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Thank goodness I went to Comfort last week before a fire destroyed one of the town’s most cherished historic sites, the Ingenhuett General Store. The limestone building was constructed in 1867, moved to its location on High Street in 1880 and was billed as the longest operating general store in Texas.
The screen doors were what first captured my attention. They were tall, double-hung, with a metal temperature gauge on the crossbars. The handles were big for easy entry. “Rainbow Bread” was lettered in bold red print across the top. The door’s springs made a pleasant squeak when stretched and there was a satisfying snap when the screen closed behind you.
It was apparent the store was as much a museum as a mercantile, with dusty canned goods alongside empty spaces on wooden shelves. The former vegetable bins in the back were long neglected. Aisles were wide and featured cleaning supplies and candy bars and postcards. A surprisingly large collection of hardback books were on sale for half-price.
Through a wide doorway into the adjoining building was a magical array of farm implements, hardware, cooking utensils and hunting gear. The display bins were obviously ancient originals with cubby holes storing nails and fishhooks and pieces of coiled wire. Saddles with ropes and bridles and other leathery horse-ware reminded me of my long-abandoned dream of becoming a champion barrel racer. I touched each piece and was 12-years-old again.
My friend and I enjoyed a rousing discussion about the pros and cons of heavy cast iron skillets and we marveled at the selection of crockery and wooden spoons and clothespins. The worn floors creaked as we made our way through the store, studying every display; not needing any of the merchandise but captivated by the smell, the cluttered willy-nilly arrangements and the solid, masterful architecture.
When it seemed rude to stay any longer, I selected some flower seed packets and a pottery vase along with a book about west Texas ditches for my engineer husband and took them to the counter just inside the front doors. No moving conveyer belts, barcode readers, computers, or microphones poised to blast out irritating price checks.
A smiling man comfortably dressed in jeans and a shirt that had probably been washed a jillion times greeted me. An elderly gentleman sat nearby with a cane propped against his knee while my purchases were tallied on an old, hand-crank calculator. It seemed irreverent, but I asked about using my VISA and was assured they were equipped to handle it. The connection was slow. We talked about the slight chance of rain in the forecast and how the wildflowers would have a tough time this year with the draught going on and on. He said my pottery was among the last of the handmade versions supplied by the company. It was good to know that I had chosen something rare and special, like the experience of being there.
The Ingenhuett Store isn’t the only attraction in Comfort, but it was something worth seeing. I sense the town’s grief, knowing that it will never be the same. I will go back, to browse the antique stores, lunch at High’s on High Street, and pay my respects to a community who values their history and preserves it as best they can.
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