JULY 30, 2022 – (Cont.) I learned another business lesson at Matheny’s on one hot summer day when I was in fifth grade. For a nickel I went for a one-stick Fudgsicle instead of buying a two-stick Popsicle, which you could split into two, one-stick Popsicles by using the metal splitter fastened to the wall directly above the freezer bin. As I exited the air-conditioned store into the blazing heat, I decided to go back inside and ask for an ice-cream bag so the Fudgsicle wouldn’t melt on my bike ride home. Bill Matheny, I remember, was manning the checkout counter while Beryl was stocking shelves. When I asked him for a bag, he said, “No, I’m not giving you an ice-cream bag. The bag costs me more than you paid for the Fudgesicle.”
“Sorry,” I said, sheepishly. His response needed no further explanation. Though he’d been very understanding of a kindergartner dropping a jar of mayo, he wasn’t about to let an uncaring fifth-grader bite into his profits.
Eventually, old man Matheny retired, then died. Years later, Bill retired and sold the store. In time, the establishment disappeared altogether.
Before it did, I experienced a significant incident associated with Matheny’s. It was an indirect connection, but it occurred only because of Matheny’s.
I was in sixth grade, and following school one day, a couple of friends and I took to our bikes on the usual random ride around the neighborhood. At some point, one of my friends blurted out the bright idea of going to Matheny’s for some candy. The joint decision to “do a U-ee” and ride like banshees was as impulsive as the “bright idea” itself.
With some notable exceptions, I wasn’t a total dummy when it came to bicycle safety, but one of the exceptions had “Matheny’s” stamped all over it. In a desire to be the first banshee to reach the store, I made a sudden U-turn in the middle of Benton Street. The next thing I heard was the screech of tire rubber and a car horn blast.
The driver rolled down his window and yelled at me. It was Mr. Elvig, former mayor of Anoka, and an good acquaintance of my parents. His mouth was contorted, and his eyes were popping out of his red face. In a flash, however, I saw his apparent anger as abject fear. He knew who I was and said, “You do that again, and I’ll tell your parents!” In my calculus, this was proof he was more scared than mad, since he had to know that I’d never, ever be dumb enough to “do that again.”
In fact, I was far more scared of being with Mother or Dad in a chance encounter with Mr. Elvig than I’d been frightened by the “near collision.” I knew my impulsive move had been dumber than stupid—so dumb, I was confident that I couldn’t possibly be so dumb again. (But see my post from 1/4/2022!).
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
