PORTER’S CAFE
I used to go to Porter’s Café,
As most folks around there did;
It was located close to our house,
And was a short walk for us kids.
There was a jukebox in the corner,
The old-fashioned elaborate kind;
You could watch the records spin around,
As it played the old music so fine.
You could play three songs for a quarter,
That’s a pretty good kind of deal,
To hear old songs from the fifties,
And country music that was real.
Everyone used to go there,
From kids to the old and the young;
It’s what you would call a ‘hangout’,
From morning ‘till setting sun.
Mrs. Porter ran the store,
And she was very nice;
She was quite an elderly lady,
And was as friendly as sugar and spice.
Her husband worked at Stanfields, I think,
I remember his name was Jack;
He had a really nice ’38 Chevrolet
And parked it in the garage at the back.
I think he used to call square dances,
Or something similar to that;
He had some kind of special talent,
And his hair was slicked down black.
Mrs. Porter sold hot dogs and burgers,
For about fifty cents apiece;
The price was reasonable ‘way back then,
As we sat together side by each.
The café was at the front of the house,
Which they turned in to a place to dine,
What was once the living and dining rooms,
Was now a cafeteria quite fine.
It was actually a little bungalow,
With a big yard out at the front;
It’s surprising how many could sit inside,
And socialize all at once.
The café was located on Pictou Road,
Just a little short distance from us;
We used to walk along the back wood road,
About five minutes if we wanted to rush.
Bible Hill is a little further down the road,
A couple of miles I would say;
Where we used to walk to school each day,
About an hour or so each way.
I remember one guy used to go there,
He slicked down his hair with oil;
When he leaned back in his wooden chair,
Mrs. Porter’s wall paper got soiled.
This is about when I learned how to smoke,
Outside of Mrs. Porter’s store;
I remember getting as sick as a dog,
I swore I wouldn’t do that no more.
One day we were sitting at the counter,
My brother Frank and I,
I think I said something out of line,
He corrected me in the blink of an eye.
All the neighbors would go there,
The Bartletts, Bates, Betts and Reids;
As we were growing up in our early years,
Without any booze or weed.
Once we tried to make some home brew,
Timer and Dougie and me;
But we drank some before it was ready,
And got as sick as we could be.
But that only stopped me for a while,
I kept indulging in the brew;
Until I decided I’d had enough,
Back in nineteen-eighty–two.
This was ‘way back in the fifties,
Just a few years after the war;
There were a lot of veteran soldiers around,
Getting used to peaceful living once more.
Mrs. Porter ran her store for years,
But I guess it finally had to close;
It probably went the way of progress,
As many Mom and Pop stores, I suppose.
But I’ll always remember that little café,
It was a learning experience just the same;
It was like a rural one-room school,
To enjoy fifteen minutes of fame.
Bob Bartlett,
North Bay
