Old general stores, once a staple in every community, have mostly become tourist attractions now. But the authentic ones in the South are still around in small towns off the beaten path.

They were almost uniformly white painted clapboard festooned with weathered and rusty tin signs nailed there over the years by ambitious salesmen advertising their goods: Coca-Cola, Red Man Chewing Tobacco, Martha White Flour, Sinclair Oil. Inside were oiled hardwood floors with high-traffic areas worn nearly black.

Wares would be groceries and sundries, penny candy and saltwater taffy for the kids, Barlow knives, brooms and shovels, hammers and nails, seeds, candles, kerosene, basic shoes and work boots, dog food, 12-gauge shotgun shells, .22 rimfire ammunition, and maybe some Oneida or Victor traps.

Lunch from the counter would usually consist of crackers and cheese or sardines or maybe a bologna sandwich along with hot coffee or a soft drink.

It was a bologna sandwich for me, taking a break from running a field trial in Kentucky on a cold and rainy November day.

I wandered to the back of the store where there was an old cast iron potbelly stove. Some were fueled by coal and others by hardwood, each with a unique aromatic character. A few chairs were scattered around the stove for the old men to sit on those cold and damp days and tell their stories of a bygone youth.

All of these men were in bib overalls, and the debate will never end whether Liberty or Key is the best brand unless you have railroad blood running through your veins, in which case it’s Roundhouse bibs.

By my dress — chaps over my jeans, whistles around my neck, etc. — the group guessed I was one of those pro dog trainers in town for the field trial they had read about in the newspaper. They invited me to take a seat and I was much obliged. I think they were both fascinated as well as a little mystified that anyone would pay someone else to train a dog, something each of them was quite capable of doing themselves.

General store social circles were composed of characters with genuine stories that could fill great books.

Some of the old-timers you would find by the stove wore fedoras from the ‘40s and '50s, and others wore ballcaps advertising “Purina Dog Food” or maybe “Coker Seed Company.” Some wore lace-up work boots and others would have on worn but polished black wingtip shoes, the same outfit they would wear to church on Sunday morning only adding a starched white shirt.


Their conversation centered on local events known to them and mutual interests. There was talk of the new high school quarterback and how they never thought this team could return to glory until he came along. They pledged to be at the game on Friday night unless the arthritis or gout keeps them from it. They all nodded knowingly.


Some, as this conversation goes on, would be whittling a piece of wood with their pocketknife, the shavings falling at their feet. Later in the day that pocketknife will find utility peeling an Apple or maybe cutting a plug of tobacco.

Being a general store social group in the South, most of these men would have been hunters. Maybe they were quail hunters with hardy rib-sprung English Pointers.

Others would be Coon hunters with high-voiced Walker or Red Bone hounds that they chased through the black nights following only the baying voices. They would know each dog by his voice and what each change in pitch meant.


And they will talk about those days.


One will tell of the best dog he ever had and how he once pointed two coveys of quail at the same time. Initially mad at him because he kept relocating his position when he was supposed to be rock solid, old “Sport” knew best. When he finally stopped, his continued head swinging was as if to say, There’s one on the right and there’s one on the left. And sure enough there was. Fortunately for the gentleman recalling this day, he has a witness sitting right beside him. His friend nodded in agreement and says: “I was there. Beats all I’ve ever seen.”

This story will be told over and over again and no one will ever tire of hearing it.


They will talk of the old guns they hunted with and one will stand and “ghost swing” his old Parker on an imaginary covey rise, recalling the balance and how well it fit him, proclaiming it “The Finest Shotgun Ever Made in America.” No one around the old stove will argue with him, although the virtues of the LC Smith, Baker and Model 12 Winchester will have their moment as well.


No matter. All these old shotguns are gathering dust in a corner and are swung in memory only. The arms that once hefted them and the eyes that once aimed them are now too weak.


But they will remember!


With luck, there will be an old dog with his back to the stove. It may be a Night Champion Coon Dog or may be a Field Champion English Pointer, but the spot would have been earned. The old men will grin when he is whining and running in his sleep, no doubt remembering his best hunt.

I had about an hour with that old Kentucky group that cold November day, and I knew I would be back. Whenever I find one of these old stores on a winter backroad, I stop and wander in to sit by the stove and knock off the chill — and pick up some timeless and priceless wisdom.