2.3.01
Sat. 11:05 am
"Back in the Day" by Morgan Young
"Back in the day," towns like Kokomo had a handful of locally owned drug stores; not superstores, but drugstores. And if you wanted, they'd even deliver to your home, if not birthing the phrase, at least defining the words, "customer service." And odds were there was at least one drugstore that was wrapped with solid orange signage with dark blue lettering that had the word "Rexall" preceded by some guy's last name; some guy you knew. The other day on my way to work driving down Markland Ave., (a street that back before my day, had a trolley track down the middle of it) I drove past the last local drugstore in town; one that years before had been trimmed in orange and blue. I saw men with a giant auger making way for a new orange on white CVS sign that was to hang conspicuously out of place. It looked more like a bunch of guys setting a tombstone to me. Perhaps for them to have waited until dark to slink back with lanterns would have been more appropriate.
I was born in '64, and as far back as this mind can recall, there's always been a Moore's Pharmacy on the corner of Markland and Courtland Aves. It was on a corner lot with a Marsh Market; not a supermarket, but more like a community market where people from blocks around shopped. "Back in the day," grocery stores were modest spaces with parquet-patterned floors, boufant-hair-doed cashiers and yes, elevator music. I can still remember the Gumby green Marsh sign that shot up out of the building with the red neon-lettered "Marsh." Marsh and the Moore's Rexall Drug shared the corner lot and made an "L" out of themselves.
My earliest recollection is from the front vinyl bench seat of my parent's car. It had a hard cold sharp dashboard and a steering wheel bigger and slicker than ours today; metal-trimmed triangle vent windows, and for my size, all the space of a small apartment. There was enough room for me to nearly stand laying my head on the hard dashboard looking up at the drugstore. The drugstore was wrapped around the top with the signature dark blue on orange Rexall signage, but most interestingly to me were the countless bulbs that hung just under it; little three inch clear drop down bulbs were lined up at attention and each took its turn running down the line. It looked more like what we've come to see over a stand selling elephant ears or lemon shake-ups in the swelter of August fairs.
My 2-story elementary school, Palmer, sat across the street from Moore's. The years where my classroom was on the back side of the school afforded a near constant view of the world of commerce handle by the L-shaped stores. Any time I got to cruise the candy isle at Moore's was the big time. Of course even then, I was a creature of habit. If I had 15 cents burning a whole in my little jeans the choice was almost always nearly the same: the red, white and blue Three Musketeers Bar. So much candy, so little time.
Over the years the Marsh moved out to become a "super market." And so Moore's, the little drugstore grew up to adopt its space. It seemed as I grew up, so did Moore's. It even survived a horrible fire, operating out of a doublewide trailer for a time.
I used to look forward to stopping in to see the three musketeers, but in adulthood I stopped in to see friends that worked there. The pharmacist was no longer the firm but friendly authority figure, wearing a white neck-high smock buttoned at the shoulder, but a personal friend dressed more or less like me who'd come down out of the perch of the pharmacy to shoot the breeze, sharing war stories of raising our children. And as this store held on to delivering to those in the community who couldn't get out, my best friend headed up the fleet. Any time I popped in I took a quick survey above the isles for a certain quirky hat, because under it always laid my friend. I suppose I originally stopped in for three musketeers, but later came in for just two and eventually just one after my pharmacy friend left to own his own store, continuing the cycle.
Growing up as the son of a pharmacist I guess I was more accustomed to drugstores than I perhaps realized. Being in that environment and in conversations of people in the biz "talking shop" always reminded me of hearing my dad talk about it. So even though it hardly, if ever had any relevance to me, I didn't mind; it was a touchstone of a time "back in the day." My father passed a few years ago. And now Moore's Drug Store has passed too. And yes, there is a sadness in that for me. I never thought I would be the kind of person to lament the passing of "things," but as I get older, I realize that nearly everything in my life that has been in it for any considerable amount of time is a conduit of emotions, people and experiences. As I get older, I understand why senior citizens reminisce so much; because they can. Not that they can reminisce, but that they can reconnect with the people and experiences that have shaped them.
Moore's was just a place. It was a place to daydream about as I tried to make it through the last hour of 4th grade. And it was a place I'd been with my dad, that reminded me of a certain part of his life, and of our family growing up. It was a place I went to hang out with good friends. And now it's a place that stops with me; my children won't understand what I've written, perhaps until they get old enough to understand all the emotion that goes with phrase like, "back in the day."
