I remember riding in the car with my father; no seat belts, open windows, breathing in corn dust from the greening fields. His left arm is bare and resting on the heated edge of the window; his right hand steers casually, thumb hooked over the bottom of the wheel; streets and ruts.
Alone on Route 19, driving past the huge field of sunflowers in the forever sunshine, our destination is the old building on Main Street in Fillmore. As we enter the grey, sagging structure I still feel the splintered wooden flooring under my bare feet. It is a simpler time.
The ancient man managing the store and shuffling behind the counter, quietly makes our treats; forever faceless. I am too young to pay much attention to his ancient eyes.
Dad orders a chocolate coke and I work on a root beer float. He sips carefully, favoring upper gums stitched recently by a dentist. I wrap bare legs around the squeaky iron stool pole and balance carefully on the round seat. The store is silent. We are the only customers in here.
The building is dying. Even I know it as a four year old because the wood smells so, so old. I pay attention to the wood and miss the lines on the man’s silent face. The boards splinter my feet as we leave. The floor is cracking and sagging. I should wear sandals next time.
We ride silently back to Houghton, full of sugar and I hold my arm out the window, fighting the air and letting my hair whip wildly. My feet are filthy and I crawl over the hot seat into the back, lying on the floor, listening to the hum of the heated wheels on the tar.
It is a simpler time…
690 Saint Paul 