The Corner Shop
Words by Liam Horgan.
Holding my grandad’s hand, I tentatively walk inside, my eyes adjusting to the light. I hear the hum of refrigerators. I look around at the dimly lit shop, taking in all the treats in store for me. What will be today’s treat? I look up at my grandad who tells me to take whatever I want. My eyes immediately dart to the plastic bag of sweets on the counter. Cola bottles, gummy eggs, strawberries, and that awful lump of liquorice stared back at me. My treasure had been found.
There’s something about old corner shops that fills me with an intense nostalgia. As a child it was always a delight to go across the road to my grandparents' local shop for a treat. Loop the loops, Twisters, candy necklaces, Calippos, Animal bars, Kinder eggs, you name it and the shop had it. I think I sampled possibly every product from the ages of five to twelve. Each journey providing a new treat to eat. Being so young I would always be accompanied by an adult, mainly a grandparent (or sometimes both). My grandad was a man known for his sweet tooth, although he preferred the hard-boiled kind (something which I naively viewed as an ‘old persons’ sweet). The shopkeeper, a neighbour of my grandparents, would always smile and welcome us to the shop. She was always happy to see us and we were with her.
Looking back, I probably wouldn’t find the shop of my youth that impressive. I’m sure it wasn’t very big, and the setup was basic but practical. However, as a child a trip to the shop was always exciting. Sometimes I would be sent as a representative of the grandchildren, an honour as an ‘older’ cousin. Trying to remember and find what people wanted was the most stressful thing I faced that day. Other times we would all go, a mini army of young children each looking for their special treasure. Our trip out would barely last ten minutes but these ten minutes were crucial. Shelves would be raided, refrigerator doors slid open, and hungry eyes would devour the delicacies on offer. Whatever we got was usually divided between us, the spoils of our adventure shared, although nobody ever took the lump of liquorice.
They don’t make them like they used too.
One day the shop closed its doors. It wasn’t all that surprising. The recession had hit small businesses hard, and the owners had gotten elderly. Bigger shops had moved closer into town, with franchises becoming the new local stores. With the bigger shops came flashier products. It wasn’t hard to see why the smaller stores struggled. Still, it was a shame to see the place go. I could tell you that it felt like a friend had left me, or that I felt grief, but that would be an exaggeration. If anything, the shop closing felt like a final chapter of my youth. I was older now and had my own money to spend, I didn’t need to be accompanied across the road and I didn’t need a sugar rush to keep me going. Picking the right sweets for everyone was no longer the biggest stress of the day and so the shop trips came to an end.
As an adult I’ve come to love small shops. It’s always a treat to see an independent shop up and running. Often the elderly shopkeeper is still there, nodding at me as I walk inside. The shops are rarely well-stocked and sometimes barely surviving but I enjoy them nonetheless. I can’t really describe why I have an intense feeling of nostalgia when I’m in a small local shop. It’s not that I miss the sweets. My wallet and teeth are much better off. It’s not that the atmosphere is amazing, after all it’s just a shop. Yet there is something there that I just like. If I stop and think about it, I don't think it’s the shops that I miss, I think maybe I just miss going on a little adventure with my grandparents.
Regardless, like the treats we used to get, I’ll treasure the memories for as long as I can.
