04/18/2023
I DREAMED A COMMUNITY
I awoke from a dream last Tuesday morning, about two hours before I should have woken up. But like dreams, it was so vivid, so real. This is to say, upon looking back, it was actually odd and not realistic at all, and yet it fooled my brain, because it was real in the ways that mattered, in the ways that spoke to me, to my brain, my desires, my memories.
I was coming back home, to my shop.
I was planning for the week ahead. Friday nights were always Magic tournaments, and I knew I wanted to be there Friday night, and for the weekend afterward, and onward. I knew I needed to order some supplies to be stocked for the weekend (and realistically, I knew that in 2023 time I was strapped for cash, so I had to pace myself, get only the essentials, and build my account back up). I also knew I had to speak with Russell, the former owner, because I needed to negotiate with him how to move forward and split up responsibilities and profits.
If you know the story of the shop, you may recognize that this dream is all jumbled and nonsensical. Isn’t that odd?
Russell began the shop in 1986 as “Ninth Inning”, a tiny little store dedicated to sports card collecting, and soon also comics. He moved locations twice and finally settled on 110 E. 9th in Winfield KS during the summer of 1991, the summer he first employed me to work for him. At first it was just the summer— I was beginning high school—but months later he was willing to take me on again, and I continued when I could, after school and on weekends, and of course during summers. I graduated high school in 1995, went to Cowley College for two years, went to PSU for two years (that was three hours away, so I didn’t work nearly as often during that time)— and once I got my degree in 1999, I came back and worked full time (to be honest, I didn’t really know what I was to do with my life). In 2002 I was looking to expand my responsibilities and my professional title just slightly, and Russell (who was in some ways the biblical Laban to my Jacob) was looking to get out of the business and eventually move to another state, and so I took over, renaming the store “Shelby’s Comics and Games”. By that point, Magic had become a profitable and permanent part of the business. For a new generation, I had become the face of the business in those years anyway, so not much changed when I took over.
I think a big part of telling and retelling this story has to include examining what it means to be young. I was 25 when I first took over the business in 2002, and a large part of my life was the social circle I extended at the shop, with all the people who came and went over the years, and especially with all the people who became a permanent part of our culture. Some folks were older than me, but many were around my age, and many more were of teen years, growing up in Winfield, finding a place to fit in, play games, and claim a part of their own community.
That’s what it was: a community. A community of friends, people who shared common interests, who hung out and got to know each other, and play, and talk, and share so much time together. This was my measure of our success. Not profit saved— for there was some, but not much. It was the time we spent with one another, and the memories we made.
Upon reflection, among my most proud reflections of my time at the shop was how we were all so different, and we had one main thing in common— playing games— but it brought us together. I say this in reflection of how divided our country has become, especially in the past decade. I remember hearing, after the 2016 election, someone wise said that divisive communities like those found online could only do so much, because it allowed people to only say one thing at a time, without verbal in*******se and discourse, without listening and allowing them to truly get to know people instead. At the time, I was a member of online community groups like Imaginext toy collectors: we all had something in common, and we all came to the group page to discuss toys, which we did and we enjoyed. But I ended up friending a few of those members on other social media, and I could see other posts they were posting, things that were NOT about toys, and it felt so odd— revealing that I didn’t know those people at all. We had no formal way of discussing those other things, of truly getting to know one another. We weren’t in person.
The shop gave us that. We were different people, of different ages, different religions and beliefs and opinions, different orientations and different goals— and the one dadgum thing we all had in common was that we wanted to be there together, and we accepted each other. Looking back, what strengthened the atmosphere of acceptance was the glue of just hanging out, of spending time talking and listening to one another, either during games or between them, or of spending hours after the Friday tournament just hanging out, not wanting to go home yet, and talking about anything and everything. I remember a few of those conversations— I wasn’t always directly involved with them because back then I considered myself more neutral— I thought as the proprietor I ought to adopt a neutral stance (and sometimes I was plum busy with store responsibilities as well)— but there were so many topics discussed back in those days, topics that, if discussed online now would spur arguing and emotions and disagreements. I know I’m looking back on this time with a cloudy perception, but I am so proud of those times, of how we listened to each other, tried to talk sense into each other, shared our logic and opinions and beliefs— and largely continued to get along with one another. The community was foremost in everyone’s mind, and maintaining it was of value to all of us: because it was our home.
