Driving from Denmark to Hiram, Maine is one of the most scenic blessings one can come upon. It is pristine. It is lush. It is as life was meant to be—no matter the season.
When driving into the Hiram village, you come to the four corners. And at the juncture, on your left was the Four-Corner Store. It is, however, no more.
That in itself is a boon to sane village dwellers who had to put up with nasty store owners for too long a time.
This couple moved from one of the Carolinas to Hiram, stocked the store with this and that, and then proceeded to unwelcome their stay from Day One. The wife bellowed from front of store to back walls. The husband cursed and yelled replies, not only to wife but any customer within hearing.
I was dumbfounded when I first opened up the screen door, hoping to find the New England ambiance so adored by Mainers when they frequent their mom-and-pop stores. Instead I came upon such mayhem that at first I concluded I had walked into a mental ward.
The woman was fat, wore a stern face and had a tongue that could curl a snail backwards. She was full of hate, to the brim. Whatever she stored up in her nightmares she let loose when stepping up mornings to the cash register.
This loud-mouthed female stalked every brain that wandered into her shadow. Poor pity any mortal who actually took her seriously.
One day I meandered toward the steamed hot dogs counter. I was preparing for a lunch briefer plus taking in the messed up owner on the other side of the counter. This was my first walk-through after the couple bought the place.
As I draped mustard over the dog, I lifted the relish spoon, lacing my lunch for my first much-in. Purposefully, I took my time. What I was seeing and hearing was a maiden voyage shocker. Therefore, I did not want to hurry for fear of missing free drama macabre.
After preparing my sandwich, I then thought it might in fact be dangerous to approach the Amazon creature who would take my cash for dog treasure. Nevertheless, I was left with no other choice.
Fortunately for me, as I paid my way to the front door, chief bitter one who had just flipped my payment into her register drawer was screaming at another customer. I lucked out.
I asked others who lived in Hiram what was going on at the corner store. Most of the time, heads bowed as if in grief, scratching the head was a common response, and then walking away to run an errand exited the question with pantomime answers. No one seemed to discover the verbiage adequate to describe what had hit the cluster of Hiram’s tidy homes.
I prayed hard. And I mean I prayed. I asked God to heap judgment upon the wretched who who moved in to spoil a hamlet.
Then I spoke to a local who informed me that he had sent the twosome a letter—a scalding letter. He told them they were filled with spite and madness, their personalities were warped beyond health, and the sooner they closed up shop, the better for civilized neighbors.
The other day, I drove westward to Denmark, then taking a left at the monument, took in the gorgeous beauty to right and left until I got to Hiram’s four corners. Glancing over to my left, I noted a miracle.
The store’s blinds were drawn shut. The front door was locked and a scrawled note stated something to the point that the store was closed, over and out, up and gone.
Apparently, enough Hiramites scratched their heads and then pulled their funds away from that cash register so as to deplete moneys for the despicable twosome from Carolina.
Thank you, Jesus.
