Trip To Market Netted More Than Groceries

Peter Pan Grocery was a second home to generations of kids growing up in the Cannon Hill neighborhood. And, like many homes, it dispensed its lessons with a firm, but gentle hand. A kid might learn manners, or the difference between pork roast and pork chops, or the importance of finding an inner compass.

From the late ‘40s to the mid ‘70s, the store was a fixture on Lincoln Street between 19th and 20th. For most of those years, Peter Pan was managed by Maurice Gould. Parents got to call him Maury. Kids got to call him Mr. Gould.

He knew the name of every child who came into the store and precisely where they should be at any given time of day. Questions like “Aren’t you supposed to be at your music lesson?” and “Since when was Cub Scouts canceled?” were part of the drill for any kid who showed up at the wrong time to buy a box of Milk Duds. He tolerated no “horse play” and kids who engaged in it were firmly asked to leave. The amazing thing was that they did.

Mr. Gould offered credit to the neighborhood regulars - a convenience for some, a life raft to others. People paid as they could, sometimes only a few dollars a month. He still smiled at them the same way, still scolded their dogs for running through the store, still made sure their children used good grammar.

In a time when most families had one car and the dad drove it, a trip to the grocery store required some careful planning. The list was triple checked. Naturally, some critical ingredient was always forgotten.

Mr. Gould responded by offering delivery service. He saved a lot of gravies by showing up just in time with the Kitchen Bouquet.

The grocer also served as reporter, weatherman, watchdog and counselor. A man of his times, his counseling style was drawn more from Gary Cooper than Sigmund Freud. It was a style a child could especially appreciate.

When I was 8 years old, I ran away from home. It had something to do with giving up potato chips for Lent. I had planned my escape for spring. But March, as usual, could not make up its mind. So I left home in the middle of a snowstorm.

My first stop was Peter Pan Grocery. I was short on supplies, having packed my father’s old duffel bag with only potato chips and Nancy Drew. I figured Peter Pan would be a good place to stop on my way out of town. Besides, I had credit.

Mr. Gould was cleaning the front counter when I came in. He looked at the bag.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

My fate was inevitable. If I told him the truth, he’d call my mother. If I lied to him, he’d sniff it out like a bloodhound. Then he’d call my mother. I stalled by talking about the snow’s beauty. He eyed me suspiciously but said nothing.

Outside, cars struggled up the black ice of Lincoln Street. Travelers, who on another night might have stopped for milk or toilet paper, drove past the little store hoping to make it home safely.

Snowflakes whirled in the giant white shadow of the street lights like goose down falling from an old saint’s pillow. We watched together in a comfortable silence broken only occasionally by Mr. Gould’s good-natured inquiries about my family. He wondered if they might be building the last spring snowman. Then he said, “Well, I think it’s about time we both went home.” And we did.

Peter Pan Grocery is gone now. The home it has become shows no sign of its past or the people whose lives intersected there. But in its time, the small store both fulfilled and surpassed its promise of service.

The neighborhood grocery was a place people stopped to pick up something essential on their way to a different place: work, home or the wide world that waited just outside of childhood.