“Yo! Vic!”
I was startled in the rain. I keep to myself when I am down in the country, for the most part, though there was an animated conversation with The Russians about where Mr. Putin is hiding these days as Mattski replaced the hot water heater at his farm, and Biscuit the Wonderspaniel and Jack the Enormous German Shepherd looked on with mild interest.
That project was why I was by myself on East Davis Street in the rain. I had read in the Clarion-Bugle that Clarke’s hardware was going to shut down after 109 years of continuous operations. I felt bad. I equipped Refuge Farm mostly from the Big Box Lowe’s on the strip on the North Side of town, and had not visited the local institution.
Now it is going to be gone. So, a pilgrimage was necessary. The person who called my name was Junior, who used to work the counter at Croftburn Farms Market before she went down to Blacksburg to start college. She is a neat kid, and it was a pleasure to run into her.
“What are you doing here? How was the first year?” I asked.
She was bubbly as ever. “Fabulous! I am back for Spring Break. A week at home, but the snow made them cancel mid-terms, and it is going to be pure heck when I go back.” A young man emerged from the Raven’s Nest coffee house, she had gone to school with him, and it emerged that both were going back to school on Sunday, only he was going back to UVA down the road in Charlottesville.
Hugs around. I refrained, having got one already.
“What are you doing here?”
“A Clarke’s pilgrimage,” I said. “It is a one-of-a-kind place, and it won’t be here long. They say the Mason’s who own the building are interested in subdividing the ground floor and getting more rent.”
Junior pursed her lips. “We used to go there all the time when I was a kid. Claude Minnich took it over before I was born from George Clarke’s widow. It is supposed to be just about the way it was a hundred years ago.”
“Come on in. I want to see the place.” She laughed and came along, past the neat stacks of galvanized tubs, kid toys and wagons and old-fashioned items on the sidewalk in front of the place. Inside was a wild amalgamation of stuff.
I was stunned. Bins of nails, screws and bolts by the piece or by the pound. Chain and cable by the foot. Have your screens repaired while you shop. Stove pipe and elbows, pipe insulation, heat tape, saw blades, drill bits, levels. Their famous Meyer grass seed is perfect for Culpeper. Grow your own produce with their Meyer vegetable seed; (bagged by the pound or by the ounce). Quality garden tools: rakes, hoes, shovels, ax and ax handles, hose, watering cans, etc.
Fertilizers, insecticides, fungicides and soil conditioners. Bird seed and bird houses while you are here. “The birds will control the insects and start a great hobby for your family!”
Junior got bored and decided to take off, but I got a hug before she disappeared. Claude Minnich was presiding at the register with his wife and one of the five part-timers who know where everything is. “All advice, jokes and sociality, FREE!” said the hand-written sign. White Mountain hand-crank ice cream freezers (as well as Rival electric ones), apple parers, meat grinders, old-fashioned washboards, enamelware and meat slicers. Stainless steel cookware. Aladin oil lamps. Canning and freezing supplies of assorted sizes.
Galvanized tubs. Radio Flyer wagons. I got stuck in the Lodge cast-iron cookware aisle, a vast selection of chicken skillets and griddles on the offering, and I decided on a Lodge 6SK with a matching lid, and a copy of Chef John Folse’s Cast Iron Cooking, a historical collection of recipes from America’s geographic culinary regions.
Minnich was checking out a family who had an eclectic collection of items. I didn’t mind waiting, since it was part of the experience, and I had exchanged pleasantries with them already as they picked out two Lodge 14-inch chicken skillets with tops. They wanted the boxes, since one of them was going to travel back to school with the son, who wore an Amish-style black hat.
“Sorry you are closing,” I said. Minnich raised his eyebrows. “Time to retire, I guess. No way to sell the business, since all I have is the inventory and the good name.” He lifted a wooden rolling pin and called out the price to the woman at the cash register. “One husband trainer!”
Laughter all around.
“It’s pretty much a done deal,” he said, looking down the shaft of an axe handle. “I thought when the growing season was done would be a good time, but the Mason’s moved it up. Auction in June, maybe.”
Clarke’s carries the largest variety of seeds east of Harrisonburg, everything from peas to potatoes to parsnips. Natasha already is germinating her seeds to go in the ground as soon as the last frost is behind us, and I made a note to tell her about a change to get some historic stock.
I got my skillet and the cookbook, and felt good about tossing some revenue at the business, even if it is going away. I imagine I could have got the same pan from Amazon cheaper, but it is just too damn bad. Clarke’s is one of three historic Culpeper business institutions: Knakal’s Bakery up the street and Baby Jim’s Snack Bar on Main heading north out of town being the other two. And, according to the Clarion-Bugle, it is the second oldest business in the town behind the newspaper itself.
I thanked Claude for his service to the community. “Come back for the auction,” he said with a smile. “Never know what you might get at a steal.”
“God willing, I will be there, Sir.” I said, and hefted the heavy bag with my fry pan. The way I look at it, there is always room for more cast iron cookware or an Aladdin lamp for when the power goes out.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303