John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
Grocery stores have undergone a remarkable transformation over the past few decades. Most modern supermarkets are sleek, vast and brimming with an almost overwhelming selection. However, there are still pockets of the past scattered throughout our communities.
In the Charlotte region, most of our grocery stores are relatively new, reflecting the explosive growth the area has experienced over the past 30 years. And many older stores have been updated or renovated in the past decade. Yet, every so often, I stumble upon a true time capsule – an Ingles or Food King – that seems frozen in time, tucked away on the backstreets of a small town. These relics from a bygone era typically date to the late 1980s or early 1990s, clinging to the aesthetic sensibilities of that time with their omnipresent mauve color schemes and ubiquitous brass accents. The floors are covered in well-worn linoleum, and the shelves groan under the weight of products that have barely changed since their heyday. The meat counter is staffed by a seasoned employee who still uses a manual slicer to carefully portion out blocks of cheese and cuts of lunch meat and will slip you a pack of turkey necks if you ask. Even the cash registers have a vintage charm, with their mechanical keys clacking as the bagger places your purchases in sturdy paper bags.
Growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, my experience with grocery stores was quite similar. The local market in my tiny village, known as Hagel’s, was a far cry from the modern supermarket behemoths of today. No larger than a modern convenience store, Hagel’s nonetheless provided the essentials – fresh produce, a meat counter and a smattering of dry goods and canned foods. There were two check-outs, but I only saw one in use, helmed by the omnipresent LuEllen Krynock. That I remember the name of the check-out lady from my childhood says something about the store’s relationship with the community. While it was possible to subsist on the store’s limited selection, most residents, including my family, viewed it as a supplementary stop, a place to pick up a few necessities between more comprehensive trips to the Kroger in the nearby town of Port Clinton.
That original Kroger was itself quite different from today’s superstores. Occupying a mere 15,000 square feet, it managed to provide a reasonable variety of goods at prices my family could afford. I fondly recall the bottle returns lining the front wall and the gumball machines dispensing small toys and trinkets – simple pleasures that captivated my youthful imagination. However, nothing was memorable about the decor or the shopping experience; like most grocery stores of its era, it prioritized function over form.
In the mid-70s, Kroger unveiled a much larger store in the lot behind the original. Spanning an impressive-for-the-time 30,000 square feet, this updated supermarket boasted an in-store bakery, a deli and a vastly expanded selection of non-grocery items, including an entire aisle dedicated to books, magazines and school/office supplies. As a curious child, I was far more interested in browsing the shelves of paperbacks, magazines, pens and notebooks than accompanying my parents on expeditions up and down the aisles of flour, sugar and soap.
The additional floor space allowed the store to offer more unusual items, such as live plants, ethnic foods, and occasional displays of cookware or china. I remember that “serial purchases” became quite popular; the store would introduce a theme and gradually release various items featuring that design over weeks or months – plates, cups, serving dishes, placemats, cutlery and so on. I’m fairly certain that half the residents of Port Clinton owned the same tableware.
The new store also had a social aspect. The inviting decor – featuring warm colors like brown, orange and yellow, with a hint of a Western theme – promoted a more relaxed shopping experience. Because of this, we often ran into people my parents knew from work as well as teachers from my school. It might be an exaggeration to say that Kroger was “the place to see and be seen,” but it might have been the closest thing we had to a public square in those days.
Of course, Kroger wasn’t the only store in town. There was an A&P across town that I don’t believe we ever visited. I’m not sure why, but my parents seemed to have an aversion to the place. It wasn’t just brand loyalty; we would occasionally shop at Foodtown or Pic-N-Pay in Sandusky if we happened to be over that way. That A&P, as an aside, eventually became the Great Scot where my buddy Jeff worked during and after high school.
By the time Port Clinton welcomed its very own Foodtown supermarket in the late 1970s, I had outgrown the family grocery outings that had been a staple of my childhood. As a result, my recollections of that store are limited. However, I remember that it occupied a shared space with the Mr. Wiggs/Heck’s discount store, creating a convenient one-stop shopping destination offering the community a variety and ease that Kroger couldn’t match. The combination of grocery essentials next door to motor oil, televisions and blue jeans made it a go-to location for families looking to complete their shopping in a single trip. Indeed, the co-location of grocery and discount stores foreshadowed today’s Walmart, Target and Meijer superstores.
The evolution of grocery stores over the past half-century has been remarkable, yet it also raises significant concerns about homogenization and consumerism. While the modern supermarket provides unparalleled convenience and choice, it often comes at the cost of character and individuality. Just as those serial dish sets homogenized the tables of Kroger shoppers, corporate megastores threaten to diminish the uniqueness of our food culture. While small-town markets and old-school stores remind us of a time when shopping for food was a more localized experience, the reality is a handful of giants control food distribution and effectively dictate what we eat. The push for efficiency and uniformity can turn our shopping experience into a rote act of consumerism rather than a celebration of community and tradition.