The Corner Grocery Store

There were no such things as supermarkets when I was young. The housewives would walk each day (or perhaps every second day) to the grocery store then on to the butcher shop, the green grocer and finally the dairy to purchase the daily household food needs. ”Our” grocer was Mr Isadore Goldsmith, a short, rotund man with thinning hair, big ears and sad eyes who always wore a white apron and gold pince-nez spectacles.

The Corner Grocery Store

Gold letters on green painted windows

Proclaim for the world to be seen

“I. Goldsmith - Family Grocer “

But who knows what they really mean?

He’s a refugee from Lithuania

Least that’s what mother told me

And he’s come to this faraway country

To live and to work and be free

Quiet spoken and short of stature

Ruddy face, big nose and thin hair

He’s proud of his little business

And treats all his customers fair

He’s there each day at eight- thirty

Sweeps dust off the red polished floor

Takes the shutters down from the windows

Flings wide the brown painted door

Round his middle he ties a white apron

Dusts glass jars on the counter displayed

Counts change into the cash register

Issy Goldsmith is ready for trade

All day he weighs out white flour

Brown rice, refined sugar and beans

His shop may be small but he’s happy

Since it’s made him a man of some means

Sometimes he thinks of his homeland

Of the family and friends left behind

But if thoughts cause his eyes to go misty

They are quickly dismissed from his mind

If a customer’s fallen on hard times

And for much needed goods cannot pay

He books it till things have got better

Mister Goldsmith turns no one away

He knows what it’s like to be hungry

To have will but be without means

To struggle when things are against you

Yesterday that was where he had been

Look again at the green painted windows

At the words the gold letters proclaim

And maybe you will know for the first time

That there’s more, much more in a name