Ode to Joy(ne's)

On Monday--the day of the Big Blow--we loaded the dogs into the back of the Jeep and took off up Highway 61 for Grand Marais.

You already know that our Up North trip is not about being in the city. It is not about eating in restaurants. And it is definitely not about shopping. That said, we always make a stop at Joyne's. It's the Ben Franklin on the main drag of Grand Marais, and it carries absolutely everything you could ever want to buy.

The store is pleasantly crowded, in a comfy, it's-almost-Christmas kind of way, full and happy, with racks of Pendleton shirts and Woolrich vests in front of you the minute you walk in the door. No preamble, no introduction, just boom! Shirts and vests. To the right are dim narrow aisles stacked high with Carhartt coveralls and blaze orange insulated hats and mysterious boxes that could hold just about anything. To the left are the cash registers, two of them, constantly busy. And straight ahead is a world of ... stuff. Wonderful, browsable, unexpected, funky stuff.

The aisles are narrow and occasionally winding; the shelves are piled way higher than my head; there are mysterious curtained areas in the back, by the shoes (of course it carries shoes! Don't all Ben Franklins?), and rabbit-warreny areas behind the soaps, over where they carry women's Columbia pants and appliqued sweatshirts.

For years I bought my winter boots here every fall--Merrells, and Clarks, and last year a tall warm wonderful pair of Ugg boots that have not yet worn out, so no new boots for me this winter.

But there are mittens ... and hats .... and house slippers, colorful fleece, with rubber soles so you can run outside on the frosty lawn and retrieve your newspaper. And beaded belts made in China, made to look as though Indians had stitched them by hand on the reservation. (I have two of these.)

Shampoo and deodorant and underwear (huge and bright white, even the size smalls), and toothpaste and razor blades and all the things you forgot to pack before you headed up the Shore.

Postcards and coffee mugs that say GRAND MARAIS and GUNFLINT TRAIL, and coffee coasters with maps of Lake Superior, and soap that smells like pine needles, and maple syrup from just down the road, at Caribou Cream, and maple sugar candy, too, shaped like leaves.

And dog dishes! And dishpans! And coffee makers! And books by local authors and artists, even Betsy Bowen!

I am a little more inclined to linger here than Doug; Doug is more of a go-and-get-what-you-need-and-pay-for-it-and-leave kinda guy. But man, how can you be that linear in a place like Joyne's? (Maybe Doug will read this and explain.)

While the wind whipped the gray lake into a froth, and the sailboats in the harbor across the street bobbed and sank, and people staggered down the street in the fierce 50 mph gales, and the dogs waited patiently in the truck, I trolled the aisles, looking for birthday presents for my older brothers. I considered: A package of North Shore stickers. A notepad, decorated with a picture of a moose. Canadian raspberry jam. Piney candles, trimmed in raffia and pinecones. Cassette tapes of rainstorms, and wolf howls. Any number of coffee mugs.

Way in the back, I saw a canvas tote bag hanging from a hook in a dark corner. On the bag was a map of Caribou Lake--the very lake we were staying at! Our road--Evergreen Trail--was depicted, and so were the driveways of each of the cabins. I could count in, one, two, three, and point to the exact spot where we were staying.

Well, of course I had to have this bag, and I added it to my pile. Doug, who knows how many tote bags I already own, did not roll his eyes, at least not that I could see.

I loaded up my loot--presents for my brothers, gigantic underpants (I had not packed well), Canadian jam, tote bag--and staggered to the counter. Only at Joyne's would I find all of this stuff under one roof. Only at Joyne's, once a year, do I allow myself the leisurely aisle strolling, the impulsive acquisitiveness, the magic of serendipity, the odd joy that shopping can be.