closing time

For our second date, the future Mrs. Pincus took me to her parent's store in the rural town of Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania. Gilbertsville was a place that time had forgotten. Just an hour west of Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country, Gilbertsville was a tiny farming community inhabited by characters from a John Steinbeck novel — folks that can only be accurately described as "salt of the earth." The men were weathered and grizzled, with far less than the standard adult issue of teeth. Most were clad in well-worn overalls caked with and stinking of farm animal excrement. The womenfolk were meek and reserved, dressed as though they were the stand-by female model for Grant Wood's "American Gothic." And, for some reason, they cowered behind their spouses. This was 1982 and when these people said they were headed to "The City," they meant Reading, Pennsylvania. They'd never set foot in Philadelphia. You could get murdered there.

This populace comprised the customer base of my future in-law's store — an amalgam of hardware, housewares, novelty items and anything on which my father-in-law thought he could turn a quick profit. The store was one of many that occupied Zern's Farmer's Market, a weekend-only commerce center that was a regular gathering place for the aforementioned locals for almost a century. Alongside the store was an array of vendors that offered fresh produce (well, fresh at least until early evening on Saturday), unusual configurations of processed meat identified on hand-written signs by angry-sounding Teutonic names, prepared food (like the popular chicken gizzards in a Styrofoam cup of, what appeared to be, motor oil), as well as sturdy, double-stitched clothing suitable for plowing the fields and a wide assortment of antiques, curios, collectibles and what-nots. But Zern's was more than just a place to buy things. It was a social outing, along the lines of a square dance or a barn raising. (I'll have you know that I refrained from saying "cross burning" as a second example, so I'm pretty proud of myself.)

Mr. and Mrs. Hardware
in their natural habitat.

How am I so intimately familiar with Zern's Farmer's Market? Well, by my third date with Mrs. P, I was working there. That's right. This naive kid from Northeast Philadelphia, who got lost outside of the comfortable boundaries of the city limits was now employed as a stock boy under the tutelage of my soon-to-be father-in-law. In addition to a concession in Zern's Farmer's Market, my father-in-law owned a stand-alone store directly across the street from Zern's that was open an extra day longer than the market. Here he sold, what he referred to as "the serious hardware" — professional-grade trowels and hammers and other implements of construction with which I was not familiar at the time but would come to be well acquainted. Despite years of experience in other retail establishments, I was not permitted to operate the cash register. That privilege was enjoyed by only one person and his name was emblazoned on signage throughout the store. Instead, I was relegated to schlepping cartons of merchandise from the storage area — a large, dirty, poorly-ventilated barn-like structure that had been attached to the existing large, dirty, poorly-ventilated main building. Boxes were piled high and my job was to bring them up to the selling floor, empty them and, at my father-in-law's behest, make all of the contents fit in a space that was way to small for proper accommodation. In the summer, during which I spent many a weekend stretch, the heat was stifling. In winter, the building could be used to keep meat from spoiling. Days, no matter what the weather, were grueling marathons that monopolized entire weekends, including the hour-long ride to and from Gilbertsville. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for his generosity, affording me employment while I sought a job in my chosen field. I just have a funny way of showing my gratitude. 

On Fridays and Saturdays, the logistics of the operation were slightly altered, as my future spouse and her mother would come to open and run the stand in Zern's. I would work with my father-in-law at the hardware store across the street, the two of us coming up much earlier in the morning. While he was a sweet, pleasant man at home, he would succumb to a lycanthropic transformation somewhere around Schwenksville when he would be come a ruthless martinet bent on uncontested ruling over his retail empire. On Saturday evenings, I would head over to Zern's to help Mrs. P bring things to a close for the day. Those were my favorite times. First, I was sprung from the sometimes unreasonable demands of my father-in-law. Second, I got to spend time with my fiance (Mrs. P and I would marry in 1984). We would steal away from the "satellite stand" for a few minutes (this is probably the first time my father-in-law knows about this) and walk thorough the market to see what we could see. Sometimes we'd wander outside to the weekly flea market, where a glance in any direction looked like a living Dorothea Lange photograph. Here we would peruse the unusual (and unrecognizable) items offered for sale. Then we'd quickly rush back, grabbing a soft pretzel or a bag of old-fashioned penny candy, just in time to start the task of closing up the stand for another week.

For twenty-five years, I worked at Zern's. In my younger days, I fearlessly scaled rickety shelves to retrieve that one elusive gizmo that was missing from a customer's life. I was there to help bust through the back wall when we expanded our selling space. I assisted in the arrangement and promotion of special sales when my wife slowly, but diligently, transformed the one-time hardware/housewares store into a treasure trove of pop culture collectibles, bringing in cool memorabilia to join the (ever-shrinking) mix of screwdrivers and extension cords. Mrs. P creatively spearheaded an annual Coca-Cola Festival, offering more Coke branded items than you knew existed. During the summer, she turned the store into an indoor beach party, displaying everything needed for a rural summertime soiree. She single-handedly introduced "Mardi Gras" to the heretofore sheltered population of Gilbertsville.

