Long ago, there was an old country store called Catherine's on Highway 63. It was next to the turn-off to our cabin, which was also the road that would lead you to the Dixie Sailing Club (and, years later, to The Ridge… but we're talking about the good ol' days right now.)

Catherine's looked like those buildings that have been immortalized in countless paintings of the rural south. A tin roof perched atop warping clapboard walls; metal signs advertising RC Cola, YooHoo, Fanta, Moon Pies and the like adorned the walls, inside and out. There was a cozy front porch that was home to rocking chairs and a worn sofa. Hound dogs-- there were somewhere between three and thirty of them-- usually slept under the porch, safe from the summer sun.

Inside, you could buy almost anything. Cases of canned food and stacks of soda lined the walls. Shelves were crammed full of just about anything else someone might need, and a glass case held every type of candy that a kid could want. There was even a pickle barrel right by the counter, for those impulse shoppers who couldn't resist.

All of the essentials were there to be had; in those days, we had no idea that things like imported cheese, fancy bread, video games and swimming pools were "essential." Especially not at the lake. If you were one of those unfortunate souls who needed stuff like that, you were out of luck shopping at Catherine's. But if you needed a bag of potato chips, an extra pack of hot dog buns, or some toilet paper, you didn't need to go any further.

Catherine the person was a lot like her store: a bit rickety and disheveled, and somewhere between 30 and 130 years old. She had a tiny house right next door to her store, but she kept a hot plate next to the cash register, so she didn't even have to make the short walk home for meals.

I though Catherine had the perfect life. She lived at the lake, she could walk to work, and she had an unlimited supply of food-- and candy bars-- on hand. If there was anything else that a person would need to be happy, I didn't know what it was.

One summer, though, Catherine wasn't there. The building was still there, with its tin roof and rusty signs. And the dogs were still there, only now they were sleeping on the porch instead of under it. But the front door, which I rarely saw even closed, was padlocked.

Everyone deserves a vacation, and we assumed that Catherine was taking one; we eagerly anticipated the re-opening of the store. But as June gave way to July, we sensed that the door to Catherine's was closed for good. We never tried to peek through the cracked boards and into the building, but if we had I suspect that we would have seen nothing but empty shelves.

Of course, there were rumors about what had happened to Catherine. The Lake Martin Monster had gotten her, or maybe she had been sucked into a flying saucer and whisked away to Mars. Whatever it was that had taken her away from the lake had to be powerful and scary.

As usual, the truth was much less interesting than the stories our fertile imaginations were cooking up. As it turned out, Catherine had moved to California to live with her sister. For a while we hoped that her move was temporary, and that she would eventually return and take her rightful place behind the counter of her store. But as the years passed, we accepted the fact that Catherine's was closed forever, and that the store was now nothing more than a helpful landmark when giving directions to first-time visitors.

And those visitors were now showing up in numbers I could only have imagined. The secret was out: Lake Martin was the place to be. Land that had once been "costly" was now "downright expensive." And a piece of land that commanded top dollar was the little plot that was home to that old, decrepit building that hadn't been opened in years. It wasn't a question of if someone would open a gas station there; it was a question of when.

I didn't like the idea of having a convenience store right down the road, but I accepted it as an eventual reality. Maybe one wouldn't have been too bad, but those things have a way of multiplying. Soon you've got dueling convenience stores, fast food places, tacky souvenir shops, and so on and so on. Before anyone with some sense can stop the madness the stores have replaced all of the trees, and the neon signs have swallowed the stars. And before you know it, all of the reasons for coming to the lake are gone, sold to the highest bidder with no regard for what's best.

But long after that should have happened, it hadn't; Catherine's store remained where it was, keeping the neon nightmares away. I was thrilled. Confused, but thrilled. And then one day I discovered that I wasn't the only person who hated the idea of al of those kitschy stores invading the lake. Catherine didn't like it either. She had been offered money for her land-- lots of money-- and had turned it down, time and time again. Even though she lived in California, and even though she knew she might never see the lake again, she still loved it enough to not sell out.

The building is gone now. Age and time finally caught up to it. The few windows were shattered, and the front porch began to sag like a wistful smile. Souvenir hunters claimed the tin signs, and it was as if they had been holding the place up. Soon the building was a pile of boards; eventually, the land reclaimed the boards, leaving nothing but a patch of weeds. Catherine's store was no more.

Or, so we all thought. But Catherine's store is returning, and it will be right in the middle of her worst nightmare. Less than a half mile up the road, the trees have already been felled and the animals chased into the ever-dwindling forest, so that Russell Crossroads can be built. (They're even going to re-route Highway 63 so that it will run right by the new development, and then continue through the woods for a few more miles; if you have a place on the western side of the highway between Windermere Road and the Kowaliga Bridge, you're going to be a whole lot closer to a busy road than you used to be.)

The cornerstone of the new development will be an "upscale grocery store," and they have the audacity to name it "Catherine's," after maybe the first-- and definitely one of the few-- to actively take a stand against the over-commercialization of the lake. What a slap in the fact to someone who should instead be respected. But, does anyone really expect anything else these days?

So when you eat at the fancy restaurant, and shop at the fancy grocery store (complete with big screen TVs, because what else is there to look at around here?) try to take a few moments to think about the real Catherine's… and the real Catherine. When the man behind the curtain tried to tell her what she wanted, she told him that she knew what was best for her; if she can do it, so can anyone else. Let's just hope people speak up while there is still time…