Full to the Brim

When I was growing up in Upper Village, I walked or rode my bike to William’s Store nearly every day. A tiny white A-frame on the side of the state road, the store had a good selection of penny candy, basic groceries, cigarettes and beer, and an above-ground gas tank with a single pump. The steps into the store were bowed and worn from generations of foot traffic. You got your glass-bottle Coke from an old-fashioned red-and-white cooler, complete with a bottle opener on the side. The penny candy actually cost a penny.

Mr. Williams—Bill—gave every kid a free pretzel rod and let us take home kittens from the litters always being born in the attic. I learned to count money there, to budget, and to shop. It was the halfway point when I biked to my friend’s house, and the destination at the end of a backwoods trail that spared us a dangerous section of road.

We played in the stream behind the store, and Bill kept an eye on us. He’d call my mom to let her know where we were or tell us to get on home if we stayed out too long. He held my younger siblings in their wet diapers when my mom stopped in for milk. He forgave me the one time I forgot to pay for a bag of candy.

There was a giant wheel of cheese in a glass cooler—you could buy a slab, priced by weight. Bill kept handwritten credit lists on brown paper bags, so kids could pick up things for their parents, and they'd settle up later. I can still picture his handwriting—neat rows of numbers, totaled at the bottom. There was always an extra stool near the register, usually occupied by an old man with a pipe or cigar, casually smoked right there in the store. It was the kind of place that just doesn’t exist anymore.

Mr. Williams died when I was a senior in high school. His son, Alan, took over, but the store eventually fell into disrepair and closed. And then Alan died, too.

Today was the estate sale. I felt compelled to go—one last look at the place. I wasn’t sure what would become of the building, but I wanted to reminisce, maybe buy a small memento.

I was shocked when I arrived. The parking lot and both sides of the road were packed with cars for half a mile. Inside, it was worse. Most of the buyers were older—60's or 70's—and they were rude. I was shoved, elbowed, nearly trampled. One man stomped past me in a tight corner, ignoring my “Excuse me!” and nearly knocking me into a shelf.

They rifled through boxes, breathing heavily, tossing things aside with no regard for the mess or for each other. It reminded me of Black Friday mobs. People desperate, even aggressive, fighting over things that were, frankly, junk—yard-sale odds and ends. I stood just inside the door, stunned. The shop was filled with the smell of dust, the sound of crushed boxes and rattling glass. One man wrestled several guitar cases from a corner, smashing into people and displays to get them all in his arms before anyone else could.

Near my elbow, on a shelf by the door, I noticed an old glass candy jar with a hand-carved wooden lid. The knob was worn smooth. I picked it up. My husband, standing protectively behind me, said, “I bet you put your hand in that jar a thousand times when you were a kid.” The sticker said five dollars. I hugged it to my chest, and we made our way out.

Back in the truck, my husband said, “That was really disturbing.”I agreed. I had gone there to remember, to pay my respects. Instead, I left disheartened—disappointed in humanity.

I’ve been turning the experience over in my mind ever since, gently washing the candy jar with soap and warm water. I haven’t decided what I’ll store in it—I’m not much of a candy eater. Maybe tea bags. Or a plant. Or, as I joked to my husband, maybe tampons on the bathroom counter.

But no matter what it holds, I think I got the most valuable thing in the store—because it holds actual value to me. None of the other shoppers seemed to value what they grabbed. Sure, you can buy a jar just like this one on Amazon for $18.99, and it’ll be on your doorstep tomorrow. But it wouldn’t be this one.

As I write this, I realize what the jar already holds. It holds memories. Good ones. And it’s full to the brim.