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Small town grocery stores nowadays are very rare indeed,
But in simpler times they supplied a family's every need.
As a Hoosier lad, I worked in Mr L B Owen's Grocery Store,
In charge of absolutely nothing, but was given every rotten chore!

Poor Mr Owens was prone to go into a very ballistic state,
At the least of my many blunders - he could really get irate!
If I caused a crash of his neat display of vegetable soup,
He'd scream, "Stack it again, you incompetent nincompoop!"

It was a social club where neighbors met each Saturday night.
Men in overalls, women in calico - what a varied sight!
Ladies bartered with shrewd Mr Owens their eggs and butter,
While seeking bargains midst the narrow aisles and clutter!

Ah, but the sights, sounds and smells will e'er remain with me; 
The squeaky floor, the odor of onions, the fresh ground coffee,
The butcher wielding his cleaver, slicing orders to please,
Barrels of dill pickles, colorful fruits and wheels of cheese!

There wasn't a PA system blaring, "Cleanup needed on aisle four!"
Nor surly, gum-chewing cashiers - he would've shown them the door!
Even in my stumbling, bumbling way I tried to be of service,
But I suspect my feeble efforts made Mr Owens, very, very nervous!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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