Throw a Gate to the Wind
by J.G. Fabiano
The other day, my wife asked me to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy. Normally, I would have gone to the Rite-Aid at the Meadowbrook Shopping Plaza on Route One. I found out that they closed that one before the holidays. I had to go to the Rite-Aid next to Rick's IGA. Of course, the grocery store there hasn't been called Rick's IGA for many years. Once a name gets into my head it is very difficult to get it out.
The line at the pharmacy was remarkably long. In fact, I was told by some people in the line that there was at least an hour wait. Most of the people were grumbling about the situation. I don't know why they were upset about the delay. The Rite-Aid was the only show in a town. A town which is growing in leaps and bounds. Seeing the present and thus the future of my adopted town, I began to reminisce about how things were when I moved up to York almost 21 years ago.
I remember at least two pharmacies in town. I believe, one was called the Village Pharmacy and the other was called the Village Apothecary which used to be on the other end of the plaza I was standing in now. Waiting patiently in line, I noticed one of the older pharmacists was a man who used to own the Apothecary. His name was always Chuck to me. I never did know his full name.
I used to enjoy going to that store. Everyone always had the time to say hello and ask how your family was. They were never nosy. They were just concerned. I didn't mind waiting for my prescriptions because against the wall was a small lunch counter. I think it only sat twelve people but it was always immaculately clean and bright. I enjoyed ordering a cup of coffee or a coke. I usually met someone I knew there. If not I would go back to the pharmacy counter and talk with Chuck. Not too many years ago he asked me how my in-laws were. He knew them well because he delivered their prescriptions himself. I doubt if Rite-Aid ever delivers prescriptions. I assume they just don't have the time.
A few months ago I saw Chuck and told him that my father-in-law had passed away and that my mother-in-law was living in a home for the old. He didn't say anything right away. In fact, I don't remember him saying anything. I know he felt sadness because of the expression on his face. I do not know whether the sadness was for the loss of my father-in-law or for the passing of a memory. It was kind of like throwing a gate to the wind.
Still in line, I began to think of the many memories of York not too long ago. I remembered old Mr. Garfield on the beach. He never aged. He always looked like he did for the couple of decades I knew him. He also died a couple of years ago. Everyone does. My mind wandered to the "Budweiser Store" on Long Sands Beach. It was never named that. The store front consisted of a large plastic Budweiser sign. A sign that 20 years of winter could not blow down. To this date, all of my friends still call it the Budweiser Store even though the Budweiser sign was replaced years before.
So many memories flew through my mind's eye. Ya Ya's further down on the beach. They had the best fried doe I had ever had the privilege of eating. I don't think I ever bought it anywhere else. The old board walk on Short Sands which the storm of '78 made look like a child's game of pick up sticks. Parson's Market and The Ocean House Motel came to my mind right before it was my turn at the counter. There in front of me stood Chuck looking a bit older and grayer. All I could do was ask him whatever happened to our town? He didn't answer me. He didn't have to.
People must have thought the same about me and my family when I moved here from Massachusetts 21 years ago. When I was the goat-roper of my time. I moved here to give my new daughter a safe and wholesome life. I came here to give my family a "better future". I succeeded in doing just that. What right do I have to complain about some young people striving to have the same thing. But, what I don't understand, if these people are trying to get away from where they are, why do they insist in bringing what they are leaving behind, here? Then again there are a lot of things I don't understand.
Jim Fabiano is a free lance writer living in York, Maine