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ninanevermore.
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“When you look in the fridge, you might wonder why there are 3 gallons of milk in there,” I told Jeff when I called him at work last night.
“Okay, why are there 3 gallons of milk in there?”
“Because Klein’s is closing, and we won’t be able to buy it there after this week.” The little family-owned grocery in town sold a brand of milk that is sweeter and tastes better than any other brand at any other store I’ve shopped at. My husband and son are huge fans of it, especially my son, who told me in the car that he only likes the milk from “the cookie store,” which he has called Klein’s Supermarket since he was a toddler, since they always offered him a free cookie in the bakery and he always accepted it. The bakery at Klein’s was amazing; their baked goods didn’t taste like grocery store cakes and cookies, they tasted like your grandmother had just made them for you from scratch.
“You’re kidding,” Jeff said, obviously stunned. I know he was taking his lunch break, because after that he said, “I just lost my appetite.”
Jeff and I moved to Tomball in 1997. Tomball is a small town to the northwest of Houston, one of the few areas that had the good sense to incorporate before Houston became a municipal entity much like The Blob of horror film fame, gobbling up any unincorporated community it can as soon as it looked like it might be worth the trouble of taxing. This is part of why the Houston city limits take up over 600 square miles. When I first moved to Tomball, it caused me to have a minor identity of crises.
“Honey, I grew up making fun of people from Tomball,” I told my husband, “Now you want me to move there and be one of them?”
Indeed, for the first few years I lived there when people asked where I lived I answered, “I live in Tomball, but I’m from Spring.” Then slowly, as the years passed, I stopped being from where I grew up and started being from where I now live. Klein’s Supermarket on Main Street has long been a part of where I live. I started shopping there because I believe in supporting small, local businesses over big corporate ones. I believe in spending dollars that will stay in my community. Klein's is smaller than the two large chain grocery stores in town (technically, there are 3 other stores, but I don’t count Walmart as a grocery store and refused to give them my business) and has never offered a lot of the fancier more exotic items, but it grew on me. I learned to make do with less and found I got more out of it. I liked that I could run in, grab a few things, and run back out. I liked that in the summer I could buy locally grown produce. I liked that it looked like the grocery stores my mother shopped in when I was small, before everything has to be supersized. I liked seeing the same faces week after week. I liked that the teenagers and the old men who bagged your groceries still asked if you wanted help taking out to your car. I liked taking them up on their offer and giving them a tip for loading my groceries into the trunk of my car for me.
I didn’t get any grocery shopping done this weekend with all the Easter festivities, so I decided to drop by Klein’s after I picked my son up. The small parking lot was unusually crowded, which seemed odd. When I reached the front door, I saw a sign that made my heart sink: the extra crowd was there because everything in the store was 25% off. After 88 years, Klein’s Supermarket is shutting its doors just as soon as the last item on their shelves is gone.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” my son asked.
“The cookie store is closing. We won’t be able to come here anymore.”
“It’s closing? Why?”
“I guess people didn’t shop here enough and they aren’t making enough money to stay open.” Tears were starting to well up in my eyes; I didn’t realize how much I loved this place.
I grabbed a basket, and for the first time since I can remember there weren’t that many to choose from. A lot of the shelves were already open from the scavenger bargain hunters there to take advantage of the wonderful little store’s demise. Every isle we went down, my son began saying goodbye to the merchandise.
“Bye, bye, bread. Bye, bye, soap. Bye, bye, chips. Bye, bye, cookies.” The scavengers must have thought I was a lunatic, because I was crying off and on the whole time I shopped.
“Bye bye, Cheerios.” My son’s lower lip was trembling. He was probably upset mostly because I was so sad, but he gets attached to things and places just like I do. I grabbed a box of Cheerios, which I didn’t even need, because every Cheerio he’s munched on since he was a toddler came from here, and they never would again.
We had to wait in line to checkout, which has always been a rare at Klein’s (I always knew this was a bad sign, but hoped they were making enough to hang in there, anyway). My son has long made a habit of reaching into the basket to hand the groceries to the cashiers, which most of them find charming, but the very stressed-out teen-aged girl asked that he not do that.
“I’m sorry, but I need to do this is a certain order – the heavy stuff first – and…” she stopped, and my son stopped and withdrew a little bit. He doesn’t like to be fussed at, and he usually gets praised for helping in this way.
“I know. You’re stressed today,” I said.
“No, today is…a little harder than usual. I’m sorry. Usually it wouldn’t bother me.”
“I understand. He just usually helps like that, and this is the last time…” I stopped.
The cashier looked dismayed. “Oh, please don’t cry. Please? Because I’m going to cry if you cry.”
So the two of us, the checkout girl and I, wept a little while I paid for my groceries.
