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Two blocks away from the Mississippi State Capitol， and on the same street with it， where our house was when I was a child growing up in 1）Jackson， it was possible to have a little pasture behind your backyard where you could keep a Jersey cow， which we did. My mother herself milked her. A 2）thrifty homemaker， wife， mother of three， she did all her own cooking. And as far as I can recall， she never set foot inside a grocery store. It wasn’t necessary.
For all her regular needs， she stood at the telephone in our front hall and consulted with Mr. Lemly， of Lemly’s Market and Grocery downtown， who took her order and sent it out on his next delivery. And since Jackson at the heart of it was still within very near reach of the open country， the blackberry lady clanged on her bucket with a 3）quart measure at your front door in June without fail， the watermelon man rolled up to your house exactly on time for 4）the Fourth of July， and down through the summer， the quiet of the early-morning streets was pierced by the calls of farmers driving in with their plenty.
My mother considered herself pretty well prepared in her kitchen for any emergency that， in her words， might choose to present itself. But if she should， all of a sudden， need another lemon or find she was out of bread， all she had to do was call out， “Quick！ Who’d like to run to the Little Store for me？”
I would.
Our store had its name—it was that of the grocer who owned it， whom I’ll call Mr. Sessions—but “the Little Store” is what we called it at home.
As I set forth for the Little Store， a tune would float toward me from the house where there lived three sisters， girls in their teens， who 5）ratted their hair over their ears， wore headbands like gladiators， and were considered to be very popular. They’d wind up the Victrola， leave the same record on they’d played before， and you’d see them bobbing past their dining-room windows while they danced with each other.
A little further on， across the street， was the house where the principal of our grade school lived. What if she would come out？ She would halt me in my tracks—she had a very carrying and well-known voice in Jackson， where she’d taught almost everybody—saying “Eudora Alice Welty， spell oblige.” Oblige was the word that she of course knew had kept me from getting a perfect score on my spelling exam.
Our Little Store rose right up from the sidewalk； standing in a street of family houses， it alone hadn’t any yard in front， any tree or flowerbed. It was a plain frame building covered over with brick. Running in out of the sun， you met what seemed total obscurity inside. There were almost tangible smells—6）licorice recently sucked in a child’s cheek， dill-pickle 7）brine that had leaked through a paper sack in a fresh trail across the wooden floor， and perhaps the smell of still-untrapped mice.
Then through the motes of cracker dust， cornmeal dust， the Gold Dust of the 8）Gold Dust Twins that the floor had been swept out with， the realities emerged. Shelves climbed to high reach all the way around， set out with not too much of any one thing but a lot of things. It was up to you to remember what you came for， while your eye traveled from cans of sardines to ice cream salt to 9）harmonicas to flypaper.
Its confusion may have been in the eye of its beholder. Enchantment is cast upon you by all those things you weren’t supposed to have need for， it lures you close to wooden tops you’d outgrown， boy’s marbles and agates in little net pouches， small rubber balls that wouldn’t bounce straight.
Making up your mind， you circled the store around and around， around the pickle barrel， around the tower of 10）Cracker Jack boxes.
If it seemed too hot for Cracker Jacks， I might get a cold drink. Mr. Sessions might have already stationed himself by the cold-drinks barrel， like a mind reader. When you gave the word， Mr. Sessions plunged his bare arm in to the elbow and fished out your choice， first try. I favored a locally bottled 11）concoction called Lake’s Celery. You drank on the premises， with feet set wide apart to miss the drip， and gave him back his bottle.
But he didn’t hurry you off. A standing scale was by the door， and it could weigh you up to three hundred pounds. Mr. Sessions， whose hands were gentle and smelled of carbolic， would lift you up and set your feet on the platform， hold your loaf of bread for you， and take his time while you stood still. He could even remember what you weighed last time， so you could subtract and announce how much you’d gained. That was good-bye.
The happiness of errands was in part that of running for the moment away from home， a free spirit. I believed the Little Store to be a center of the outside world， and hence of happiness.
In my memory all the people are still attached to the store. Everyone I saw on my way seemed to me then part of my errand， and in a way they were. As I， myself， the free spirit， was part of it too.
