To The West Point Market

Akron, Ohio doesn’t even sound good. So many vowels and all the ugly ones. But a job was there and so we went. For the first time in my life, I felt I had no choice and the strong hand of fate was pushing me here. I saw no out.

This is not a pretty town, not a fun town, not a bright and shiny town. The university here is known for polymer science. This town is famous for rubber, for tires. Goodyear, Firestone, Bridgestone are all Akron. This is not Detroit, building Cadillacs and Ford pick-ups. This is, quite literally, where the rubber meets the road--the cold, hardscrabble, rust-belt, snowbelt, midwest-borders-east coast-road.

It’s July. The tiny neighborhood park buzzes with children. A woman strikes up a conversation. Yes, I’m new. No, no family here. No, no friends. A job. Bought a house around the corner. Learning.

I ask where the best grocery stores are and have to laugh when she says “Acme.” Like the packages Wylie E. Coyote had shipped to him, full of rocket skates and anvils? Acme? “Well,” she says, “there’s West Point Market, but that’s very fancy.”

Yes, please show me the fancy. Let me have options other than Hellavagood Cheddar and Kraft Velveeta. An olive bar? A bakery with a sourdough country loaf? Locally roasted coffee beans in bulk? Italian olive oil and English tea? Is it too much to ask?

Our lovely, unassuming but essential local grocery store

Even in Akron. Walking through the store, I realize I can live here. I won’t shop here often. But I know there’s enough demand for a small amount of the good life to keep this store in business.

Akron isn’t upscale and it’s not refined. It’s rubber and potholes and rough edges. But we have a small reserve on Market Street. Just ours, not a chain. Just enough to feel at home, the balance between what’s given and what’s possible.