Our theme for the month of October is “states.”

The landscape of my mom’s hometown seemed a bit miraculous to me as a kid. We would visit most years, either for Thanksgiving or sometime in the summer, making the ten-hour drive from our mountainous piece of Virginia to the impossibly flat northwest of Indiana. (I credit these trips with my ability to read in the car across any terrain without getting sick)

I didn’t pay any attention to the route we took—focused as I was on either a book, some Lord of the Rings extended edition behind the scenes, or deciding which gas station treat I’d choose—but at some point along the way the highway would smooth out, the horizon line would lower, and we’d leave even the highway behind for the endless straight-shot grid of state roads that cut between the borders of corn or soy bean farms.

The sky was massive, bright blue and filled with cross-hatching contrails or quilts of clouds that faded off into the distance without a single mountain or valley to break them apart. Sometimes I’d wake from a nap as we drove past the feet of a giant white windmill. I’d look out to see that it belonged to a whole herd stretching all the way out to the horizon, some organized in orderly, miles-long rows, others seemingly scattered randomly—all dwarfing the occasional farmhouse, silo, or copse of trees. Once, a semi-truck passed us on the road, the whole length of its bed needed to transport just one thin blade of one of these windmills. If we came across them at night—the dozens of red lights blinking off into the unknowable distance—it felt like we were sneaking our way through an invasion of massive, impassive alien technology. They’re much more impressive than the cover of your Earth Science textbook in middle school would make you think.

We’d drive past and between some number of farms until the homes stood a little closer together, and then by the car dealership and my mom’s small elementary school. We’d slow down along the main street and through the town’s single stoplight and pull over across from the Post Office. We’d emerge from our various books and naps out of the minivan and onto the sidewalk, yawning and stretching, waiting for one car to pass before crossing the street towards my grandpa’s store.

The family business has lived a few different lives. My great-great grandpa, one Henry DeKock, started the DeMotte Mercantile Company in 1910 as a general store, selling clothing, produce in baskets, and cans on narrow wooden shelves (based on the photo I’ve seen). The store then went to Henry’s daughter and her husband, one Arthur Lageveen, until 1936 when a fire burned the building down. They rebuilt across the street as the Lageveen Department Store and, after he got out of the army, my Grandpa Art took over. 

It continued to function as a general store for a while—my mom remembers going there after school to pick out a piece of candy—but then was divided up into a mini-mall of sorts with different businesses renting out stalls. He had to adapt as the town grew and other, larger stores appeared. For a time, my grandpa expanded into selling appliances (most memorably making a delivery to one of the local nudist colonies in a favorite family legend). Eventually the renters moved out of their stalls and the Lageveen Department Store transformed once more into Sell-It-Again, a consignment and resale store. That’s how I’ve always known it.

One of my uncles worked there with my grandpa and they shared an office in the back, dense with papers and memorabilia and wood paneling. They’d hear my family of five coming and emerge to exchange soft spoken greetings before we scattered to peruse.

There was a jewelry case by the front that had Xbox 360 games, rows of shelves full of old appliances and toys, and a corner of bookshelves in the back stuffed with old paperback westerns. The only brand-new items on offer were the mattresses, the rest an eclectic collection of knickknacks, furniture, and electronics—the whole place somewhere between an antique store and a Goodwill. In the middle of it all, there was a wide staircase going down straight through the floor and into the basement where the clothes were. One summer my brothers and I found a few scooters for sale that we raced around on the concrete floor between the racks—something I’d never dare do at any other, non-family establishment.

After we’d finished our separate browsing, we’d present our selections to Mom, and she’d take the lot over to either my grandpa or uncle and they’d insist on giving steep discounts while she’d insist on paying full price. They’d settle somewhere in the middle. She’d secret the items away while Dad strategized with my uncle over who was going to pick up dinner from Yesteryear’s Market, and we’d forget all about our treasures until the next Christmas or birthday.

My Uncle Nate owns Sell-It-Again now, and he and my aunt have continued to adapt the business—gone are the shelves of miscellaneous egg cups and muffin tins, replaced by mazes of refurbished furniture stocked with vintage books and Coca-Cola signs. He keeps a watchful eye out for estate sales and flea markets, building up a stock of delightfully bizarre wares.

I don’t get to visit every year anymore. There’s now more than one stoplight in town and the minivan is long gone, but the windmills and open skies and the store all still feel a bit miraculous. My grandpa passed away while I was in college, but there’s a painting of him at the front of the store.

If you’re ever in DeMotte, I recommend you stop by.

Christina Ribbens

Christina Ribbens (’19) studied history, studio art, and data science at Calvin and public humanities at Georgetown. She now lives in the part of Virginia that’s almost Washington, DC where she helps award grants to arts nonprofits. She takes a lot of walks to admire the landscaping in peoples’ front yards, mostly listens to British comedians’ podcasts, and likes to make friends via sports.