Ben Franklin

I read a poem this morning titled “Woolworth’s”

And it reminded me of Ben Franklin

Not the Franklin who was born on Milk Street

Or the Ben who co-authored our Declaration, was our first US ambassador to France

Who invented bifocals and the lightning rod

But the Ben Franklin that resides on Main St.

In Middlebury, VT

And again in Ojai, CA

Seat to two of my homes

They sell everything there at

Good ‘ol Ben’s

From candy hearts and stationary

To hot glue and ceramic mugs

Dish racks and throw pillows and bolts of fabric

To tinsel and toothpaste

Mad Libs and jigsaw puzzles

And pantyhose in plastic eggs

The Ben Franklin in Middlebury is closed now

Shuttered because of Covid or the endless construction job on Main St. that

No one thought would ever end but eventually did

Or because TJ Maxx opened its doors one mile south on Route 7

Today, the storefront stands empty

(when will a new business open its doors? when?)

 Its 1950’s marquis still proudly on display

Beckoning passersby to come in and shop for cobwebs

Or dust bunnies, termites or silverfish

Or perhaps something from the abandoned display rack filled with nothing at all

But a remembrance of how it felt to open those doors

Thirty and forty years ago

To nod quickly at the cashier and make a bee-line for the toy aisle

The candy aisle, the Christmas aisle

Out of breath, short on time, a roll of quarters jammed in my pocket

I’m glad that the Ben Franklin in Ojai has not yet shuttered its doors

Not yet become a bougie lifestyle shop with potted cacti and dream catchers and bookstands shaped as miniature Airstreams

(though sometimes I buy those, too)

Glad because it serves as a surprising and utterly out-of-place bridge

Between past and present

Between east and west

Between home and home

Between nostalgia and present day