Lucy Food Market

Like most small communities Lucy had its own little food mart where locals could come by get freshly cut meat from the butcher and purchase the needed groceries for the week. Lucy was no different. The Lucy Food Market was located on Main street west of the rail road tracks that ran through the community. The market was a simple little store that was painted white on the outside with a red roof. In front of the store there were always the most ragged, most tore up, chairs I had ever seen. Inside was laid out like your typical grocery store with a single register at the door.

I was probably around 7 or 8 years old before my mom and dad first let me ride my bike by myself from our house on Willowbrook to the store on Main Street. Now this was no short ride. It was a good mile or so, but on a bike it was always an adventure. We had to take Lucy road to get there which was always a pretty dangerous road to travel because of its downhill sharp curves. In addition, Lucy Rd was the main fairway through the community making it the most traveled. Nevertheless the boys and I would make a trip to the store as many times as we could. Who are the boys? I guess now is as good as time as any to introduce them. My best friends were Mike and Stevie. They each had younger siblings but it was mainly the three of us. We did everything together including hanging out at the food market.

We would each gather up as much change as possible, straddle our sturdy steeds, and ride off as fast as we could to the food market. I will never forget the wind blowing in our face, dodging every pothole, and jumping every stick. Once we turned on Lucy road you could get up enough speed that once you hit the downhill slope, you could coast for almost forever before the uphill trek. When we got to the store we would lay our bikes down on the gravel parking lot (kickstands were for sissies) and march into the store. Mr. Mike would always either be at the register, or in the back cutting some fresh steaks. If he was in the back he would always come up to greet us in his blood-covered apron. The $1.00 or so change we gathered was just enough for a yoo-hoo, lemon sours, and maybe a candy bar. We would pay the man and make our way under the big oak tree that shaded the store. We would sit under that tree for hours it seemed just talking about anything and everything.

Now we always made sure we had at least one coin left over, even if it were a penny. After stuffing ourselves with sugar, we would walk over to the train tracks that ran aside the store. Placing our ears on the tracks, we could get an idea of when the next train was coming through. We would take our coins lay them on the tracks and wait for the next train to make its debut. No matter how immature, juvenile, or illegal for that matter, it was there was always something about a massive locomotive demolishing American currency. Once the train had passed, we would run to the tracks, still fiery hot from the friction of the wheels, and kick our what were coins off. It never ceased to amaze me how shiny it made them. You would think that we would save the smashed currency for keep sakes, but we just threw them in between the tracks and let them be.

Mr. Mike sold that store years later to a friend of ours Mr. Ian who ran it for many more years to come. Today I believe it is a print shop of sort. Regardless of what it has become I still drive by and see my, Mike, and Stevie's bikes lying on the ground next to those pitiful chairs in front of the wonderful Lucy Food Market.

-Steve Childress