# Reminiscences



## KenOC (Mar 7, 2011)

A thread for oldsters, perhaps late at night and three sheets to the wind. Things used to be different.

At 8 or 10 I had a nice bike, freshly bought from a garage sale. Not yet that coveted three-speed, but not bad either. I lived in a sub-middling semi-rural area where some were kind of well off and some were less so. Nobody was “poor” except maybe Mrs. Heinemann, a hunchbacked old lady who lived with her cats in a tarpaper shack and who everybody thought was a witch. The word “poverty” wasn’t in the vocabulary and it hadn’t yet become the industry it is today.

Anyway, my parents would often dispatch me to Stroud’s Grocery, a small place about a quarter mile away, to buy what was needed for dinner. That was always good because other times they’d send me the opposite direction to Remson’s Grocery, a much grander place up on Remson’s Hill over half a mile away and a good climb to boot.

But again, I digress. At Stroud’s I’d gather up what was needed and take it up to the counter, where old Mr. Stroud with his heavy German accent or his wife would note it down and add it to our family’s tab. Then I’d put it in my basket and pedal home.

Every payday my father or mother would drop buy and pay our tab, and all concerned seemed happy. I don’t know whether there are places where business is done that way today.

Visited recently. Our house, Stroud’s, and Remson’s are all gone. Our road, which seemed so grand, has speed bumps every few hundred feet. I don’t know who else remembers how things used to be.


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## Pyotr (Feb 26, 2013)

I remember something similar with my family having a tab at the local grocery store.


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