Throughout my nearly three decades of employment, we would regularly hear customers tell us that Zern's was closing... for good. Every weekend, a growing number of shoppers — many of whom had it on good authority* — would explain confidential details of the fate of the venerable market. "Oh yeah," they would smugly cluck, cocking a thumb confidently around a faded overall strap, "this place was sold to [insert local land developer here]. I heard they're gonna tear the place down and put up a [bowling alley, amusement park, car wash, supermarket, housing development, apartment complex, golf course, multiplex movie theater]." Yep, every week, according to our loyal customer base, Zern's was a goner and would soon become any number of decidedly un-Zern's-like domains. I came to learn that Gilbertsville was "ground zero" for wrong information. They never got anything right. But, that was part of the charm. I suppose.

A fond(ant) farewell

In early 2007, my wife's family made the difficult, but realistic, decision to close their store in Zern's. It was a tough decision, but with many contributing factors (declining sales, my in-law's advancing age, a fucking Walmart within spitting distance), it was the right decision. We mounted an almost year-long liquidation sale — slashing prices, moving merchandise, clearing shelves and wondering what we would do with our weekends. Just after Thanksgiving of that year, my father-in-law contracted an auctioneer and the remaining merchandise was practically given away for pennies on the dollar. (My father-in-law was not happy with the auctioneer or his meager results. He still grumbles about it to this day.) At the end of the day, we closed up shop for the very last time. We left the Zern's parking lot like Lot's wife fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah, never looking back for fear of being turned to pillar of fasnachts.

And then we never had to go to Zern's again. Mrs. Pincus remained in frequent contact with some former employees, as well as fellow merchants (some of whom are regular readers of this blog and may have been understandably offended by many things I've written, especially in the first, second and a little bit of the sixth paragraphs of this entry). Mrs. P has even returned to Zern's for a visit on several occasions. However, she went as a solo. I have not been back since the day we closed our doors. Recently, though, through my wife's Facebook page, I have been privy to the same rumor-mongering about Zern's that I heard in the past. Misinformation for the electronic age. But, this time, uncharacteristically, they got it right.

Zern's announced it was closing... for good.

In a lengthy Facebook post, the current owner cited a number of reasons for the proposed September 2018 closure, but the real reason is: Zern's is a relic. A dinosaur whose concept has long overstayed its welcome. A folksy, genial, single-proprietorship retail operation cannot survive in the world of big box mega-stores and internet shopping. It just can't. Even in a place like Gilbertsville that's several years behind the trends. The business is offered for sale, but I doubt there will be any takers. If there are, it will be to level the structure and build one of the previously mentioned options about which customers had speculated.

Do I have have memories of Zern's? Sure. There was no place like it. It was like a visit to Twilight Zone's Willoughby every weekend, if the citizens of Willoughby attempted to "jew down" the merchants. Do I have fond memories of Zern's? Few. It certainly gave me fodder for stories that made it to blog entries over the years. Will I ever stop talking about and thinking about Zern's once there no longer is a Zern's? 

Never.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* he said sarcastically 

farm livin' is the life for me

I grew up and currently live in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Philadelphia, situated in the southeastern corner of the state, is the fifth largest city in the country. On the other side of Pennsylvania is the industrial city of Pittsburgh. Known for its steel industry and its rabid allegiance to football, Pittsburgh is the sixty-second largest city in the country. The 305 miles that separates these two metropolises is comprised of, what we big-city dwellers affectionately, though disparagingly, refer to as "Pennsyltucky."

This past weekend Mrs. P and I, once again, ventured out to see how the other half lives. We hopped on the mighty Pennsylvania Turnpike and, a mere 90 minutes later, found ourselves in Harrisburg, the state capital, and the perennial site of the Pennsylvania Farm Show, The show is a sprawling exhibition covering 24 acres across eleven individual (though connected) buildings. It is the largest indoor agricultural event held in the United States... and it's right here in Pennsylvania! Not Alabama. Not Kansas. It's here in a state that fought on the winning side of the Civil War.

Hay!

We entered the aptly named Pennsylvania Farm Show Complex and Expo Center and were immediately greeted by a huge display of hay and the unmistakable smell of cow shit. I began to snap pictures like a tourist at the Eiffel Tower. I moved in for a closer look and I began to ponder the subtle differences between First Place hay and Honorable Mention hay. I decided that I am not qualified nor would  I never understand the nuances having never actually grazed.

