Dairy Barn Lament

This week I am lamenting the loss of my local Dairy Barn.  Prior to moving to this town I had never been to a Dairy Barn. (It's a drive thru mini mart.)  At the time, as the mother of 5 and 2 year old children (plus one still cooking), it was a delight to learn all the benefits it had to offer.  That little red barn was a lifesaver... Of course the prices were higher than those at the supermarket but desperation tolerates price gouging.  

How wonderful to not have to unbuckle three carseats in sleet or rain just because you ran out of milk.  And if someone feel asleep in their car seat? Bonus! 

Forgot to bring flowers to someone's first school concert? (Forgot or just didn't want to make an extra stop with a toddler and a baby? Shhh...) We'll drive thru Dairy Barn for congratulatory ice cream sundae fixin's!  (Way better than flowers anyway.) 

Desperately trying not to drag everyone screaming through the grocery store aisles when Dad was away for an extended business trip, I could make dinner (binner) from milk, eggs and bread.  Yes the Entenmann's donuts in the window sometimes made for uncomfortable scenes of begging at the window but sometimes giving in could extract some good behavior- especially when I was feeling lousy.

And there were always really interesting people working at the Dairy Barn.  I wonder who did the hiring- maybe the king of the interesting? (What would happen if a preppie tried to apply for a job?  Or would that just not happen?) 

When I first started going, there was Grumpy Girl.  (That was how many of the moms in town referred to her.) She always seemed to work the hours I went.  I'd first get cash from the ATM drive-thru and then head to her.  When I handed over my $20 she would always snarl, "Do you have anything smaller?" I think she watched the cars at the ATM so she would have her snarky retort ready.  And if I DID have smaller bills,  I'd somehow expect her to smile or be pleasant.  Bizarrely seeking her approval. Or just craving the feeling of victory if I actually got her to be nicer? Never happened.   

Or the man who was just sooo happy.  Too happy. Though I couldn't imagine there would a better place to be than Dairy Barn if you were chemically impaired, I would imagine that the register report would be interesting on those nights.  A few trips to that man and even the kids noticed, "Mom? That guy was kind of weird..." "Hmmm...  I guess he was in a really silly mood tonight." (All kinds of talks that Dairy Barn could've opened the door on in the future...  Tattoos, piercings, drugs.  Opportunities lost…) 

Now, the little red barn is dark and it's marquee is blank. No Ben and Jerry's specials posted to surprise and dare me to jerk the wheel to the right at the last minute on the way home.  No possibility of a tedious chore being redeemed by the delight of a two-for-one deal on Phish Food.  

So sad but my heart especially goes out to the mothers of the little ones...  Back to dragging screaming children through the grocery store AND no surprise pick me up of deliciousness to perk them up during the drudgery of a day filled with waiting on ungrateful little people and eating their leftovers while standing over the sink...