The Honor System

There was no sign indicating that Frank Elliott operated a tiny store off his back porch. You either knew it was there or you didn't.

It was the size of a closet - a cooler filled with bottles of Orange Crush and ginger ice cream took up all of one wall and there was one counter above which Frank had hung a half dozen shelves and laid out Jersey Milk chocolate bars, Players Cigarettes and several jars of penny candy. His limited inventory appealed to the children and since he couldn't always be there, he kept a cigar box filled with coins within easy reach. You were expected to pay your way and make your change, all on the honor system. A small stepladder was kept behind the door for those that couldn't reach the shelves and woe to any child who didn't replace it - Frank's wife Thelma had once tripped over it and badly bruised her hip, an event she liked to replay for him on a daily basis. Keeping watch over it all was an overstuffed and ill tempered old tomcat who spent his time sleeping on the window sill and hissing at any child who dared approach him. It was said that he was there to enforce the honor system, that he could count out change himself and as he watched our every movement, his tail switched warningly, and a low growl, laced with hostility and menace filled the young customers with respect and honesty. He had never been given a name and we all thought of him as just THE CAT but always in capital letters.

There was hardly a better way to wind up a hot summer afternoon then a stop at Frank Elliott's store as we made our way home - we'd be fussed at for ruining our suppers, no two ways about it, but the sweet orange soda and the tart ice cream were worth it. We 'd cut across the Sullivan's fields, grass so high it was over our heads and so strong that it closed in after us, leaving no mark of our passing, and providing good cover for a quick game of tag.

The late afternoon breeze carried our laughter all the way to the ocean and beyond and we emerged from the waving fields just below Uncle Shad's back garden and just above our driveway. We'd run the rest of the way, downhill and at a fierce pace as the dogs woke and began racing toward us in welcome. My grandmother stands at the backdoor, one hand shading her eyes and smiling. Can Ruthie stay to supper? I yell and she nods and waves to us.

When I remember those days, I ache for one more summer, one more season of childhood and wild grass, freedom and ginger ice cream.