我是在杰克逊市长大的，我们家的房子位于距离密西西比州议会大厦两个街区远的一条大街上。在这里，你可以在你家后院建个小牧场，养头泽西种乳牛，我们家就这么干了。我母亲会自己给奶牛挤奶。她是个勤俭的家庭主妇，身为人妻和三个孩子的母亲，家里的饭菜全由她一个人包办。在我的印象中，她从未踏足过任何杂货店。因为完全没必要。
如果需要什么日常用品，母亲会用家里前厅的电话打给莱姆利先生，向他咨询。莱姆利先生是位于市区的莱姆利市场与杂货店的老板，他会接下母亲的订单并在下个送货日给母亲送货过来。又因杰克逊的中心位置离田野还算比较近，卖黑莓的女士必会在六月份出现在你家门前，手拿舀黑莓的量杯敲打着她的桶子。卖西瓜的大叔也会无比准时地在7月4日的独立日到来前上门叫卖，并持续整个夏季。农民们会开车过来赶集，车上装着自家的农产品，叫喊声打破了清晨街道的宁静。
母亲认为，用她的话来说，对于厨房里任何可能出现的不时之需，她都做好了万全准备。但是万一，她突然发现她缺了个柠檬又或者是面包用光了，她所需要做的就是大叫一声：“快！谁来帮我去一趟小杂货店？”
我会去。
我们的杂货店有它本来的名字——和店主塞申斯先生的名字一样——但是我们家都叫它“小杂货店”。
在我走往“小杂货店”的路上，一首曲子会从一所房子里传出，飘入我耳中，那所房子里住了三个十多岁的姐妹。她们用发垫把头发垫得高高蓬起，盖过耳朵，戴着像角斗士一样的发带，这样的发型在当时很流行。她们会摇动着维克多牌留声机，播放着早已播过的曲子。你还能看到她们跳着舞从饭厅的窗户边翩翩而过。
再往前走过一点，穿过街道，就是我们小学校长住的房子。她要是出来会怎样呢？她会叫住我——她的声音沉厚，为杰克逊人所熟知，因为她几乎教过这里的每一个人——说道：“尤多拉·爱丽丝·韦尔蒂，把‘迫使’这个词拼一下。”她当然知道就是“迫使”这个词让我的拼写测验拿不了满分。
我们的“小杂货店”伫立在人行道的边上，混迹在一片家庭住宅中，但只有“小杂货店”没有前院，门前也没有任何树木或花圃。这是一座简单搭建的红砖房。
从太阳底下走进屋里，你会觉得里面一片晦暗不清。里面的气味仿佛伸手可触——最近孩子们常吃的甘草糖的味道、腌莳萝的味道，其汁液渗透了纸袋，流到木地板上，留下一道新鲜的水痕，也许还有未入罗网的老鼠那股味道。
地上撒落着饼干屑、玉米片屑，以及清洁完地板留下的“金粉双子洗衣粉”的“金屑”，你走过满是碎屑的地板后，才能看清屋里的一切。四面都是高高的货架，架子上摆放的商品并不单一，而是五花八门，琳琅满目。你的目光从沙丁鱼罐头游移至雪糕盐，从口琴飘到粘蝇纸，至于你还能否记得自己此行的目的就得靠你自己了。
顾客也许会觉得里面的商品让人眼花缭乱。所有的这些东西都让你着迷不已，即使你并不需要。你这个年纪已不该再玩的木陀螺、装在小网袋里的男孩玩的各色弹珠、不能直直弹起的橡皮球，这些无不深深吸引着你走过去。
你一边做决定，一边在店里转来转去，一会儿转到泡菜桶旁边，一会儿又转到堆成塔形的“好家伙玉米片”旁边。
如果觉得吃“好家伙玉米片”太热了的话，那么我可能会要一瓶冷饮。这时塞申斯先生可能早已站在了冷饮箱旁，就像是会读心术一般。你说了要喝什么后，塞申斯先生就会把他光裸的手肘伸进箱子里，试着捞出你要的冷饮。我喜欢喝一种名叫“莱克芹菜汁”的本地产瓶装混合果汁。我会在店里把果汁喝完，喝的时候双腿张开以防水珠滴到身上，然后把瓶子还给他。
但是他不会催促你。门口附近放着个台秤，最重能称到三百磅。塞申斯先生会把你抱起来，让你站到称台上，他的双手很柔软，闻起来有股煤炭的味道。当你站在上面静止不动时，他会从容不迫地站在一旁，帮你拿着面包。他甚至记得你上一次称的体重，这样你就可以把两次的数量相减，然后说出你重了多少。然后便是挥别再见。
跑腿差事的快乐之处部分就在于可以短暂地离开家里，无拘无束。我那时相信“小杂货店”就是外面世界的中心，也就是快乐的中心。
在我的记忆中，所有的那些人仍然与那间杂货店密不可分。对我来说，所有我在路上遇到的那些人似乎都是我跑腿差事的一部分，而在某种程度上他们确实如此。至于我自己，那个无拘无束的小孩，也是其中之一。
For all her regular needs， she stood at the telephone in our front hall and consulted with Mr. Lemly， of Lemly’s Market and Grocery downtown， who took her order and sent it out on his next delivery. And since Jackson at the heart of it was still within very near reach of the open country， the blackberry lady clanged on her bucket with a 3）quart measure at your front door in June without fail， the watermelon man rolled up to your house exactly on time for 4）the Fourth of July， and down through the summer， the quiet of the early-morning streets was pierced by the calls of farmers driving in with their plenty.