Mrs P and I moved through the massive complex, marveling at the amount of people that this show draws. And how many of those people are clad in camouflage. (Most.) We saw enormous displays of apples, potatoes, honey, pumpkins and many more farm-related commodities. While Mr.s Pincus perused the various arrangements of prize-winning baked goods and handicrafts, I consulted a schedule of events for the day. I didn't want to come all this way and not see at least one animal. I noted that the celebrated Draft Horse Hitched Competition was coming up in a few minutes. Having no idea what that was, but excited just the same, I hustled my spouse through a maze of buildings towards the area. We passed dozens of pens of rabbits, stalls of immense cows and some other animals which, upon first glance, I could not identify. We planned to investigate and give them more attention on our way back, but, for now, we didn't want to be late for the 10:30 showing of whatever it is that draft horses do... or are.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course.

We found seats in the arena. We sat and watched as a tractor raked and primped the dirt for the morning's presentation. The air was filled with the sounds of piped-in twangy guitar and the smells of some undetermined animal excrement. As the place filled to minimal capacity, we noticed that we were the only ones not appropriately dressed for a day of deer hunting. Suddenly, the PA crackled to life and, before a single hoof trampled the dirt, we were instructed to stand for a recitation of the Star Spangled Banner. Many eyes grew misty by the time the "bombs were bursting in air," and when the "home of the brave" was proclaimed, we were ready to begin. A rumble began below us and a team of six oversize equines burst into the arena, rousing clouds of dirt with their hulking hooves. The team pulled a shiny, lacquered wagon with the driver snapping the reins in a swaying, but authoritative, fashion. A second team soon appeared, followed by another, until six nearly identical assemblages were encircling the arena floor. Judges observed with cocked heads, making mental notations, as the teams altered their gaits from full gallop to lazy trot. After a time, a winner was announced to thunderous applause. I had no idea what I had just witnessed.

We made our way back to the livestock area to get up close and personal with animals outside of the realm of cats and dogs. We saw cows. (Those we recognized.) The alpacas took a bit longer to identify, but thanks to Mrs. P's numerous viewing of the original Dr. Doolittle and her familiarity with the Pushme Pullyou, we put two and two together, The aisles — strewn with straw, feed and God knows what other organic material — were narrow and packed, as visitors gawked and pointed at what was essentially their next meal. Yessir, no farm show is complete without its homey food favorites.

Say "cheese!"

Just beyond the livestock was a football field-sized room jam-packed with Pennsylvania-specific food vendors. The offering ranged from deep-fried mushrooms to chocolate covered bacon to fresh vegetable soup. There were sandwiches filled with beef brisket, pulled pork, fried chicken, fried clams and pretty much anything that could fit into a vat of boiling hot oil. Mrs. and I opted for a thin wooden stick skewering four deep-fried cubes of cheese. Mrs. P got a highly-recommended milkshake, as well. ("Deep-fried" seemed to be the preferred method of food preparation, although the milkshake was not fried, but I'm sure it could've been.) As we wound our way through the crowded food section, seeking an open table to momentarily stand and eat our afternoon snack, we watched a woman angrily toss a full, untouched, pleasantly garnished Bloomin' Onion into a plastic trash container. I hoped that was not a commentary on the quality of all of the food. We eventually found a table. The cheese was good and we didn't throw any of it away.

Outta my way! Moo!

I checked the schedule and saw that the Angel Food Cake contest was about to begin. We rushed over to the judging area, where a dozen or so "Aunt Bee" look-a-likes fidgeted anxiously as the judges were introduced. It was announced that there were a record 83 entries in this year's contest and each judge got a personal introduction. "This here is Mary Jo Fasnacht. She represents the Egg and Dairy Council of the Eastern District of Northwestern Luzerne County.... and she can eat the fuck out of an angel food cake." The judges looked over the five tables of elaborately-decorated cakes. I convinced Mrs. P. that we should move on, not wishing to watch each of these judges eat 83 pieces of cake. That was not my idea of Sunday afternoon entertainment. (And this is coming from a guy who will watch a Gilligan's Island marathon on TV.)

Fate.

We took another stroll through the livestock area, where our walk was interrupted by a line of cows being led to (I hoped) some sort of bovine competition and not just towards the kitchen facilities.

The schedule of events promised a rabbit hopping contest would take place at 5 pm. I checked the clock on my cellphone and saw it was only 2:30. I couldn't imagine waiting another two and a half hours to watch some rabbits hop. I decided to just watch a You Tube video of the event when I got home. The schedule also listed the hopping event would be immediately followed by a rabbit meat judging contest. Sometimes there are no second chances at hopping. It's a good thing that rabbits can't read.

Completely content with our brief glimpse into a heretofore uncharted culture, my wife and I headed back to the big city where milk and eggs come from a store. And butter is something you spread on bread, not an art supply.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com