(Even now, I reflect and look at so many of those people who were part of that community, who are now living in different places and doing different things, but many of whom I still see on social media— and I think of how non-political I was back then and how neutral I tried to be, in terms of politics. But now, seeing all these friends write and post online about different topics and opinions, and I pause and wonder: how did we all wind up sounding so liberal, politically speaking? What a strange coincidence this is! How did we all end up so tolerant, so caring, so aligned with one another? This is not to say that each and every one of those shop members is now a Democrat, for I know this is not the case— but even then, those who associate Republican are still kind and gentle with rhetoric, and still apparently lean liberal on many issues. It is the oddest thing! And yet, while I can’t claim that the shop influenced their beliefs, I also can’t help but feel so proud of all of them. The community is no longer together in person, but perhaps— perhaps the values they shaped together still guide them in life.)
My days at the shop were rich and plenty. One of the things I lamented though, even back then, was how things could never stay the same. Many people who grew up in Winfield eventually moved away, either for college or jobs. New people came, of course, but it always hurt when people would leave. Life was always changing, wasn’t it? By divine luck, I got married in 2008, and Polly and I moved to Mulvane, a half hour away, but I continued to drive to Winfield five or six days a week, and it was manageable and largely the same (even when I began adjunct teaching at Cowley College); heck, I also dabbled in the community theater for years, so it’s not like I didn’t keep myself busy.
In 2012, Polly lost her job, and got a new one in Oklahoma City, so we relocated; she was also pregnant at the time, and Colton was born in October. At this point, the community of friends of the shop had changed a lot, but those who remained wished to keep the store running, and so they volunteered their time to keep the shop open most days. I valued that decision so much, although now I look back and see how naive and unorganized I was. I envisioned myself stepping down, beginning my family, and riding off into the sunset— but the reality, perhaps, was that running a store was not as simple as it seemed, especially for people who already had full time jobs and responsibilities. I gave them the shop, but I did not give them enough.
This new chapter of our lives was cut short in the spring of 2013 when Polly lost that job too (the industry was going through a lot of changes), and we returned home to Mulvane, and me to the shop. I chose to join the Transition to Teaching program, which immersed me in tests and college classes, and soon got me employed to teach high school English, as bizarre as that sounded. (Really— how did all of that happen? I know I survived it, and I know I was successful, but that is still a mind-bogglingly bizarre transformation.) I was swamped that first year, working full-time nearly an hour away from home, an hour and a half away from Winfield, and again I relied on people to run the store for me. I was absent. That second year away was the roughest. I had a full time job, was halfway through the college program, was a parent to a baby— and the store had stopped making a profit. It felt like my old life had given way to my new life, and there was no way to maintain both. I felt like I had to let go. So I did. I closed the shop at the beginning of June 2014. For me and for a few, it was truly the end of an era.
I kept teaching and continued my studies, eventually earning my professional teaching license in 2015 and my masters in 2016. I worked for the first district for nine years, and last year began teaching here in Mulvane, where my kids go to school. Speaking of kids! My firstborn is now 10! The next, born in 2015, is 8, another in 2016 is 6, and the “baby” in 2018 is 4. This, along with wonderful, imperfect, loyal Polly, is my family. I have a family now. My life has only grown so much in that respect, and it’s as remarkable as people make it out to be. When our firstborn was just baby, he got to visit the shop once or twice, and there may exist photos of him crawling up a skee-ball machine— but largely, he never got to know what the shop was truly like. My kids would have loved it, I think. But in a sense, they’re growing up and living with me, so maybe their lives aren’t all that different, in some ways.
That, give or take, brings us to the present. So much has obviously changed in the past ten years and more, and yet, here I am— still dreaming of the store. Why is that?
What are dreams? Why do they haunt our memories? I would chance to say that this is a permanent fixture, something we cannot escape— and yet I wonder if this is not completely true. I have spoken before about how I used to dream a constant dream of being a part of a theatre production, of not learning my lines, and not being ready for opening night. That is probably a constant fear— yet it was not really grounded in reality, for although I was in many plays, and then directed for a while, I never put myself into a position of not being ready by opening night. That just wasn’t me: two months was plenty time to learn and rehearse and have it down pat. Yet why did I continue to dream it, time after time? Why was I living out my fears in my dreams? And more importantly— why did they eventually stop? …They did stop, unexplainably at some point (thank goodness). I know that, three or so years ago, I got to be a part of a musical at our school, the first time I had performed in six or seven years at that point, and maybe that was therapeutic. Maybe that helped. Perhaps that’s why I no longer dream of not knowing my lines.
Yet here I am, nearly a decade after closing the shop, and I still have these dreams of living in Winfield, getting ready to open up for the day, anticipating the afternoon crew. It was such a part of my life: from 1991 to 2014, 23 years of my life (half of my current age) were spent at that location, inviting people to come, spend money, hang out, and be a part of my life. I can’t help but look back on the time as magical.
