially out to appraise it, then going on to another. They came in a variety of colors, mostly red and blue with fewer green and yellow. Sometimes another color showed up, and that was rare, like an unusual marble, or a four-leaf clover, or that one puppy in a litter. I stopped. One of them was white. I gently pulled it all the way out and examined it closely, removing the rubber band that held it wound around the sticks and unrolling it a little. Big, bright-green swooshy letters said --"High Flyer" --over an illustration of a soaring jet plane. It was fresh, alive, and breezy like the wind. The jet appeared ready to bolt off the kite and fly out the store. I imagined it high in the sky, a mere speck, and me sending up messages. It was super neat, the best kite I had ever seen, and I held it tenderly like a treasure. A quick scan of the box found no other white ones. Nobody had a kite like this one. It cost a nickel, a steal, and I decided to buy it.
Spools of kite string were nearby, 300 feet per spool, and I evaluated them longingly. They cost a nickel each. I already had a good mound of string wound criss-cross around a stick, but more was always better. I paused to estimate just how much I already had, and after some careful thought I estimated about three spools. That was enough.
I paid for the kite and joined James at the magazines. He was thumbing through the new issue of Look Magazine and put it down when I came up. "Cool," he said, touching my kite. "But ...didn't they have any red ones?"
"Yeah, but I like this one better," I said.
"White??"
"And green," I said. "There was a whole box of new kites, and this was the only white one. Wait’ll you see it. It's ...uh ...it's cool!!"
"Hey, man, if you say so." James laughed at my using his word.
Outside, we crossed Bolsa in the crosswalk and headed down the sidewalk past the Chiropractor's office, toward Adams Street and our alley. I still had a nickel. I saved it to get a coke. (No matter the brand, my family always called soda pop "coke.") James stayed with me to the liquor store, just ahead, where he determined that he could spend a nickel for a bottle of pop.
The store's owner, Paul Alford, was a short man, edging toward heavy- set, with thinning brown hair slicked straight back and receding from a round face. He wore wire-framed glasses. "All Ford and no Chevrolet," he liked to say at the sound of his name. He always had something to say and worked the counter. A young married guy named Cleo was his stock boy and helper.
The soft drink cooler was small, about waist high to an adult, and near the front window. The doors were on top, and I slid one open. Glass bottles were lined up and standing in icy-cold water up to the necks. The bottle caps identified different brands: Seven-Up, Pepsi, Coke, Hires, NeHi, and fruit-flavoured Grapette and Lemonette. Grapette had been my favourite, but my taste was changing; I pulled out a Pepsi. I liked the blue and red logo painted on the bottle. James got a Coke.
A bottle opener was on the side of the cooler, and a receptacle was under it to catch the bottle caps as they fell off. I opened my bottle carefully, so as not to bend the cap, and saved it. James did the same, and then he dug down into the receptacle and scrounged a few more. Mr. Alford didn't mind. They were trash.
We put our nickels on the counter.
"Going to drink them here, boys?" Mr. Alford asked.
"Yeah," I said. "We'll be out front." By drinking it there, and returning the bottles to an empty case by the door, we did not have to pay the deposit on the bottles, and that kept the price at a nickel.
"That's fine," Mr. Alford said. "Tell your Dad 'Hello' for me. I haven't seen him in a few days."
"He's working on a chicken coop," I said. "I'll tell him."
James and I went outside by one of several palm trees in a dirt parkway between the sidewalk and the curb. He told me about a haunted house that he and some other kids were going to search for in a few days. As I listened to him I worked on my bottle cap. They were all the crimp-on kind, with crimped points all around the edge. On the inner surface a thin disk of cork was glued lightly in place. Providing the seal when pressed against the bottle opening. I carefully pried it loose in one piece, without tearing it. Then I held the bottle cap against the outside of my T-shirt, adjusting the word "Pepsi" so it was level, and pushed the cork piece back into it from inside my shirt. It held the bottle cap in place, like a badge. I always did that, unless the cork tore.
"So we're going to see if we can find it this Saturday. Wanna come?" James flipped a bottle cap, snapping it between his thumb and middle finger, and it flew twenty feet, over the curb and into the street, but no cars were around.
“Yeah, but what if my mom won’t let me come?”
“Just say you are coming to my house like you always do, and we’ll go from there.” He flipped another bottle cap—twenty-five feet—then went to retrieve them.
“I don’t know.”
"Come on. You never tell your Mom every little thing we do. You just say you're going to my house. It's no different." He handed me one of his bottle caps, and I tried to flip it. It went about two feet, off to one side, and he laughed. I picked it up and tried again. Same result.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.
"All right!" he exclaimed. "It will be cool. You'll see."
We finished our cokes and returned the bottles to the case inside. I rode my bike the rest of the way home, the streamers whipping from the handlebars and the playing cards flappy-purring like a rattletrap engine. James chased along behind. He whooped and hollered, doing his best to match the racket of my bike. It was only a short distance of paved surface from the liquor store to our dirt alley. I beat him by a mile, and he came running up, out of breath, after I already had parked my bike.
Dad was still working on the chicken coop, and he stopped at the approaching clamor to watch us into the driveway, shaking his head back and forth in feigned disbelief of our youthful energy. He thanked me for getting the chicken feed, greeted James, and I relayed Mr. Alford's "Hello."
James and I sat in the shade of the back porch, and I unrolled the kite and set the sticks so he could see the whole thing. It worked. He gave it his blessing by pronouncing it "cool." However, it was late in the day, not much wind to speak of, and we could not fly it. So I left it unfinished: no bowstring, no bridle, and no tail. It would be several days before enough wind came up ...a few days after our search for the haunted house.
©Copyright Randy S. Kraft
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