8 Th Tar Heel
Thursday. June 8, 1972
ittiif and talkiif at Merritf
It's kind of like a little piece of Fuquay-Varina right
in the middle of Chapel Hill.
Now make no mistake about it-E.G. Merritt's Esso
Station is a right nice place-but it's just not quite what
you would expect to find today in Chapel Hill.
You might have expected to find it in Chapel Hill 30
years ago, or find it right now down on State Road 14 73
near Cross Level, but it really doesn't seem like proper
company for gleaming hamburger stands, sprawling
shopping centers and wandering street vendors.
That's because E.G. Merritt's Esso Station is really
just an old country store.
Don't let those three new gas pumps out front fool
you-they're just to make the place legitimate. The real
fun is all inside where the good old boys from the
neighborhood stop in every day to set a while and drink
a little beer or maybe have a smoke or two while they
talk over things.
"Now Mr. Merritt there, he's a good man. He's my
friend," one of the regulars declared stoutly.
"It's always a pleasure to come down and talk with
him."
The two other fellas visiting right now nodded they
thought so too.
With its white painted bricks and red roof, the outside
of Merritt's looks just like the outside of any local gas
station, but that inside is a whole different world.
The big pot-bellied stove sits right out in the middle
of the room, and the fact that it burns oil now instead of
wood really doesn't make things a bit more modern.
A wooden bench stretches along the right side of the
room, with an old strip of carpet on it for a cushion, and
next to the bench is Mr. Merritt's chair.
Then there is the stove, a rack of AC Oil Filters
against the wall and the men's room with a sign on the
door asking that you "Flush twice -It's a long way to
Washington."
The area in front of the bench is bare of course, so
that you can grind out the butts of your unfiltered Pall
Malls on the hardwood floor.
Along the length of the left wall runs a tall wooden
counter stacked with food and drinks, and it is by
checking the brand names that you start to realize the
station's true character.
For instance, right recently Mr. Merritt has started
stocking a little yogurt in the dairy case in the back, but
right up there in the front window where people can get
to it real quick he has the Randolph Corn Meal and the
Dainty biscuit mix.
A huge box of toothpicks sits behind the counter, and
you have your choice of five different brands of chewing
tobacco.
The people are friendly in Merritt's, and city folks are
plenty welcome, but it's the boys who still have a little
country in them that call the place home.
Far more than the merchandise, it is this gang of
regulars who stop by to visit that make the place what it
is.
A painter working just up the road had stopped by for
a beer and a little mid-morning rest. Sitting beside him
was "John Robert Harris and I live down the road in
Pittsboro and I just thought I'd come by to talk a
while."
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A couple of other folks were expected shortly, and
old American Legionnaire, a retired professor that still
has a little hayseed in his heart and a few more who
generally drop in around noon.
The head of this whole outfit is Mr. Merritt himself,
"E.G. Merritt that is, Eban Gordon."
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Peter Barnes
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Johnny Lindahl
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Born just south of Chapel Hill, he started the station
in 1929 and moved to the present building in January of
1941. For 43 years he has been spending better than 100
hours a week pumping gas, selling groceries and visiting
with the guys.
This place was called Chapel Hill when I started back
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in 1929 but now I guess it's Hippie Hill, isn't it?" he
chuckled, but there wasn't even a trace of
unpleasantness.
"It's a shame you can't know everybody anymore."
The gold fillings on his teeth show through when he
smiles, and the red Esso hat bobs on top of his silver
head.
Cigarettes and an array of pens fill the pocket of his
brown work shirt. The dark blue pants come down just
over the top of the black boots and almost completely
hide the white socks.
But behind the weathered face is a business mind that
would put even the biggest barons of Franklin Street to
shame.
Growing a little timber here, raising a little cattle
there and running an earth-moving crew over yonder,
Mr. E.G. Merritt has done right well for himself.
But the real pleasure comes from sitting around with
the boys, doing a little talking, maybe listening to a little
baseball on the radio. No sense getting above your
raising.
"Yes sir, this is really just an old country store," one
of the regulars volunteered after a while.
"All we need now is a cracker barrel."
Nodding his head, Mr. Merritt agreed with his old
friend.
"Yep, just an old country store. But if anybody wants
crackers, you're gonna have to buy them over on the
counter."
And everybody laughed. In 1972, the only thing
that's still free is talk, even for the good old boys that
come down to the store right regular.
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Mr. Merritt enjoys a joke with the boys.
'Yep, bout all our hands are good for now is
counting money and drinking beer."