5 minute read
John Mitchell’s Store
Although no photos of John Mitchell were available for this article, illustrator Isabel Humphreys used her imagination to create this drawing of Mitchell and writer Gordon Batten enjoying a visit over ice cream.
Me ories of John Mi hell’s s ore
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Stor y & Pho
Ill ustration tos Gordon Batten
Isabel Humphreys
Several years ago, I stopped to take a picture of an old dilapidated building in Hallsboro. As I gazed at the site with awe and respect, I imagined lives and events that had happened there in years gone by. It seemed as if this old piece of the past was desperately hanging on, waiting for recognition and appreciation before its final demise. “If only this old place could talk,” we always say.
This wasn’t just some old abandoned building waiting to fall down or to be torn down and forgotten. For me, it was the home and store of a God-loving, hard-working family of Mitchells.
John Mitchell was proud of his store and he appreciated his many customers who shared their stories with him as they passed through with the news of the day.
It was a pillar of the community. The structure was built of red heart-pine timber, cut from the nearby forest, sawed and finished by the local sawmill. Due to its close proximity to the main east/west road (now old U.S. 74/76), the railroad, the depot, the sawmill and Pierce & Company, the store became one of Columbus County’s most important trade centers. I had the honor and privilege to meet this legendary old gentleman, John Mitchell, when I was just 4 or 5 years old, back in 1937 or 1938. My daddy had sold him some chickens and it was now time to deliver them so we loaded up our mule-powered wagon with crates and crates of live chickens. We then made the three-mile pilgrimage to Hallsboro, the center of the universe for me. My Uncle Jappie Batten enjoyed telling people that we Battens were from the “backwoods of Bogue Township.” Once inside the store, I became completely overwhelmed at what I saw. It was like walking into a Sears & Roebuck catalog. Seeing all the timeless treasures led to the usual, “Daddy, can I have this?” and “Daddy, can I have that?” which led to the usual “No, no and no.” Reminiscing, I realize that the most valuable treasure was the wagon trip with my dad, on which we “men folks” laughed and talked and just enjoyed each other’s company. I was soon to discover the store’s real treasure: a wonderful thing that the good Lord has blessed us mortals with ice cream. Real, store-bought ice cream. I was overjoyed with my cone of this tasty goodness, and I sure let it be known — maybe a little too much. As I continued to rave and carry on about the ice cream, Mr. John latched the chicken crate lid; then he walked over to me and gave me a very stern and disapproving look.
Suddenly, fear set in and it dawned on me that this might be a good time for me to shut up and sit down. Daddy was watching, but said nothing. He knew I was about to learn a valuable lesson about Spring & Summer 2020 | 954 | 41
All that remains of John Mitchell’s store in Hallsboro.
misbehaving in a public place.
Mr. John’s black leather wedge-shaped cap, with the leather-covered button in the center, made my fears complete. When he put his big hand on my shoulder, I became absolutely sure that I would face the same fate as the chickens. Mr. John said, “Son, I know that this ice cream is good because I made it myself this very morning!”
He then took a deep draw on his “trademark” cigar, blew a huge smoke ring, nodded a sign of success to my dad, then gave me a friendly smile and a mighty fine, brag-worthy handshake.
Mr. John said to my dad, “Mr. Frankie, bring that boy back again sometime. He sure is good advertisement for my homemade ice cream.” As Dad and I got back on the wagon to go home, Mr. John said, “Now y’all come back to see me again! You heah?” Understandably, final demolition of this old landmark was inevitable and justifiable, but I am still saddened by its absence.
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