And while some things have changed, other things have not. For myself, when I think of the business side of things, a large part of what I enjoyed was perceiving the value of hobbies, of buying low and selling high, of understanding just why something was popular, recognizing that value, and finding people who truly appreciated it, like I did. I’m still doing that. Currently, I’m buying used collections of the minis game Marvel Crisis Protocol and reselling it online. (I said I would not continue doing this, even after completing my set of MCP game pieces, and yet a few weeks ago I found a collection online that was criminally underpriced, and my bid won. I don’t really need any of it, but I recognized I could make a few hundred dollars if I played my cards right, and since I could use a few hundred dollars, that’s what I’m doing. Oh, I do enjoy the thrill of playing my cards right.)
I still dream of the shop. What does this mean? Will teaching always leave me unfulfilled? I can’t just return to managing a store, as so much— much too much— has changed— and realistically, maintaining a level of profitability was never as important as it is now, as I provide for a family of six. I can’t see how I could do what I used to do, and make what I do now. So here I am.
And here I dream. It was a huge part of my life, and perhaps it will never leave me.
(I think it was the day before, at school, and I was planning out my lessons for The Great Gatsby— I was thinking about the narrator Nick, and how he turned 30 at one point in the book, and what that meant to him. What DOES it mean to turn 30? How does life change at that point?
For me, I turned 30 at the store. It was 2006, and I organized a party— yes, I planned a party for myself— but it was also the 20th anniversary of the shop, of Ninth Inning/ Shelby’s Comics and Games, and 15 years of my working there. I recognized then that it was something worth celebrating. I think we all did.
[—side note: at one point, I had decided to document this moment in our lives with video recordings, like a documentary. This was before iPhones and much more accessible filming and editing options, and to be honest, I was not much of a filmmaker and the endeavor wasn’t completely planned out— but somewhere there exists some camcorder footage of that time in our lives, when we were so young, together in the shop. Part of me wants to dig up the footage, and add a modern “where are they now” epilogue to it, but to be honest, there isn’t a lot of old footage to begin with, and I bet it’s quite random. But still.]
Here is SOME of what I wrote about that birthday, WAY back in 2006:
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(11-03-2006: A Very Complete Birthday Week)
It was time to open the shop. I replaced some of the fallen balloons, I dug out the free candy, and I waited. Before long, people started showing up. And after school, more people! I had a box full of cheap plastic Hawaiian leis to have everybody wear, and it helped us get in the festive mood. (I think the free candy helped, too.)
All in all, it was a great time. The day sort of split up into two halves: afternoon and evening. There were a good twenty or thirty people here in the afternoon, hanging out and having fun. One friend stopped by for an hour with a karaoke machine (kerry-okee), and people got to sing along to different songs. The highlight of the afternoon: a middle school kid picked Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends”. Even though he was the one holding the microphone, everyone around him– about a dozen people, started singing along before the end of the first verse. Unplanned, we all gathered together, arms on each others’ shoulders, swaying back and forth as we sang. THE WHOLE SONG. I was lucky to catch some of that on tape.
THIS was our community. That’s why I love this place.
It wasn’t an elaborate party. For the most part, we just got together and had fun. But it was wonderful. The second half started when evening hit. Some kids had to get home, and a few new faces started showing up. We brought out the grills and started cooking outside, which, as it turned out, wasn’t terribly cold or dark. All in all, everybody had a great time. People got to hang out, have fun, and be a part of something bigger than themselves. Isn’t that the point of life? This party wasn’t about me. I wanted it to be about us, and more. And it was.
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“Wake Me Up When September Ends” has become the anthem of my cherished memories of the shop and its tribe. That song, that day, encapsulates one of the best times of my life: the era of our place.
Clearly, a part of my soul misses those days, and those people. I still see some of them, but not enough. Things changed, as it does, and life pulls us away in other directions.
I realize I may be viewing the past through rose-colored lenses, and of course, there’s merit in realizing that. I recognize those years weren’t perfect, and I also acknowledge the tendency to appreciate those years of our youth, in a way that shapes the trajectory of our older lives.
But I also think there is value in recognizing something special when it’s happening, and the recognition itself is even of value. You see, each week I use a quote as one of my class journal topics, and this week’s topic— actually chosen to reflect Prom this weekend— can apply to my much older self as well:
“The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.”
I also think that maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only one who misses the time, not only when we were young, but when we were together: we get to know each other, and had time to hang out with each other, and coexist in this thing called life. The shop was our Cheers (“where everybody knows your name”), our Camelot— our home away from home. Our community.
Maybe once again. What dreams may come…!
—Shelby
(Fittingly, March 17-23 is National Week of Conversation, promoting conversations that allow us to learn from other perspectives. Learn more online.)
