Everybody was there.

Bustling.

Crowded.

Almost gone forever.

No matter where you live, you were bound to encounter a neighbor.

Long-faced, longtime customers shuffled their aching bunions, encased in airy, colorful summery shoes across the cracked vanilla linoleum one last time. It was a horse race whether the floor or the familiar-faced customers had arrived on earth first.

From behind dark glasses, slender Stu Freeman, an always-active member of one of Culver City’s pioneer families, was striding up the middle aisle.

In a moment, he would reach the former Mayor David Hauptman and his wife Diana, and tell them about soccer equipment he had.

The Hauptmans were shmoozing with their practically lifelong friend Emile Tureaud, proprietor of E.T. Supply, purveyor of aircraft parts, by the rear checkout counter.

Those Were the Days

“Like a stab in the heart,” Mr. Tureaud said solemnly of the pending curtain-dropping. He has been shopping at Stellar for 40 years, since he was a very young man, before the day of the brothers-in-law co-owners, Rob Barber and Jack Barton. In those days, father-in-law Caryl Wild was in charge.

Happily for Mr. Barber, a veteran of Vietnam, and for Mr. Barton, every hour turned into Rush Hour once word spread that Stellar was about to step into its commercial coffin.

Clots of customers are everywhere.

A Mix of Moods

Mr. Barber, who made Co-owner his middle name in the 1980s, seems to know the name, and something significant, about every shopper.

The mood is that of a mixed message, the kind that floats invisibly through the air at funerals. Happy and sad. When old pals happily find one another across the church, jubilant but restrained and respectful of the deceased.

Great to see old friends again, if only it were a happier occasion.

Stellar will only stay open as long as the fast-shrinking inventory lasts.

One of Culver City’s most enduring, continuously family-operated stores, dating back to 1923, Stellar is giving in, not so unwillingly, to the vagaries of doing business in a world dominated by the big corporate boys who boast that you can find everything you will need for the rest of you life under one of their roofs.

Trouble is, for the modest retailer, even one with an 85-year-old pedigree, convenience-minded consumers can find one of those big corporate roofs on almost every street corner across America.

Today’s Kind of Language

Downsizing, one of those innocent-sounding, fashionably modern euphemisms that CEOs seed their boardroom conversations with, has been the mode for awhile at Stellar.

If you just turn into Main Street, either from the north or the south, you can’t help but notice that daubers are down because Stellar’s is about to enter hardware heaven. Adolph Steller, who entered heaven himself long ago, is the namesake for the beloved store, even though someone later decided to spell the name on the sign one letter differently.

Giant scarlet letters, stacked vertically on a showcase window, blare the deadly news:

“Sad, very sad,” murmured Mr. Hauptman.

It was of no solace that this is the inevitable fate of many graybearded businesses in small towns.

“But this is Culver City,” resisted Mr. Hauptman, “not about just doing business.”

He took his place in line with the paint brushes and bungee cords he came for, and Mrs. Hauptman found something much smaller to buy as a temporary keepsake, if the collision of opposites can be forgiven.

Mr. Barber, ever smiling, mouth formed to greet the next friend, hustled through the store as if his shoes were on fire.

What will he do when Stellar, and April, both become history in a few days?

“Go fishing,” he said with a knowing laugh, which isn’t even news for strangers.
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