Memories of Smalley’s Grocery
There’s a specific kind of magic buried in the memory of an old country store. If you grew up in rural America, you know exactly the smell I mean—a distinct mix of oiled wooden floorboards, cured meats, tobacco, and decades of community gossip. For me, that magic was a little place called Smalley’s Grocery. It sat right on Highway 43, nestled perfectly between the two signs that say “Samantha.”
By the time I started frequenting Smalley’s in the 1970s, its absolute heyday was already in the rearview mirror. The paint was a little weathered, and the shelves weren’t as packed as they probably were in the post-war years, but it was the beating heart of our community nonetheless.
The owner, Mr. Smalley, was one of the kindest souls you could ever meet. He operated on a simple philosophy: stock whatever the neighbors might need, and treat everyone like family. The crown jewel of his store was the meat counter. It wasn’t fancy, but if you needed a thick slab of bologna, some processed cheese, or a quick chat, Mr. Smalley was your man.
Of all the visits Dad and I made to Smalley’s, one particular afternoon stands out like it was yesterday.
Dad and I were gearing up for a fishing trip and stopped in to get our sandwich fixings. Dad wanted some souse meat (head cheese) for himself, and a few thick slices of bologna for me. We walked up to the counter and placed our order.
That’s when I noticed the store’s unofficial health inspector: a massive, long-haired tabby cat, dead asleep, stretched out comfortably right across the meat scales.
Now, in a modern grocery store, this would be a code-red emergency. But Mr. Smalley didn’t even break his stride.
He walked up to the counter, grabbed his heavy butcher knife, and gave the tabby a gentle, familiar pat on the rump with the flat of the blade to nudge it off the scale. The cat gave a lazy stretch and sauntered off. Then, without missing a beat—and without cleaning the knife or the scales—Mr. Smalley went right to work slicing up our lunch.
Dad didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word. In the 1970s, country store etiquette dictated that you just rolled with it.
We got our brown paper package, thanked Mr. Smalley, and headed out to the catfish pond. I’ll admit, my appetite for that bologna vanished somewhere between the cat hair and the unwashed butcher knife. But it didn’t go to waste—let’s just say the fish bit exceptionally well on bologna bait that afternoon.
Today, if you drive down Highway 43 through Samantha, you won’t see the storefront anymore. Like so many of the little stores that used to dot our rural roads, it has been replaced by an empty spot on the side of the highway, and the memories of the folks who used to walk through its doors.
The modern supermarkets we use now are bright, sterile, and strict. It’s definitely cleaner nowadays. But as I look back on that afternoon with my dad, the cat on the scale, and the bait that was supposed to be my lunch, I can’t help but smile. You just can’t buy character like that anymore.