PRESTON — Just before 8 o’clock on a recent Thursday morning, Les Henderson stood at the cash register of the Preston General Store, the business his great-grandfather, Luther Dewayne Henderson, started in 1886, and rang up the purchases of Bobby Wells, a neighbor and regular customer.
On the worn, wooden counter separating the two men was a 12-pack of Miller beer, one can of Showboat pork and beans, two small bags of Cheetos, a half pound each of just sliced liver cheese and bologna. Henderson rang up Wells’ purchase: $21.07.
Wells, who is 65 and retired, says he comes here twice a day, for sustenance as well as community. I happened upon the place on the way to the Neshoba County Fair. A driving rain and curiosity were reason enough to stop.
Henderson’s store is the gravitational center of this rural community midway between Shuqualak and Philadelphia on Mississippi Route 21. As such it is not only a source of provisions, it is a gathering place of sorts for the inhabitants of this sparsely populated corner of Kemper County.
A generation ago, crossroads general stores in Mississippi were as common as circling buzzards. If you’ve spent any time in the South or have a modicum of curiosity, you’ve been in one of these places: wood floors, faded drink boxes with whirring compressors, blinking neon beer signs, slowly turning ceiling fans, hand-lettered signs, and a rusting conversation piece or two from grandpa’s farm — an eclectic inventory tailored to the needs of the community it serves, as well as the eccentricities of the proprietor.
Each year these places move closer to extinction, even in Mississippi.
In addition to groceries, Henderson sells prepared food (six chicken necks with tater babies and roll, $3.68), nails, plumbing supplies, dog food, wire, tubing, herbicides, fish bait and even a brass spittoon.
The place has a museum quality to it with its collections of artifacts — on a shelf near what may be the South’s largest selection of prepackaged cupcakes and honeybuns is an arrangement of transistor radios of 50s vintage. There is an assortment of oscillating fans, chopping blocks and kerosene lanterns. A line of watermelons runs the length of one of the store’s display shelves.
Everything you see is for sale, Henderson, 62, says. “People think, ‘That’s old stuff; he ain’t gonna want nothing for it.’ They are wrong.”
He turned down a blacksmith’s offer of $1,200 for one of his seven anvils.
“That was my granddaddy’s anvil. I ain’t that hungry,” he said.
Actually, there are eight anvils if you count the one inside the ATM. A crime deterrent that has been effective, so far.
Henderson inherited the store in 1987. It’s now in its third building — the first was blown away by a tornado in 1912.
He and his daughter Carmen keep the place open 365 days a year. “I’m open on your birthday and my birthday,” he says.
If you’re interested in purchasing ethanol-free gasoline or hearing a lecture about its evils, this is your place.
“None of my gas has alcohol in it,” Henderson says, his dander rising. “Alcohol is not good for our country; it’s not good for anyone unless you have an alcohol plant or are a corn grower. The entire U.S. is paying for that.”
A sign on the bathroom door offers an entree to another subject about which Henderson has strong opinions.
“No weed, crystal, crack smoking or having sex in this restroom please. One person at a time in the bathroom. No merchandise in restroom.”
“I didn’t put that sign up for the look of it,” Henderson says before launching into stories best not recounted here.
Before going I purchase a bottle of water and a 10-pound bag of Sciple’s cornmeal, produced at a water-driven gristmill just down the road, between Preston and De Kalb. Seems fitting; the mill is a family operated business, now in its fifth generation.
Preston, an hour’s drive from Columbus, makes for a rewarding field trip. The country along the way is lovely, and there is much to revel in the nooks and corners of Les Henderson’s general store. If you go, take your camera and checkbook, that is if you intend to buy an anvil. A bit of advice, though: Don’t get your hopes up about the anvil.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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