As I pushed my cart out, an old woman came up to the courtesy booth manager, a woman who has worked at Klein’s for over 30 years and who was helping bag groceries on that day, grabbed her by the arm, and said, “You can’t go, you can’t!”
I was glad to hear I wasn’t the only one to feel that way.
“I know, I’m sorry,” the manager said, “It feels like they’re closing Tomball down, doesn’t it? We may as well be Houston now!”
“So it won’t be open in the morning?” my son asked once we in the car.
“No, baby, it‘ll open in the morning, but they won’t put any more groceries on the shelves. When the last thing is sold, they’ll lock the door and turn off the lights. Then they won’t be open anymore.”
He sighed. “Bye, bye, cookie store.”
“Bye, bye,” I echoed.
On the way home, the lyrics to a song by James Taylor, called “Our Town” from the Pixar movie Cars ran through my head:
I know, it’s just a grocery store, and a tiny archaic one at that. There are other stores that sell the same things in my town, as well as a lot of other things on their long isles stocked by big corporations. Businesses close and people move on. But it feels like I’m losing a friend and a part of myself now that this little piece of Americana where I’ve bought bread and milk and butter for these last 13 years is shutting its doors. I’m sure that eventually I’ll reach the point where that thought doesn’t make tears run down my cheeks, but it won’t be any time soon.
“Mommy, are they shutting Tomball down?” my son asked from the backseat of the car. It finally hit him what the store manager said and he sounded worried.
“No, just the cookie store, baby. I think the rest of Tomball will be there for a while yet.”
It won’t feel the same, though.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
http://www.kleins.biz/index.html
.
.
“When you look in the fridge, you might wonder why there are 3 gallons of milk in there,” I told Jeff when I called him at work last night.
“Okay, why are there 3 gallons of milk in there?”
“Because Klein’s is closing, and we won’t be able to buy it there after this week.” The little family-owned grocery in town sold a brand of milk that is sweeter and tastes better than any other brand at any other store I’ve shopped at. My husband and son are huge fans of it, especially my son, who told me in the car that he only likes the milk from “the cookie store,” which he has called Klein’s Supermarket since he was a toddler, since they always offered him a free cookie in the bakery and he always accepted it. The bakery at Klein’s was amazing; their baked goods didn’t taste like grocery store cakes and cookies, they tasted like your grandmother had just made them for you from scratch.
“You’re kidding,” Jeff said, obviously stunned. I know he was taking his lunch break, because after that he said, “I just lost my appetite.”
Jeff and I moved to Tomball in 1997. Tomball is a small town to the northwest of Houston, one of the few areas that had the good sense to incorporate before Houston became a municipal entity much like The Blob of horror film fame, gobbling up any unincorporated community it can as soon as it looked like it might be worth the trouble of taxing. This is part of why the Houston city limits take up over 600 square miles. When I first moved to Tomball, it caused me to have a minor identity of crises.
“Honey, I grew up making fun of people from Tomball,” I told my husband, “Now you want me to move there and be one of them?”
Indeed, for the first few years I lived there when people asked where I lived I answered, “I live in Tomball, but I’m from Spring.” Then slowly, as the years passed, I stopped being from where I grew up and started being from where I now live. Klein’s Supermarket on Main Street has long been a part of where I live. I started shopping there because I believe in supporting small, local businesses over big corporate ones. I believe in spending dollars that will stay in my community. Klein's is smaller than the two large chain grocery stores in town (technically, there are 3 other stores, but I don’t count Walmart as a grocery store and refused to give them my business) and has never offered a lot of the fancier more exotic items, but it grew on me. I learned to make do with less and found I got more out of it. I liked that I could run in, grab a few things, and run back out. I liked that in the summer I could buy locally grown produce. I liked that it looked like the grocery stores my mother shopped in when I was small, before everything has to be supersized. I liked seeing the same faces week after week. I liked that the teenagers and the old men who bagged your groceries still asked if you wanted help taking out to your car. I liked taking them up on their offer and giving them a tip for loading my groceries into the trunk of my car for me.
I didn’t get any grocery shopping done this weekend with all the Easter festivities, so I decided to drop by Klein’s after I picked my son up. The small parking lot was unusually crowded, which seemed odd. When I reached the front door, I saw a sign that made my heart sink: the extra crowd was there because everything in the store was 25% off. After 88 years, Klein’s Supermarket is shutting its doors just as soon as the last item on their shelves is gone.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” my son asked.
“The cookie store is closing. We won’t be able to come here anymore.”
“It’s closing? Why?”
“I guess people didn’t shop here enough and they aren’t making enough money to stay open.” Tears were starting to well up in my eyes; I didn’t realize how much I loved this place.
I grabbed a basket, and for the first time since I can remember there weren’t that many to choose from. A lot of the shelves were already open from the scavenger bargain hunters there to take advantage of the wonderful little store’s demise. Every isle we went down, my son began saying goodbye to the merchandise.