My mother considered herself pretty well prepared in her kitchen for any emergency that， in her words， might choose to present itself. But if she should， all of a sudden， need another lemon or find she was out of bread， all she had to do was call out， “Quick！ Who’d like to run to the Little Store for me？”
I would.
Our store had its name—it was that of the grocer who owned it， whom I’ll call Mr. Sessions—but “the Little Store” is what we called it at home.
As I set forth for the Little Store， a tune would float toward me from the house where there lived three sisters， girls in their teens， who 5）ratted their hair over their ears， wore headbands like gladiators， and were considered to be very popular. They’d wind up the Victrola， leave the same record on they’d played before， and you’d see them bobbing past their dining-room windows while they danced with each other.
A little further on， across the street， was the house where the principal of our grade school lived. What if she would come out？ She would halt me in my tracks—she had a very carrying and well-known voice in Jackson， where she’d taught almost everybody—saying “Eudora Alice Welty， spell oblige.” Oblige was the word that she of course knew had kept me from getting a perfect score on my spelling exam.
Our Little Store rose right up from the sidewalk； standing in a street of family houses， it alone hadn’t any yard in front， any tree or flowerbed. It was a plain frame building covered over with brick. Running in out of the sun， you met what seemed total obscurity inside. There were almost tangible smells—6）licorice recently sucked in a child’s cheek， dill-pickle 7）brine that had leaked through a paper sack in a fresh trail across the wooden floor， and perhaps the smell of still-untrapped mice.
Then through the motes of cracker dust， cornmeal dust， the Gold Dust of the 8）Gold Dust Twins that the floor had been swept out with， the realities emerged. Shelves climbed to high reach all the way around， set out with not too much of any one thing but a lot of things. It was up to you to remember what you came for， while your eye traveled from cans of sardines to ice cream salt to 9）harmonicas to flypaper.
Its confusion may have been in the eye of its beholder. Enchantment is cast upon you by all those things you weren’t supposed to have need for， it lures you close to wooden tops you’d outgrown， boy’s marbles and agates in little net pouches， small rubber balls that wouldn’t bounce straight.
Making up your mind， you circled the store around and around， around the pickle barrel， around the tower of 10）Cracker Jack boxes.
If it seemed too hot for Cracker Jacks， I might get a cold drink. Mr. Sessions might have already stationed himself by the cold-drinks barrel， like a mind reader. When you gave the word， Mr. Sessions plunged his bare arm in to the elbow and fished out your choice， first try. I favored a locally bottled 11）concoction called Lake’s Celery. You drank on the premises， with feet set wide apart to miss the drip， and gave him back his bottle.
But he didn’t hurry you off. A standing scale was by the door， and it could weigh you up to three hundred pounds. Mr. Sessions， whose hands were gentle and smelled of carbolic， would lift you up and set your feet on the platform， hold your loaf of bread for you， and take his time while you stood still. He could even remember what you weighed last time， so you could subtract and announce how much you’d gained. That was good-bye.
The happiness of errands was in part that of running for the moment away from home， a free spirit. I believed the Little Store to be a center of the outside world， and hence of happiness.
In my memory all the people are still attached to the store. Everyone I saw on my way seemed to me then part of my errand， and in a way they were. As I， myself， the free spirit， was part of it too.
