Old mom and pop stores are gone!

Most young kids in the sixties here would save pennies, nickels and dimes for ice cups, rice cakes (potu), donuts, and a tiny plate of red rice and Chamorro Steak (Spam battered and fast-fried in tomato ketchup) during school lunch breaks or after class.

Those days, a quarter can fill and refill your empty belly in grand style. Yeap, there were mom and pop stores on the way to and from school where you can buy them. And when friends offer you some, you politely pass it saying you’re full. Yeah, a belly full with chlorine-laden tab water.

Young kids worked for everything they had. I remember sweeping and mopping my godmother’s little mom and pop outlet for a nickel. I’d guard that nickel with my life what after sweating through a large wooden floor. At least, the nickel had me looking forward to another ice cup or donuts the next day.

Gee, a nickel in pocket was troublesome, too. I mean, as I approach the store it’s a question of an ice cup or donuts. I never knew that donuts and ice cups involve a serious decision. Of course, with a nickel one can’t get that far. So it’s either one or the other but never both.

Then I’ll walk home slowly relishing every bite or ounce of it. And I guess when you come from a very poor family, everybody at home knows when you’ve eaten something different: Your lips are red from that strange dye they mix with sugar and water to make ice cups or donuts fried in Crisco oil. And don’t even brave bringing home any of it. The equally hungry siblings at the door turn into a piranha welcoming committee who’d gobble it up in nanoseconds, too.

But most of the mom and pop stores are gone. I suppose when the owners died, so did the small family business. Siblings never picked-up where the old folks left off. The opening of homestead subdivisions may have also contributed to the death of mom and pop stores not to mention the proliferation of financially and well-poised businessmen from distant shores who have taken over what was once a part of the old village community.

I really miss the simple lifestyle in the old village when even signs on mom and pop stores miss the “ed”, i.e., CLOSE. The message was far more important than grammar. But we can’t expect much from the old folks either who grew up as kids during the Imperial Japan here. Nor should we be expected to know their lingo–Japanese–when they start heading down nostalgia lane.

There was Tun Pitu’s Store as you head to what was then Hopwood Sr. High School. This was the real venue for young students learning how to smoke Pall-Mall or Camel, you know, the non-filtered cigarettes. And if you don’t have any, there’s the magic word “Gat?” (got) hurled at a suspected smoker. There was a generous attitude too among smokers. That habit made me a thief. I’d steal off one of dad’s Salem and hid it in my books and light it up after I get past the old breadfruit tree. It’s my safety zone: my mom can’t see me from that point nor my godmother.

The old man (Tun Pitu) was a beneficiary of nickels and dimes from students who’d buy sweet-sops from the shelf. Equally, too, he’s a victim of students who have the gall to pick one up and start munching without paying. And he can’t tell in a crowded, smoke-fill joint who’s stealing from fruit shelves near the pool table. It was some strange humor.

Then there’s the Sunset Snack Bar where the late Tun Juan Cabrera sells local steak (fast fried Spam) with red rice. And if you don’t have a quarter, at least there’s the tañgantañgan jungle to massage your empty belly until the bell rings for afternoon classes. It was a good way to pretend that you had something for lunch. So when the bell rings, go for the closest drinking fountain. Fill-up your empty belly and head to your next class. They were hard golden days that I miss for its simplicity and sense of community.