“Bye, bye, bread. Bye, bye, soap. Bye, bye, chips. Bye, bye, cookies.” The scavengers must have thought I was a lunatic, because I was crying off and on the whole time I shopped.
“Bye bye, Cheerios.” My son’s lower lip was trembling. He was probably upset mostly because I was so sad, but he gets attached to things and places just like I do. I grabbed a box of Cheerios, which I didn’t even need, because every Cheerio he’s munched on since he was a toddler came from here, and they never would again.
We had to wait in line to checkout, which has always been a rare at Klein’s (I always knew this was a bad sign, but hoped they were making enough to hang in there, anyway). My son has long made a habit of reaching into the basket to hand the groceries to the cashiers, which most of them find charming, but the very stressed-out teen-aged girl asked that he not do that.
“I’m sorry, but I need to do this is a certain order – the heavy stuff first – and…” she stopped, and my son stopped and withdrew a little bit. He doesn’t like to be fussed at, and he usually gets praised for helping in this way.
“I know. You’re stressed today,” I said.
“No, today is…a little harder than usual. I’m sorry. Usually it wouldn’t bother me.”
“I understand. He just usually helps like that, and this is the last time…” I stopped.
The cashier looked dismayed. “Oh, please don’t cry. Please? Because I’m going to cry if you cry.”
So the two of us, the checkout girl and I, wept a little while I paid for my groceries.
As I pushed my cart out, an old woman came up to the courtesy booth manager, a woman who has worked at Klein’s for over 30 years and who was helping bag groceries on that day, grabbed her by the arm, and said, “You can’t go, you can’t!”
I was glad to hear I wasn’t the only one to feel that way.
“I know, I’m sorry,” the manager said, “It feels like they’re closing Tomball down, doesn’t it? We may as well be Houston now!”
“So it won’t be open in the morning?” my son asked once we in the car.
“No, baby, it‘ll open in the morning, but they won’t put any more groceries on the shelves. When the last thing is sold, they’ll lock the door and turn off the lights. Then they won’t be open anymore.”
He sighed. “Bye, bye, cookie store.”
“Bye, bye,” I echoed.
On the way home, the lyrics to a song by James Taylor, called “Our Town” from the Pixar movie Cars ran through my head:
Long ago, but not so very long ago,
the world was different, oh yes it was.
You settled down and you build a town and made it live,
and you watched it grow; it was your town.
Time goes by, time brings changes, you change too.
Nothing comes that you can’t handle, so on you go.
You never see it coming, when the world caves in on you,
on your town, there’s nothing you can do.
Main Street isn’t Main Street anymore.
No one seems to need us, like they did before.
It’s hard to find a reason left to stay,
but it’s our town; we love it anyway.
I know, it’s just a grocery store, and a tiny archaic one at that. There are other stores that sell the same things in my town, as well as a lot of other things on their long isles stocked by big corporations. Businesses close and people move on. But it feels like I’m losing a friend and a part of myself now that this little piece of Americana where I’ve bought bread and milk and butter for these last 13 years is shutting its doors. I’m sure that eventually I’ll reach the point where that thought doesn’t make tears run down my cheeks, but it won’t be any time soon.
“Mommy, are they shutting Tomball down?” my son asked from the backseat of the car. It finally hit him what the store manager said and he sounded worried.
“No, just the cookie store, baby. I think the rest of Tomball will be there for a while yet.”
It won’t feel the same, though.
http://www.kleins.biz/index.html
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no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 05:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 05:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 05:41 pm (UTC)I paid more for my food to shop at Klein's, but I felt good about doing it. Since the selection was limited, I often ran to the other stores after I'd done my shopping at Klein's to grab the one or two items I could only find elsewhere.
Old man Klein is older than dirt. I think he's retiring, and his sons made the decision not to carry on anymore. Bummer.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 06:44 pm (UTC)Corporatism... the demon step-child of Capitalism and Socialism.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 07:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 09:10 pm (UTC)Small businesses are important: the only jobs that have been created in recent years are through them. Corporate giants have not created any net jobs (i.e, they are employing the same number of people now as they did a few years ago); they combine and consolidate and outsource to overseas companies. Then, when they save enough doing all that, they buy a congressman of their very own (or two).
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 06:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 08:06 pm (UTC)To all the Klein supermarkets out there, whatever they sold... thanks.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 08:37 pm (UTC)Klein's
Date: 2010-04-07 03:11 am (UTC)Re: Klein's
Date: 2010-04-07 01:36 pm (UTC)Jeffrey and his brother are planning to open a boutique that sells their Klein Bros. brand in the old Perry's location. I'm wondering if we can't convince them to open a bakery in there, as well???
no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 07:27 pm (UTC)