Paper, Plastic, or Box?

Andrea Novak, Chester Public Schools

Traveling along Highway Two near Montana's northern border on a cold winter night, it is hard not to feel lonely. But finally the winding road rounds a corner and the lights of a small town come into view. One set of white lights is brighter than all the others. The huge, glaring white lights might make one think of a UFO landing strip but they mark a second home to me. They belong to my family's grocery store.

I don't stop there tonight, though, because my father is at home. When I come in the door, I see his Rockport shoes tossed on the white carpet. A sock trail leads to the old, over-stuffed, yellow chair where he lounges

"How was the store today?" I've asked this question since before I really understood what I was asking, but was merely repeating a question I'd heard thousands of times before.

My father, Mike, and mother, Margaret, moved to Chester, Montana on June 18, 1979, exactly three years before my birth. On July 1, 1979, my dad and mom took over ownership of County Fair IGA, one of the local grocery stores. He then changed the name to Mike's IGA.

Looking through family pictures, I come across snapshots of my brother and me at the store wearing some sort of costume for one of the "Spectaculars" that the store puts on for promotions. One of the earliest photos was taken when I was six months old, wearing a checkered bonnet and dress for a western theme. When I was four I walked around in a German costume passing out apples during our community Harvest Festival. I remember the smiling faces and my little girl delight at being special enough to walk in a parade.

After a long day at work my father would sometimes bring home large, cardboard packing boxes. My brother and I would take them to the freshly-cut grass in our backyard and imagine away the evening and the many afternoons that followed. Sometimes we would play store-a place we already knew much about-but we did not yet quite grasp how closely intertwined with our lives that game was.

Now that I am sixteen, I spend more time with my father than I ever have. Every day during the summer he teaches me something new: how to deal with a difficult customer or how to put the correct amount of lettuce on a Subway sandwich. I look up at his bald head, his droopy, twinkling eyes, and feel happy. He has given all his time to this store to make a better life for our family, and now I can help with my own contributions.

Through the years my parents have remodeled and improved the business many times, adding new tills or more floor space. In 1995, they build on to the building.

In a town with only a thousand people, it can be hard to make a living, especially when the population is decreasing. My dad realized that something had to be done to draw more business, so he did market research. Because the store is on U.S. Highway Two, he hoped that tourists taking the scenic route to Glacier Park would find a store with clean bathrooms and a Subway sandwich franchise appealing.

This new, improved store is now the stop for all traveling sports teams on the Hi-Line. Basketball, volleyball, track, and tennis teams--even music groups--stop at the store. On Friday and Saturday nights after home basketball or volleyball games, my eighteen-year-

old brother and I go to the store and help out at Subway. It's not a question of if we should go help, but of how quickly we can get there.

As a young child I remember crawling onto the yellow counter helping the checker check out the groceries, hearing the beep and then the rattle of the till and the gossip between the red, IGA-smocked lady and the customer who always seemed to be her best friend. Sometimes, I would help the meat cutter cut the meat. The large cooler stood in the wall, strange and a little scary. I often thought about going into its meat-lined depths, but then thought better of it, too afraid of somehow getting stuck in there.

When I tired of exploring the rest of the store I'd always retreat to the "tree house," my mother's office, so named because it has steps up to it and is held up by large four-by-fours to save floor space. By the age of four I would sit at the extra computer desk and clutching a chubby crayon dutifully "work" alongside my mother.

These memories will forever be with me. The store has always been friendly place to go, a place where I would meet smiling faces before I knew their names. Now, when I work at the Subway or help box groceries, I know do know their names. I not only know their name, I like them.

After school my friends and I jump into my brother's two-toned 1979 Chevy Impala and chug up the long hill on Highway Two to what the town now refers to as "the Landing Strip," the store parking lot with its huge sign and gas pump islands. I walk into the store--the smell of baking bread fills my nostrils, the hum of the flourescent lights fills my ears, and I greet my favorite co-worker, Rhonda.

Rhonda has worked at the store since before I was born, along with my uncle and countless others. She was one of many people who played with me, scolded me when I got into something I wasn't supposed to, and taught me how to do things, such as make pizzas, ring up groceries, smile at customers and ask politely, "Would you like paper, plastic, or box?" In a way they were part of my family, along with every person that walked through the door.

Now I work alongside these same people. It feels odd at times, but I realize that I am growing too, just like the store has grown to meet the town's needs. The store is a center of life for the town. It is where kids go to hang out after games, where friends catch up after church on Sundays.

Some might think it odd to love a place that is built out of bricks, that holds annoying fluorescent lights, and which on occasion ruins fun activities planned with friends, but I love being at the store. On a bad day, one where teachers pile on the homework, coaches run the team extra hard, and friends don't see eye-to-eye, all I have to do is walk into the double-door entryway, see the first person in red and say, "Hey, how's it going?"

I am fortunate to meet and work with the individuals that make up our town. My family is there: the employees, my parents, the customers, and my friends. I'm home.

Essay of Place Issue
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