Riding down the road through rural eastern North Carolina is riding through farmland. Somewhere between the deep green rows of corn and soybeans, I saw that my inexhaustable tank of gas, was trying to get my attention with the warning light, now flashing "I'm not kidding." Out there somewhere 40 miles from home is no place to run out of gas. When what to my wandering eyes should appear but a country store with gas pumps. I stopped.
The sign on the roof said "JR's," plain and simple and no neon. The pumps out front called up a memory from childhood. Each pump served one customer at a time, and there was no place to put my credit card. I walked into the country store, where a woman sweeping, put down her broom and walked over. "Hey, how're you doing'? Can I help you."
"I guess I need to pay first, that tank out there by the blue car."
"Oh, it doesn't matter, whatever suits you."
I think I must have dreamed this. But I paid, and heeded her advice, "....you know you have to stop it yourself at $25. It doesn't cut off automatically."
I stopped it on the mark, moved my car and wandered on back inside. I had noticed that JR's had a grill, and someone was frying french fries. My stomach, was telling me that it was long past the noon work whistle, and my early morning raisin bran was long gone, and those fries smelled great.
"Are your burgers good," I asked. "Yeah, well we pat them out by hand, I guess so."
"Oh, please, I'll take a cheeseburger, lettuce and tomato, and some of those fries."
I sat down at one of the two booths in the back, located strategically between the bottled drinks and the motor oil. The woman up front returned to her sweeping.
The linoleum floor was old but clean, and while I waited for my burger I wandered through a wealth of old memories. This was the kind of place I had visited a million times when I was a kid. A stopping place for neighbors and people passing on the highway - most greeted by name as they came in. Unlike our convenience stores, this place was no quick in and out. When you see your friends, conversation happens.
Everything inside was comfortably worn. The shelves could have been there since the 50s, and they were snugly packed with anything and everything you might really need. Excluding the two poker machines tucked in the corner, this was the case. A man could pick up a loaf of white bread on the way home from the fields, or a package of diapers and maybe a Goody's, if it was that kind of day.
The burger soon arrived. Perfection. A nicely done hunk of real meat, crisp lettuce and juicy tomato on a soft, white bun. A pile of crisp, golden crinkle fries held up to a glob of Heinz, and for a while nothing existed but the pure enjoyment one gets from a perfect cheeseburger.
But then a farmer eased into the next booth, and, like I said, conversation happened.
I thanked the woman at the counter on my way out. "You were right; that was a good burger."
"Well, we are real glad you stopped by. Come back soon."
Back on the road, happy and well fed, I felt glad to have discovered JR's. This place is what I love about North Carolina. Good people, living well, welcoming to friends and strangers. Dare I say it? The way things used to be.
I'm glad it is still there. I hope to stop again sometime.
The sign on the roof said "JR's," plain and simple and no neon. The pumps out front called up a memory from childhood. Each pump served one customer at a time, and there was no place to put my credit card. I walked into the country store, where a woman sweeping, put down her broom and walked over. "Hey, how're you doing'? Can I help you."
"I guess I need to pay first, that tank out there by the blue car."
"Oh, it doesn't matter, whatever suits you."
I think I must have dreamed this. But I paid, and heeded her advice, "....you know you have to stop it yourself at $25. It doesn't cut off automatically."
I stopped it on the mark, moved my car and wandered on back inside. I had noticed that JR's had a grill, and someone was frying french fries. My stomach, was telling me that it was long past the noon work whistle, and my early morning raisin bran was long gone, and those fries smelled great.
"Are your burgers good," I asked. "Yeah, well we pat them out by hand, I guess so."
"Oh, please, I'll take a cheeseburger, lettuce and tomato, and some of those fries."
I sat down at one of the two booths in the back, located strategically between the bottled drinks and the motor oil. The woman up front returned to her sweeping.
The linoleum floor was old but clean, and while I waited for my burger I wandered through a wealth of old memories. This was the kind of place I had visited a million times when I was a kid. A stopping place for neighbors and people passing on the highway - most greeted by name as they came in. Unlike our convenience stores, this place was no quick in and out. When you see your friends, conversation happens.
Everything inside was comfortably worn. The shelves could have been there since the 50s, and they were snugly packed with anything and everything you might really need. Excluding the two poker machines tucked in the corner, this was the case. A man could pick up a loaf of white bread on the way home from the fields, or a package of diapers and maybe a Goody's, if it was that kind of day.
The burger soon arrived. Perfection. A nicely done hunk of real meat, crisp lettuce and juicy tomato on a soft, white bun. A pile of crisp, golden crinkle fries held up to a glob of Heinz, and for a while nothing existed but the pure enjoyment one gets from a perfect cheeseburger.
But then a farmer eased into the next booth, and, like I said, conversation happened.
I thanked the woman at the counter on my way out. "You were right; that was a good burger."
"Well, we are real glad you stopped by. Come back soon."
Back on the road, happy and well fed, I felt glad to have discovered JR's. This place is what I love about North Carolina. Good people, living well, welcoming to friends and strangers. Dare I say it? The way things used to be.
I'm glad it is still there. I hope to stop again sometime.
