“Them Fellers Down At That Wind Chill Factory”
I always tried to stop at Potter’s Store whenever I was in the area and had the time to do so. It was just an old store, out in the rural area. Technically, it could be called a “country store”. The building was wooden. At one time in its history it had been painted white. With the passing of the years it had mostly faded and chipped away. It did not appear to have ever been a place that had sold gasoline or serviced vehicles. There were several remaining items that had once been in demand as hardware; now they might be called “antiques” and “collectables”. Sitting near the front of the store were several glass canisters that had at one time contained a selection of “penny candy” to tempt wishful children. An old “pop” cooler sat off to the side; rusting away as its purpose had long ago been served. A new, brighter colored one sat nearby, humming away. Adorning the walls were metal placards advertising such things as Double Cola, Brownie Drinks, RC, Nehi, Fanta, Moon Pies, and Borden’s Ice Cream (complete with “Elsie the Cow” smiling at you). The old wooden floors still creaked and cracked as folks walked over them. The interior of the building smelled stale, laced with a combination of dust, musk and mildew, and smoke from the wood stove. Hanging from the pressed metal ceiling were long forgotten “fly strips” and single light bulbs held in place by long electrical cords and operated by pull-strings. There were some grocery items on sparsely stocked shelves, some paper goods, and a few other items like boxes of long-stemmed wooden matches and pet food. The old building had a circle of cane-bottomed chairs around the stove. Obviously, the chairs were well worn from much use and the legs on the stove were well protected from rust by the accumulation of gallons spit from of chaws of tobacco. No doubt, there had been lots and lots of good stories that had been told by multitudes of story-tellers that had occupied the chairs and added to the spit collection through the years. There was a big porch on the front of the store, with a variety of sitting chairs and a porch-swing at one end. The porch, too, was a gathering place for folks with time on their hands and nothing better to do. Some folks often sat on the front-steps, if they had a mind to. All of this vast kingdom was ruled over by Woodrow and Tommy, his son.
Well, one afternoon in late November, or maybe it was early December (I do not recall exactly.) I stopped by Potter’s for a bit of refreshment. When I got out of my car I excused myself between the two older men that were sitting on the front steps, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun, and went into the store. I got my snack and visited with Woodrow for just a few minutes before heading out of the store back to my car. When I stepped out on the porch I overheard the two men on the steps discussing the weather. I stopped to listen for a minute. One of the men said, “It was 34 degrees at my house this morning. And, that old wind was blowing. It was airish. How cold did it get where you live?” The second one said, “Well, now you know my house is on the north-side of the ridge. So I get colder than you do. My wife said it was 29 degrees. That was around 9 o’clock.” The first one responded, “Yeah. You do get colder.” A few seconds passed before the second one said, “But do you know who I really feel sorry for?” The first one said, “No. Who’s that?” To which the second one replied, “It’s them fellers down at that wind chill factory. The weatherman said it was 24 degrees down there.” The first one said, “Man that is cold. What do you reckon they make at that wind chill factory anyhow?”
I zipped up my coat and snuggled my hat down own my head as I headed back to my car. My intent was to try to avoid whatever it is the wind chill factory produces.