The store. I’m not weird enough yet to write about this one. Okay, I guess I can. The store is a great place. You can get stuff there. Not all of it, but, if you’re lucky, a good portion.
The store has been around for a long time. You can tell. I remember at least three different set-ups at the same store location over the long, fruitful years. The earliest one I remember seemed like something out of the 80s or 90s. That’s because it was. But always the same wonderful people whoever they might be.
I recall that as recently as the last time I thought about it, which is today, the store was for sale. The whole enterprise. A rich Asian dude’ll buy it, I remember thinking. It was the times. I don’t think that happened. But whoever it might be, if there might be somebody, now or then or whatever’s happening, hopefully there’d be reinvestment in such a fine space and the centre of things in town, not that there is a “town”. That’s just what we flaming fools call it sometimes for fun.
I can hear the Saturna Recreation and Cultural Centre calling me right now. Oh dear, I better get in line. The Saturna Community Centre’s on the phone too. I’m afraid to answer. I’m okay. We rodents understand. People have their ideas about where the centre lies.
There’s no doubt where the centre of the community is. Not as far as I’m concerned. I’m just trying to get some stuff. I’m aching to get it. There’s nothing happening around the burrow this afternoon except, of course, a little foraging, and I have to have this one. I’m in.
Sometimes the store doesn’t have what you’re looking for. Hey, that rhymes. It’s always devastating but you always get through it. It’s fine. There’s backup. I’m cool. He’s cool. She’s ecstatic.
I think about the store. And the parking lot. The wonderful atmosphere of emptiness and peace out there when you pull in and realize the store has closed and you blew it. And you’ll have to answer for it because you swore, and you knew, and there was no doubt in your mind, that the store is open until midnight weeknights and until at least 2 am weekends. And this is the result.
It’s a learning experience and you move on. You go when it’s open, you take care of it, and you head out, carefully skirting “Hound Hill” where the possibility exists you could be torn apart by wild, savage dogs. Statistically, you have to admit, it’s possible. You can’t get this anywhere else.
And right across the street, or road, or whatever it’s called, I know what it’s called, Narvaez Bay Road, ladies and gentlemen, I am not lost, is Fire Hall No. 1. You know that because there’s a sign. In big letters “No Parking.”
The practice putting green out front in crushed gravel. So nothing’s going to go wrong. You’ll be saved. That’s part of what it’s all about and why you keep coming back.
There’s no store more often then needed. Just the right amount. And there’s fresh coffee. It always reminds me of that line, “He liked coffee.”
He put ketchup on everything too. Good for him. Let’s not disturb the slumber of dreams that have died. There’s also things that were never achievable. It’s exactly why the store is the store. It’s here.
The store could be bigger and have more stuff in it, but then you’d be stuck on some other island where nobody goes anymore because it’s too crowded. You know the joke,. And there’s too much stuff. Ha-ha. And that’s a trade-off too painful to contemplate. You’re here. You might as well stay here.