我是在杰克逊市长大的，我们家的房子位于距离密西西比州议会大厦两个街区远的一条大街上。在这里，你可以在你家后院建个小牧场，养头泽西种乳牛，我们家就这么干了。我母亲会自己给奶牛挤奶。她是个勤俭的家庭主妇，身为人妻和三个孩子的母亲，家里的饭菜全由她一个人包办。在我的印象中，她从未踏足过任何杂货店。因为完全没必要。
如果需要什么日常用品，母亲会用家里前厅的电话打给莱姆利先生，向他咨询。莱姆利先生是位于市区的莱姆利市场与杂货店的老板，他会接下母亲的订单并在下个送货日给母亲送货过来。又因杰克逊的中心位置离田野还算比较近，卖黑莓的女士必会在六月份出现在你家门前，手拿舀黑莓的量杯敲打着她的桶子。卖西瓜的大叔也会无比准时地在7月4日的独立日到来前上门叫卖，并持续整个夏季。农民们会开车过来赶集，车上装着自家的农产品，叫喊声打破了清晨街道的宁静。
母亲认为，用她的话来说，对于厨房里任何可能出现的不时之需，她都做好了万全准备。但是万一，她突然发现她缺了个柠檬又或者是面包用光了，她所需要做的就是大叫一声：“快！谁来帮我去一趟小杂货店？”
我会去。
我们的杂货店有它本来的名字——和店主塞申斯先生的名字一样——但是我们家都叫它“小杂货店”。
在我走往“小杂货店”的路上，一首曲子会从一所房子里传出，飘入我耳中，那所房子里住了三个十多岁的姐妹。她们用发垫把头发垫得高高蓬起，盖过耳朵，戴着像角斗士一样的发带，这样的发型在当时很流行。她们会摇动着维克多牌留声机，播放着早已播过的曲子。你还能看到她们跳着舞从饭厅的窗户边翩翩而过。
再往前走过一点，穿过街道，就是我们小学校长住的房子。她要是出来会怎样呢？她会叫住我——她的声音沉厚，为杰克逊人所熟知，因为她几乎教过这里的每一个人——说道：“尤多拉·爱丽丝·韦尔蒂，把‘迫使’这个词拼一下。”她当然知道就是“迫使”这个词让我的拼写测验拿不了满分。
我们的“小杂货店”伫立在人行道的边上，混迹在一片家庭住宅中，但只有“小杂货店”没有前院，门前也没有任何树木或花圃。这是一座简单搭建的红砖房。
从太阳底下走进屋里，你会觉得里面一片晦暗不清。里面的气味仿佛伸手可触——最近孩子们常吃的甘草糖的味道、腌莳萝的味道，其汁液渗透了纸袋，流到木地板上，留下一道新鲜的水痕，也许还有未入罗网的老鼠那股味道。
地上撒落着饼干屑、玉米片屑，以及清洁完地板留下的“金粉双子洗衣粉”的“金屑”，你走过满是碎屑的地板后，才能看清屋里的一切。四面都是高高的货架，架子上摆放的商品并不单一，而是五花八门，琳琅满目。你的目光从沙丁鱼罐头游移至雪糕盐，从口琴飘到粘蝇纸，至于你还能否记得自己此行的目的就得靠你自己了。
顾客也许会觉得里面的商品让人眼花缭乱。所有的这些东西都让你着迷不已，即使你并不需要。你这个年纪已不该再玩的木陀螺、装在小网袋里的男孩玩的各色弹珠、不能直直弹起的橡皮球，这些无不深深吸引着你走过去。
你一边做决定，一边在店里转来转去，一会儿转到泡菜桶旁边，一会儿又转到堆成塔形的“好家伙玉米片”旁边。
如果觉得吃“好家伙玉米片”太热了的话，那么我可能会要一瓶冷饮。这时塞申斯先生可能早已站在了冷饮箱旁，就像是会读心术一般。你说了要喝什么后，塞申斯先生就会把他光裸的手肘伸进箱子里，试着捞出你要的冷饮。我喜欢喝一种名叫“莱克芹菜汁”的本地产瓶装混合果汁。我会在店里把果汁喝完，喝的时候双腿张开以防水珠滴到身上，然后把瓶子还给他。
但是他不会催促你。门口附近放着个台秤，最重能称到三百磅。塞申斯先生会把你抱起来，让你站到称台上，他的双手很柔软，闻起来有股煤炭的味道。当你站在上面静止不动时，他会从容不迫地站在一旁，帮你拿着面包。他甚至记得你上一次称的体重，这样你就可以把两次的数量相减，然后说出你重了多少。然后便是挥别再见。
跑腿差事的快乐之处部分就在于可以短暂地离开家里，无拘无束。我那时相信“小杂货店”就是外面世界的中心，也就是快乐的中心。
在我的记忆中，所有的那些人仍然与那间杂货店密不可分。对我来说，所有我在路上遇到的那些人似乎都是我跑腿差事的一部分，而在某种程度上他们确实如此。至于我自己，那个无拘无束的小孩，也是其中之一。