Cash General Store - by Tricia Cassidy

Growing up in a refurbished 1950’s store could have been as awesome as it sounds, had “refurbished” meant more than a few added walls and carpets. In 1968, my father bought the abandoned property just east of Hwy 97 in Kelowna. The land was originally owned by an Italian couple who built the massive, white stucco, square structure to start a business; a store in the front, a bakery and home in the back, and a makeshift wine distillery in the basement. Large, stencil-like words stretched across the top width of the building which read, “Cash General Store.” My father had hopes of renting out the four dumpy suites built on the side. However, he did not have the means to upgrade the low quality facilities, so, with that came unreliable tenants, and more hassle than my father was willing to handle.

Our family eventually moved into The Cash General Store, in 1980, after my parents started to feel the squeeze that only four young children living in a small rented house could give. The store needed plenty of work. More work than my father was willing to finance. The original walls remained insulated with both wood chips and faulty wiring. The pipes never knew hot water, and the dugout basement had holes large enough to let in all of God’s wild and unwanted creatures -- mice, pregnant cats, and the occasional bird.

We were always embarrassed when friends found out where we lived. “You live in the big white house on Hwy 33? That’s so cool!” They had no idea how cool. It was cool in the summers, and freezing cold in the winters. We hated winter. We did our best to keep warm -- plastic on windows, blankets over doorframes, and layers of sweaters and socks. Extension cords ran like snakes from a few working outlets to the lucky rooms that got heaters. In the mornings we would huddle around the opened oven in the kitchen. The smell of cotton and rubber wafted up from the racks in the oven where our socks, gloves, and father’s work boots warmed. We fought over who got the next boiling pots of water on the stove, just so we could have a warm bath.

Our father had a decent job working at a packinghouse and my mother was a hairdresser, so it wasn’t like we were poverty stricken. Whenever we would complain and plead our case to move to another house, our father was quick to reply, “You should be content with what you have, there are people living on the street without a home.”

The best few winters were when our wood furnace in the basement worked. Heat would rise up, unthawing the old house. Nothing like a basic human need being met to warm one’s dignity.

*** This was a piece I submitted for a Canada writes contest.