Every morning my mom would drop me off and leave for work before seven. She would then travel to the place that was as much of my childhood as my home was. This place had six aisles and housed everything from ice cream to shampoo to rat poison. Each day, Monday through Friday, my mom would return to the building topped with a blue-paneled pentagon. Red letters centered across held the words “Spring Valley Super Market”. As a worker, my mom parked in back and would have to take the concrete stairs on the side of the brick to enter. Customers, though, had special treatment being able to use the weight-censured automatic doors. I had the privilege, as the daughter of bakery and deli manager, of using both entrances. There were many other privileges I was able to experience in that store that others weren’t.

My freedom was remarkable. “Off limits” to all non-employees had an exception with me. I could explore the basement, behind the coolers, and the meat locker. Though seen close to everyday, this world of mine never ceased to entertain me. Being the only kid to see what went on behind the scenes, I thought I was pretty special.

The atmosphere welcomed anyone who stepped a foot in the store, like an extended family, and that’s what I considered them. To this day, the ones who remember those times still offer me those family treatments. I remember more about the people and kindness there than what the store actually looks like. A few objects and certain spots though have special emotions forever attached.

Behind the scenes were all these machines and inner workings that very few ever got to see. The meat and deli departments contained metal monsters and raw meat. First and foremost and probably the most important part was the slicer. All the meats and cheeses that lined the glass case, at some point, had had a meeting with that slicer. Each piece sliced forever apart from its family. Perhaps just a scary to a young girl was the grinder. The loud noise that came from it was enough to wake a bear during hibernation. Dan, the meat guy as most call him, would put the beef into the silver funnel shaped machine and turn the handle round and round. Little stringlets would come through the small circle shaped holes into the canister. The pile always fascinated me to the point I wanted to reach out and touch it. That was maybe one of the only things I wasn’t able to do there. More often than not, I left those behind-the-scenes events with a roll or two of price stickers. There were ninety-nine cent ones, one-pound ones, and SALE ones. Somehow those price stickers had the power to captivate me for numerous hours. A lot of times the stickers ended up on the painted white brick walls.

As much as I loved these contraptions, my favorites had to be the bread machines in the basement. While my mom worked, the machine was used every day, and that section always smelled like fresh bread. The huge bread maker made each piece of dough into a perfect size for baking, prepping each to the best which was with no holes. Everyone swore by the Super Market’s Bakery Fresh bread baked by my mother. I loved when I had the opportunity to watch the process. It wasn’t that complex, but it had to be done just right to make the perfect bread every time.

The basement also held all the offices and extra supplies. The break room became the place I could do my homework during the school year when my grandparents weren’t home. I felt extra privileged to be able to use that room as my own little study room. It was somewhat small and house two vending machines. The table in which I did my homework was a solid oak, but it was one of them that had become greasy and sticky with time. My paper often stuck to it. Of the two vending machines, the choice of most workers was the Coke machine. The women usually chose the gray aluminum can that was the Diet Coke.

The only place or appliance that was completely “off limits” to me was the service/supply elevator with the orange crossed gate that served as the door. In amazement, I would watch the stocker, Jason, ride the elevator every day. Eventually amazement turned into envy. [Envious.] I’ll never know why because that “thing” scared me. It wasn’t like it was a long ride. The option I usually took was a stair case of about nine steps by the workers entrance to the building. The room the elevator occupied was littered with boxes as was the basement, though more organized. Apparently, Jason knew how much I wanted to ride the elevator. He asked me one day to help him bring some supplies upstairs via the elevator. Excited, I obliged, though really I was terrified. The elevator didn’t have a real door. As soon as I stepped off, I wanted to run to my mom, but trying to act more mature, I helped Jason unload. Then and only then, I ran to my mom’s apron-covered security. (Those aprons still somehow provide a sense of comfort to me.)

This store was more than just a store. It was the place I grew up and learned about the outside world. It was the place that I loved just as much as home. It was my very first playground with some very expensive equipment. It was a place I knew I’d always be accepted and welcome. It was my safe haven.